My back stiffens. The wine I just swallowed goes down hot, burning its way down my throat.
How dare he imply that I’m a spoiled brat!
Not that he would be the first—growing up wealthy comes with its fair share of downsides, stereotypes one of them. It’s not my fault I was born into a family that has been successful, but that doesn’t make me any less determined to pave my own way.
If I’m just using this job as a temporary solution to a long-term goal—a stepping stone to my own independence—then so be it. But working for the Westbrooke family and the Steam is not and never has been my end goal.
I smooth a hand down my black silk shirt, cursing its fine fabric and my expensive designer bag. “I guess if we’re judging people based solely on their appearance, then yeah, I suppose you could say I look like a girl who hasn’t had to work very hard.” I pause for theatrical effect. “Then again, you said that at the wedding, just before I knocked you on your ass.”
“Touché.”
After several moments of tense silence, I decide I’ve had enough of this awkward—and often frustrating—conversation and am ready to leave. I still have a lot of unpacking to do before starting my new job on Monday anyway.
“I’d like to go home now,” I tell Tripp.
He raises a dark brow sardonically. “Would you now?”
“Yes.”
He sighs loudly, as if inconvenienced, and bites out, “Fine.” Raises one arm and flags down the server, signaling for the check.
After he pays the tab, we exit The Ivy and are once again met by the paps and their flashing cameras.
We quickly hop in the car after the valet brings it around front and drive back to my place in silence—which is fine by me.
I stare out the passenger side window, lost in thought. This whole evening has been awkward and not just because my gut is telling me something isn’t right. Something feels…weird.
Off.
The drive passes quickly and before I know it, we’re pulling up to the curb in front of my townhouse. I hastily exit the car, eager to distance myself from Tripp, and beeline it for the front steps; my thoughts still wandering.
Do that many photographers spend that much time sitting outside of The Ivy? The whole thing was strange. I hate to say planned, but the more I think about how hard he worked to get me there tonight, the more my Spidey senses tingle.
When everything in my brain clicks into place, I spin around to find Tripp already out of the car, standing on the sidewalk behind me.
My temper flares.* * *Tripp“You…you jackass!” She huffs at me, fuming, the word jackass sounding strange coming from her pretty, proper mouth. “You planned this!”
Planned this?
I mean, yeah, kind of, in a way. But it wasn’t my idea—it was my parents’.
I shoot Chandler a perturbed look. “You think I’m crafty enough to mastermind something like this? The paps showing up and taking photographs of us together? Fans taking videos of us having drinks? I’m flattered.” And impressed she managed to figure it out so quickly—before the photos hit the internet.
Clearly she thinks I’m an idiot, from the look she’s giving me. “Yes, Tripp, I do think you’re crafty enough to have staged this entire evening.” Her arms go up, defeated, and she lets the subject drop—until her eyes narrow. “You can’t stand the fact that a woman is stronger than you.”
“Hey, hey, hey now, you are not stronger than me.” I raise my arm and flex my bicep, all but kissing it for good luck. Same as I do before a game. “Barely any men are. You managing to flip me was a fluke.”
Obviously. What other explanation could there be for it?
“I told you I know karate.”
A scoff slips out of my mouth. “Lots of people claim to know karate.”
Chandler glares harder. “I can’t even with you.”
“You can’t even with me?” I scrunch my face up. “What does that even mean?”
“Have you been living under a rock? It means I can’t handle you right now.” She storms up her front steps. “Stop following me, butthole.”
Whoa. That escalated quickly. “Technically I didn’t do anything wrong. You are blowing this way out of proportion. Whatever you think is happening isn’t happening—so chill out.”
Whoops. Wrong thing to say.
She whips around. “That’s what’s wrong with men today. Everything is a damn game—not everyone wants to waste an entire evening just to get their name in the newspaper.”
I chuckle by accident. “Who reads the newspaper anymore?”
She levels me with a stare. “I could wring your neck. My face is going to be plastered all over the news tomorrow and I’m going to look like a sellout.”
A sellout? “How do you figure that?”
“First I toss you on your ass, now I’m going on a date with you even though I don’t like you as a person? Ha! What the hell kind of woman does that? A weak one. One who didn’t have anything going on tonight and thought maybe you would be pleasant for once.”