Hard Love (Trophy Boyfriends 3)

Or get scolded by Mom.

“Um.” I pick at the on/off button on the microphone. “So. Buzz and I both play ball, and we’re always so busy, so none of us really expected him to ever find someone and settle down. Especially with someone like Hollis—I just assumed it would be with a groupie who managed to get herself knocked up.”

“Wow,” I hear someone from the crowd mutter.

“Hollis Wallace,” I go on. “How terrible does that sound together? Yikes.” I pull a face, let out a puff of air, and breathe into the microphone, the sound causing the speakers to emit a high-pitched screech.

More crickets.

I chance a glance over at my sister again. Her eyes appear to be damn near bugging out of her skull.

“I mean, come on—I’m only saying what everyone else is thinking.”

“Oh my god, is he drunk?” one of the bridesmaids asks another, whispering amongst themselves but loud enough for me to overhear. “Oh god, he must be.”

I ignore them.

Take a chug of wine, downing the entire glass.

It tastes like shit.

I open my mouth—but it’s not the sound of my own voice I hear when my lips part; it’s someone else’s. A feminine, amused voice. A chuckle. A low clap against a champagne glass.

“I think what Tripp is trying to say is…” Chandler Westbrooke is speaking, standing at the next table over, looking angelic and serene and completely in control. “It must have been fate for Hollis to meet a Wallace, because the names rhyme and go together so very perfectly, don’t y’all agree?”

Chandler begins clapping until everyone joins her, the echo of the microphone tapping a tambourine-style accompaniment, along with the clang from the glass in her hand. The ring on her hand glistens.

Hair twisted in an elegant bun, and it’s the first time I notice her all evening, having not seen her at the wedding ceremony since she wasn’t actually in it.

“We are all so happy for you both,” she tells the happy couple before facing the guests again. “I’m Hollis’s cousin, and for as long as I can remember, I’ve always aspired to be like her. Always independent, marching to the beat of her own drum. Following her own path and chasing her dreams. The one thing I remember her always wanting—besides a career in publishing—was her own family. Lots of kids. Y’all, I wouldn’t be surprised if we have another exciting reason to celebrate a year or two from now!”

My new sister-in-law covers her mouth with her hands to feign a giggle then throws her hands in the air as if to say Who knows! while her cousin goes on.

I stare.

Where the fuck did this come from? I was talking, for Christ’s sake!

Mousy, meek Chandler commandeering the room and hijacking my speech? So fucking rude.

Where does she get the nerve? I was doing fine on my own!

“Hollis and Trace,” she says, using my brother’s real first name, “today was incredible. The flowers, the ceremony, the vows.” She wipes one single tear form the corner of her treacherous, speech-stealing eye. “Trace, when you told Hollis you were her ride or die and that you knew you were going to marry her the moment you laid eyes on her, my heart melted.” Her hand goes to her heart. “No doubt you broke a lot of hearts today, am I right ladies?”

No doubt you’re a goddamn thief, I want to shout. I mean come on.

“Hollis, I love you. Trace, I cannot wait to get to know you better. Welcome to the family.” A few more claps. “Let’s all raise our glasses for a toast.”

The sound of glass clinking against cutlery rings throughout the room as guests raise their glasses—water glasses, wine glasses, highball glasses. “To Hollis and Trace—to Trace and Hollis. May you be blessed as husband and wife. We love you! Cheers!”

“Cheers!” The word is followed by tinging and clinging and lots of laughter. My eyes zero in on that damn scene stealer as she blows kisses at her cousin—and my brother—tossing a glance in my direction before taking her seat a few chairs down.

And here after the rehearsal dinner last night, I thought maybe she wasn’t so bad.

Turns out, she’s a glory hound.* * *At least the bastard fed me this time.

Satisfied, I watch the band strike their first few chords. Begin a popular song that’s currently at the top of the charts as Buzz and Hollis begin their cute, coordinated moves through a floral arch in the doorway of the banquet hall, leading into their first dance.

Everything according to plan.

Alone at a table I sit. The place settings and cutlery have all been cleared, and I’m hiding from the single women like a coward; it’s mostly bridesmaids and friends of the bride, man-hunting tonight because everyone knows weddings turn women into maniacal, boy-crazy, man-eating man-chasers. They get wedding fever, romanticizing everything leading up to the wedding, on the prowl, as if the event is a buffet of men ripe for the taking.