Hard Love (Trophy Boyfriends 3)

“Sometimes I feel ugly,” he said, kicking at an imaginary rock. “Then I look over at my brother and I’m suddenly over it.”

The crowd roared.

“I always wanted my mom to trade in my brother, hoping I had one out there who was identical. I think I’d get very emotional when we finally met, don’t you? I’d be beside myself.”

My parents thought it was hilarious and for weeks they talked about how brave he was, going up in front of all those people. Buzz likes to entertain the family during the holidays—Christmas is a big one, standing by the tree, giving his “pre-present opening” speech, which is mostly jokes at my expense.

Dick.

“I think he means well,” Chandler is saying, taking small sips of her wine. Licks her lips. “He’s such a nice guy—and so funny. I can see why Hollis fell in love with him so fast.”

I grunt.

Sometimes I feel I’ve spent most of my life going through the motions of being happy and carefree instead of actually doing it.

Just kidding; I don’t—not even a little.

My brother shows emotions, but at least I don’t put on a show for the sake of other people.

Shit, where did that thought come from?

Did I just therapy myself?

“This wine is good.” Chandler is turning the glass, staring at the legs of red dripping down the inside like cherry juice. “Where did you get it?”

Not at some fancy vineyard. “The grocery store.” Aisle twelve.

She hums. “I like it.” Smacks her lips, licking—and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say she already has a little buzz going, even from the few sips she’s taken.

I chug half my glass then pour a little more.

“I’ll take a bit more, too.” Chandler extends her arm and holds hers out, getting comfortable on the barstool, stealing a chocolate out of a bowl the cleaning lady put out.

Incidentally, something I forgot to mention is that Buzz and I have the same woman come weekly to tidy shit around our houses, and if I’m being honest, she spoils us rotten. Sometimes she makes me food, too, and leaves it in the fridge, especially in the middle of the football season when I’m dragging ass and can barely remember to feed myself.

Which is most days during the season.

Tonight there’s a smaller lasagna in my fridge—one I didn’t notice before. A tiny, square pan that screams, Mr. Bitterman, single, party of one.

Except tonight I have company.

Except that we’ve already eaten dinner and dessert.

I push the plate of Molly’s cookies to the side—out of sight, out of mind—despite wanting another one. Then again, better not; the kid is probably trying to poison me so she has more access to my dog.

The silence between Chandler and me lingers, but it isn’t strained. It’s comfortable to the point I feel my tense shoulders drop, my mouth curving up. Unlike most women I meet, she isn’t trying to force the conversation, the moment, or my hand. Not that she’s the type to hit on a man—quite the opposite, unless of course you count her climbing on top of me on the street and kissing me senseless.

I wonder what it would be like to kiss her again, kiss those wine-soaked lips.

“Thanks for the ride home,” I finally say, leaning against the counter, elbows braced on the cold stone, glass in my hands.

“Um, that was a setup.”

“Yeah, I know. That’s what my family does—railroads you into things you didn’t plan on doing.” With people you had no intention of being stuck with. With a woman you didn’t realize you might slowly grow to like.

Funny how that works.

“So you knew that was what was happening?”

Is she serious? “I hate to be the one to tell you this, but my mother and brother are the king and queen of playing matchmaker.”

Chandler looks genuinely baffled by this information. “You don’t actually think…they couldn’t possibly…”

I let out a pfft and roll my eyes. “Please—the whole world saw you kissing me on the ground. Of course my mother is going to think you want me.”

Now she looks affronted. “Excuse me? I do not want you.” Her spine straightens. “In fact, what the whole world saw was you on top, kissing me—so there.”

Point to Chandler.

“What they saw was two people making out in the rain.”

Point to me.

She chuckles into her glass. “After they saw me toss you on your ass.”

Point to Chandler.

“The world doesn’t know you did it twice.”

Point to me.

“The world also doesn’t know I kissed you first, because you’re too set on celibacy to do it yourself.”

Did she just imply that I live like a monk? How the hell would she even know I’m not banging chicks every night of the week?

I could be if I wanted to!

…if I wanted to.

Which I don’t.

But I could!

I push off the counter to my full height, sputtering. “What did you just say to me?”