Hard Love (Trophy Boyfriends 3)

I honestly did not think he would bail on the plan.

“But I’m hungry,” he says, as if that’s an entire argument for his case.

“We’re just getting drinks.”

“I mean, we could slip some food past the goalie.”

“I ate before I got dressed.”

That’s his cue to let his eyes rake me up and down, as if noticing for the first time that I have on heels and lipstick. Those eyes take in my hair, stray down to my cherry lips. Trail down to the deep V between my breasts.

I expect him to tell me I look nice. Or pretty.

Something.

After all, it’s the polite thing to do.

But he doesn’t.

Shocking.

Then again, I don’t compliment him either, even though he looks maddeningly handsome in his stark black shirt—which I suspect he already knows.

“I left the car running,” he tells me, looking down at the street where his—where Buzz’s car is parked, a sleek black Beemer with tinted windows and racing wheels.

“This isn’t a seedy neighborhood—no one is going to come steal it.”

He rolls his eyes. “Just lock up and let’s go.”

Wow, he is so bossy. Not even a little sweet talking. No manners. He really wasn’t kidding when he said this wasn’t a date; the man is a boorish caveman with no etiquette.

I watch as he bounds back down my stairs toward his brother’s vehicle and opens the passenger side door. He doesn’t wait next to it, just goes around to the driver’s side and slides in.

God I cannot wait to tell Hollis about this.

It’s no wonder the man is single.

He has no idea how to treat a woman.

I wonder how he’d treat me if he were interested…

I dash back into my new place, flipping off lights but leaving one on in the kitchen and entry hall, then pull the door shut. Let the automatic lock kick in before taking a key and inserting it to glide the deadbolt into place.

I don’t say a peep about this not being his car when I finally lower myself down into the passenger seat and press the button to lower the door. Yes, lower the door, not pull it closed.

Buzz sure is slick.

“Sweet ride,” I tell Tripp, the little liar.

“Thanks.”

“What dealership did you get it from?” I pull down the sun visor and make a show of looking around. “Maybe I’ll ask for the Wallace discount.”

He shifts around in his seat uncomfortably. “Uh…the one downtown.”

“The one off of Ohio Street or the one that’s right off the main drag?” I look down and see a candy wrapper on the floor near my feet. Swipe it up, holding it between two fingers. “They did a horrible job detailing this before letting you drive it.”

He clears his throat. “It’s probably pre-owned.”

Yeah, yeah, yeah, you shithead.

“How fast does it go?”

He grinds the gear shift. It’s loud and fills the car with awkward silence.

“Sorry.” His eyes are glued to the road. “It goes, uh—zero to eighty in…thirty seconds.”

I pull a face. “It takes thirty seconds to get to eighty? That’s terrible.”

“I meant five seconds. Sorry, I’m still learning about cars.”

That much is obvious. Even I know what acceleration rates are decent for a sports car—Tripp has no idea what he’s talking about.

For a few moments, I let the car subject die, giving him a reprieve so I don’t ruin what fragile friendly vibes he’s attempting to give me.

It’s not easy for him to be in this car with me; he lacks the social skills to make small talk—way too blunt for most women, I would assume. And if I had to guess, he instantly regretted offering to pick me up tonight the moment he extended the invitation.

Oh well—not my problem.

“So it’s just this car and your truck?”

“Yeah, I mostly only drive trucks. I don’t know if I’m going to buy this Beemer or not.”

Not.

I tap my fingers on the armrest and watch the city approach, one side street after the next, and he zigzags and zips his way to The Ivy.

At least he knows where he’s going without using the navigation system.

A few minutes later, we’re pulling up to the awninged walkway of The Ivy, two valet attendants already waiting at the curb as if they’re expecting us. A few men linger near the shrubs. Two more across the street.

Paparazzi?

Shit.

I hadn’t considered being photographed tonight while I was getting dressed and feel relief because I dolled up a bit more than I was initially going to.

Again, I pull down the sun visor and flip open the mirror.

“You look fine,” Tripp tells me, wowing me with his praise.

“Gee, thanks.”

He looks…offended? “What’s wrong with the word fine?”

Nothing. Not technically. But if you’re going to flatter someone, there are a million better words with which to do so. Pretty, beautiful, effervescent.

I laugh.

Effervescent.

I can’t for the life of me imagine that word coming out of this man’s mouth.