Hard Love (Trophy Boyfriends 3)

“Tripp called you? Why?” It sounds like she’s sitting up straighter, at full attention.

“He wants to have drinks. Tonight.”

Hollis gasps and I hear clapping. “I knew it, I knew it, I knew it!”

Knew what? “What did you know?”

“That he has a thing for you! Duh!”

I can’t help the fact that I’m rolling my eyes heavenward. “He does not—the guy can’t stand me. I humiliated him.”

“Yeah and he liked it. Men love strong women—it just takes some of them longer to admit it to themselves.”

“I assure you, he most certainly did not like it.” I say it a bit too primly and cringe at the sound of my voice.

Hollis doesn’t notice. “If he didn’t like it, why would he call you and ask you to drinks? Huh? No man is going to put himself through even an hour of someone’s company they can’t tolerate for shits and grins—especially Tripp Wallace. Trust me, I would know.”

Hmm, that does sound like a valid argument.

“Fine. I’ll consider it. In the meantime, what should I wear?”

“Did he tell you where to meet him?”

“I’m not meeting him—he’s picking me up.”

Hollis gasps again. “Oh my god.” I hear her snap her fingers. “It makes sense now—Tripp texted Buzz last night to see if he could stop by this morning and borrow the sports car.”

Borrow his brother’s sports car… “I thought he had one on loan from the dealership?”

My cousin stops to think. “No, as far as I know, he only has his truck. This explains why he wanted to borrow the car—he has a hot date.”

The wheels are still turning, but nothing is adding up. “It’s not a hot date! And why would he lie and say the car is from the dealership?”

“Ohhh,” she croons into the phone. “I bet he’s trying to impress you so he doesn’t want to pick you up in his ratty truck. That’s what guys do when they’re wooing a lady.”

“He is not wooing me.”

“Woo-woo!” My cousin makes it sound like a train puffing down the tracks. “I mean, a lot of the time the dealership on Michigan Avenue lends them to the players, kind of like a lease, and they get to swap them out once a year or something ridiculous. But as far as I know, Tripp owns his truck outright.”

That doesn’t answer my question and I highly doubt Tripp Wallace has tried to impress any woman, ever, in his entire grumpy life, let alone me.

So the sports car will have to remain a mystery.

Weird.

“What am I wearing?” I ask, switching gears to circle around and get us back on topic.

“Ugh,” she groans. “It’s too bad you don’t know what he’s wearing—that always makes it so much easier. Like if he’s wearing a polo shirt, you can wear just a nice shirt. Or if he’s wearing a button-down, you could wear a dress.”

“I do know what he’s wearing—his Paul Bunyan outfit.”

“WHAT?”

“The outfit was one of the conditions of me agreeing to go out with him in the first place.”

My cousin cackles. “Chandler Westbrooke, I never knew you had it in you. Look at you, bossing dudes around with psychological warfare after throwing them on the ground. Wow. I’m impressed.”

I wish people would stop saying that. I did not throw him on the ground! I used strategy to execute a well-thought-out karate skill.

“Would you stop? I have to figure out what I’m wearing—not that I care what he thinks. It’s just, I haven’t been out in a long time, and it’s fun to wear makeup.” Cough-cough.

“How about jeans, so he doesn’t feel like a complete asshole? And a cute top.” She thinks. “Got any plaid shirts lying around in your closet?”

Yes.

I do have a plaid, button-down shirt. It’s flannel and more suited for the winter months, black and red like Tripp’s. “Come on, be serious.”

“I am being serious. How cute would the two of you be all matchy-matchy…”

Not cute.

Nauseating.

Plus, he would hate it.

“I’m not wearing a plaid shirt so he feels more comfortable. Everyone will think we’re heading to Plaid Fest.”

That makes Hollis laugh. “Fine. How about a nice shirt then? A bright blue one. Haha. Get it, Babe?”

Babe the Blue Ox.

“Calling you was such a bad idea,” I tell her, walking to my closet and standing inside, staring at the racks of clothes I just managed to hang.

“Sorry, I can’t help it. I’ve been under the influence of Buzz Wallace for the past few weeks and he has the worst sense of humor.”

He doesn’t. He’s charming and funny and always kind when it counts.

I envy her.

“It’s rubbing off on me and not in a good way.”

I disagree. “I wouldn’t say that. You sound happy.”

A blissful sigh. “I am.”

My heart constricts.

When we disconnect the call, after I tell her I love her and to have a wonderful time and travel safe, I stay standing in my closet. Bite my lip and allow my eyes to roam over all the shit in my possession—which isn’t a ton, because I’ve been in school and not focused on dating and have the wardrobe to prove it.