Hard Love (Trophy Boyfriends 3)

“I can’t remember.”

Eye roll. “What’s her name?”

“Doesn’t the article tell you?”

Molly shrugs as if the answer is obvious. “I don’t believe everything I read.”

Smart kid—so I throw her a bone. “Her name is Chandler.”

“Like Chandler Bing, from Friends?” Molly nods, recognition lighting up her eyes. “So it’s the girl who flipped you at your brother’s wedding—that was all over the news, too. My dad thought that was hilarious.”

I bet he fucking did, the jackass. “Could you not bring that up?”

“I’m sorry, was it a secret?”

Wow. “You sarcastic little shit.”

“Little?” She stands straighter. “I’m fifteen.”

“Big whoop, we were all fifteen.” No longer in the mood for brew, I dump the contents of my mug into the sink and run the water. “Besides, it was a figure of speech.”

Molly thinks of her next question. “Do you like Chandler?”

“Yeah, she’s alright I guess.”

“No, I meant, do you like her like her?”

“I’m too old to like like someone.”

The neighbor girl studies my face. “What are you, forty?”

“Hey, watch it,” I snap. “I’m only twenty-eight.”

“Could have fooled me—you act like my dad.” She’s scoffing at me, the barb hitting right where it was intended to strike—my overinflated ego, which deflates a few notches thanks to her.

I can’t help feeling a tad insulted by this teenage girl—who should have left with the dog minutes ago. We shouldn’t still be standing in my kitchen arguing about my nonexistent love life like two giggling girlfriends sharing gossip.

I am not going to be the dude to teach her men are assholes.

“I thought you were for sure as old as my dad,” she goes on, oblivious to my ire. “At least. But I suppose they don’t let old guys stay in the NFL—they’d fracture bones because of arthritis and stuff.”

“Just stop.” I shoot Molly a perturbed look. “Shouldn’t you already be halfway to the dog park?”

She leans against the counter. “How did you end up on the ground in the first place? I know she didn’t have to give you CPR because there are no photos of an ambulance.”

“That’s private.”

“Did she use karate on you again?” Molly hits the nail on the head, standing straight up when she realizes it, too. “Oh my god, she did, didn’t she?”

“Pftt,” I scoff, snorting. “What makes you say that?”

“Duh. She’s already done it once and why else would you be on your back in the dark on the wet sidewalk? It’s not like you would voluntarily lie down.”

“Are you sure you want to be a veterinarian? You’d make a good detective.”

“Am I right then? She used karate on you?”

I will neither confirm or deny. Instead, I offer her a bagel. “You want one?”

“Nah. I ate already.” She sniffs, annoyed I’ve changed the subject. “Thanks though.”

“Are there any other questions you want to ask before you go? How tall I am, what my favorite color is, what I’m having for dinner, where I was born?”

I’m being sarcastic, but Molly takes a seat at the kitchen counter.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, I was kidding. There will be no getting comfortable at the counter. I was joking.”

She smiles. “You’re not funny. Like, at all.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Like—not even a little.”

“Thanks. I get it. Now get out.”

She rises from the chair, still holding Chewy’s lead. “I mean, I feel like you think you’re funny? But it’s really hard to tell when you’re making a joke.”

So rude.

The kid needs to get the hell out of the house.

“Don’t look so offended, Mr. Wallace. My mom says some people aren’t meant to be humorous—you are just one of those people.” She pats me on the arm, like my grandma used to do when she was consoling me.

“I can be funny when I want to be,” I pout, sounding defensive. Ridiculously defensive, arguing with the teenage girl from the house next door…

…in my own damn kitchen.

…about women.

“I can be funny when I want to be,” she mimics. “That’s what people who aren’t funny say,” she goads, walking toward the door. “Does Chandler Westbrooke laugh at your jokes?”

“Yes.” Ha!

“I suppose she laughs because she likes you.”

“Oh. Is that the only reason, smartass?”

“Probably.” Eye roll. “I can’t imagine you give her any other reasons.”

What a shithead!

“For your information, Miss Know-It-All, Chandler doesn’t like me. She hates me.” I tell her the same thing I told my mother when she was the one doing the cross-examination. “Trust me.”

Molly shakes her head, disappointed. “You know nothing about women, do you?”

Nope.

Not even a little—but I’m not about to admit that to a fifteen-year-old. Instead, I puff out my chest, posturing to the runt. “Of course I do—I’m a grown-ass man.”

The kid laughs like I’ve just told an actual joke. “Ha—see, now that was funny.”

“What!” I trail along after her. “I do! I know stuff.”

She’s pulling open the front door and stepping out onto the porch. I want to demand that she get her ass back here so I can continue arguing with her, but like I said—she’s a teenager and why the fuck am I bothering? It’s not like I have anything to prove.