Hard Love (Trophy Boyfriends 3)

“Mom!”

What has gotten into my parents?

“We should call your brother,” she says, picking her phone up off the table. “He’ll know what to do.”

Over my dead body!

I snatch it out of her hands. “No we should not!” Is she insane? Buzz is likely to agree with anything and everything they say or give them some shady piece of advice just to be a dick and make me look like an assbag. “No.”

“Don’t say no to doing something with her for show so quickly—think it through first.” Mom takes her phone back, gingerly sliding it out of my fingers, and puts it into the pocket of her jeans. “You have to admit, you could use some good PR.”

Good PR? Salvage my reputation?

Who is she? WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE?

My parents have never given a single fuck about my reputation before; the only thing they’ve cared about is that I love my career, surround myself with decent people (like I always have), and continue being a family man.

The one thing they want is for me to continue coming around.

Now it seems the one thing they want is for me to save face and pander to the public.

“Why can’t I just call her and tell her I’m sorry for being a jerk?”

Mom levels me with one of her famous mom stares. “That is not the same as a kind gesture.”

Kind gesture?

What the actual fu—

The more I think about asking Chandler Westbrooke to meet me in public so we can be seen together getting along—and photographed—the more I warm to the idea.

How bad could it be?

What’s the harm in going out for one drink so the world doesn’t see me as some grade-A megadouche?

An hour out of my life to placate my fans? It won’t even be a real date, just a fake one—it’s not as if she’s going to fall in love with me in one night.

Nor I her.

Plus, Chandler wouldn’t need to know the whole thing is fake; I’m a decent actor.

I can fake it. I’ve done it before, if you count a commercial for a new deodorant as acting. Or the advertisements I did for a chain of sporting supply stores. Or the Gatorade commercial, where I had to chug the bottle—or pretend to—while the camera zoomed in on my throat. Then I crushed the plastic bottle in my palms and tossed it in the trash before jogging away and catching a football being thrown from off camera.

So yeah—I can act.

Yup, I can do this. One evening, one hour.

Simple.

Easy.

One photograph is all it will take to restore the shreds of my dignity.

“Fine, Mom. You win. Tell me what I should do…”TenChandler“Hello?” I don’t recognize the number on the caller ID, but for whatever reason, I swipe across the screen to accept it.

A pause meets my greeting and I almost end the call.

“Chandler?”

“Yes?”

“It’s Tripp Wallace.” He pauses. “From the wedding.”

I roll my eyes. No duh from the wedding—is there another Tripp Wallace we don’t know about skulking around somewhere, ruining people’s evenings with their horrible attitudes?

He also could have gone with Buzz’s brother or your cousin’s new brother-in-law as an explanation.

I tuck the phone under my chin and cross my arms, though he isn’t here to see the action or the defiant look in my eyes, then remove a colander from a box and place it inside an open kitchen cabinet. “What’s up?”

He must want something—he sure as hell isn’t calling to apologize for being a douchebag. Or to make small talk, or to ask me out.

The idea makes me want to laugh into the receiver of my phone.

Ask me out—ha!

Seeing his stunned expression when his back hit the ground was the most satisfying feeling I’ve ever felt in my entire freaking life.

I try not to chuckle, remembering it.

Damn it felt good.

“I was wondering if you wanted to get…” There is a long pause while he considers what he’s about to say. “A drink or something.”

“A drink?” I repeat, not sure if I heard him correctly. “Uh…why?”

Tripp Wallace does not like me—why the hell does he want to share a drink with me?

The disdain in his eyes when I tossed him the other night made it loud and clear. His dismissal of me during the rehearsal dinner. The way he ignored me in the truck on the way over. How he no doubt had to be forced into asking me to dance at the wedding, my cousin playing matchmaker for some ungodly reason.

No, Tripp Wallace most certainly does not want to take me for drinks.

“What do you mean, why?” His voice is haughty and filled with contempt.

I laugh, shelving a set of rainbow-colored, nesting mixing bowls.

“You don’t like me. Why are you asking me for drinks?” The question is so matter-of-fact, guaranteed to throw him off for a few seconds. The silence on the other end of the line is deafening.