Hard Love (Trophy Boyfriends 3)

It’s foolproof.

“You don’t have to pick me up. I can drive.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

Her concession is met with a long, weighty pause. The kind of pause where crickets would begin chirping in the background if we had any crickets lying around. Or a looming cloud would lower itself to hover.

“So. Okay. Tomorrow at The Ivy,” I declare. I’m usually way suaver than this with the ladies.

Or maybe not. Maybe Mom was right and this is the reason I’m single. At the rate I’m going—or not going, depending on how you look at it—I’ll be forever alone for the rest of my miserable life. Chewy won’t always be around to keep me company; then what will I do?

Shit.

I can practice flirting with Chandler tomorrow night too, kill two birds with one stone. She won’t even notice.

“Glad we got that settled.”

“I…” Crap. Now what do I say? “I’m looking forward to tomorrow.”

She chuckles, mocking me. “Oh, I bet you are.”

“I am!”

“Uh-huh.”

I pause. “Are you by any chance taking wardrobe suggestions, since you get to dictate mine?”

“Nope.” She pops the P and laughs. “No way in hell would I let you tell me what to wear. Like I trust you.”

No, I don’t suppose she would. But the part about her not trusting me? Ouch. “We’re family, you know. You can trust me.”

“Family is putting it loosely. You’re Hollis’s family now more than mine, but I get what you mean.”

“On second thought…” I’m about to throw out the offer to pick her up one more time, hoping she’ll take me up on it. I need to be seen arriving with her. “How about if I come get you around six? Is that too late to eat?”

Chandler sighs on the other end of the line and pauses, giving it some serious thought. She isn’t going to give in to my pleas just like that, taking a few seconds to mull it over.

“You’re only twenty minutes from my place,” I say, by way of a nudge. “And I’ve been wanting to show off my new car.”

“Your new car?”

Crap. What possessed me to say that? I don’t have a new car—I only have my truck! I am such an idiot; this woman is turning me into a dunce.

“Yeah, uh…my new car. It’s actually a loaner? From the, uh…dealership. Yeah, the dealership. To see if I, um, like it enough to buy it.” Stupid, stupid, stupid, stop talking. This means I’ll have to borrow a car from someone.

Since when did I become a liar?

Since you need her to ride to the restaurant with you, so you can see and be seen.

Yeah, but since when did I start using people for my own selfish reasons?

I glance down at Chewy. He’s happily chewing on a bone, completely oblivious to the pit forming in my stomach. One that feels like guilt and regret.

I scratch behind his ears and his stumpy tail wags cheerily as he gives up his bone, stands, and walks to the end of the bed to fetch a ball that’s lying there. Brings it to me, dropping it near the palm I just used to pet him with.

It’s red and slobbery.

I toss it the few short feet to the foot of the bed.

He leaps at it.

Brings it back.

“What’s that noise?” Chandler asks.

Is she talking about Chewy? “That’s my dog. I just threw him a ball.”

“I thought maybe you would already be in bed.”

“I am.” We are. “But since I’m awake, he’s awake, which makes him want to play.” The red ball makes its appearance in my hand, and I toss it, this time out the bedroom door and into the hall.

Chewy leaps once more, this time off the edge, into the dark. I can’t see him, but I hear his nails scratching at the hardwood floor, his jowls gobbling up his toy.

He hops back on the bed, walking in circles at the foot of it, exhausted and done with the game of fetch.

“What kind of dog is it?”

“Bulldog.”

Chandler chuckles low and scoffs. “Figures you would have a bulldog.”

“What does that mean?”

“They’re so grumpy.”

“Are you implying that I have a grumpy dog because I’m grumpy?”

“Well.” She hesitates. “Aren’t you?”

“No.” Just most of the time.

Chandler doesn’t respond. She laughs, which I guess is a response—but it’s a sweet sound, and happy, so I find I don’t actually mind.

“You’re starting to look alike, aren’t you?”

“Who, me and the dog?”

She hums. “I think people start looking like their pets and taking on their characteristics—that’s all I’m saying.”

“I’ll have you know,” I inform her, “Chewy is a prankster who is never in a bad mood.” Despite his mashed-in face and underbite, he’s massively entertaining and jovial.

“Chewy?” She pauses again. “You have a dog named Chewy? Did you adopt him?”

“Uh, no. Why would you ask that?”

“Is the name Chewy short for Chewbacca? You know, from Star Wars?”