Hard Love (Trophy Boyfriends 3)

It’s too much.

A few more minutes of this and I may end up tackling him to the ground, no karate necessary.

Standing side by side, tools and pumpkins in front of us, I stand and stare quizzically at my subject, Tripp going about sculpting a goblin’s face while I’m in charge of the quote.

Nothing comes to mind, brain working in overtime.

Maybe I should just google something? I open the internet app on my phone and search “spooky quotes,” scrolling the feed and finding nothing that interests me.

“What are you looking for?” Tripp asks, glancing over, knife pausing over his goblin.

“Themed quotes.”

He scrunches up his face. “That’s lame—why not a sarcastic one, like ‘Carpe my seeds’?”

Seize my seeds? Gross.

I feign a gag. “I didn’t realize you were such a pervert.”

“Really?” He turns toward me, rolling his eyes. “Have you met me at all?”

That makes me laugh. “I still feel like I know nothing about you.” And here we’ve spent how much time together? How is it possible I still haven’t gleaned what he’s actually about?

Guess there’s really no good way to know, other than to ask. “Have you always been into the holidays like this?” I continue looking for a saying to put on the pumpkin.

“Yeah, I guess. Our mom always makes a big deal about it. We do matching pajamas and shit every year.” Tripp smiles. “Do you know how hard it is to find Christmas pajamas for someone my size?” He laughs. “Last year I had to cut the feet out of the onesie so I could put it on—ended up cutting off too much. Couldn’t bend over because it would go up my ass.”

“I would pay to see that.”

“Oh, you can—I have a picture. Hold on.” He wipes his hands off on the front of his apron, pulls the cell out of his back pocket, and begins scrolling through his gallery. “Here.”

Bright blue fleece onesie, the fabric cut up to his knees so it looks more like Bermuda shorts. It’s covered in snowmen and snowflakes, zippered down the front with a hood.

In his arms is a sullen-looking Chewy, who dons a dog version of the very same outfit. They both look grumpy and unamused, plump Christmas tree glowing in the background with piles of presents underneath.

“Aw, cute.”

Tripp frowns. “I am not cute. I’m manly.”

Yeah, yeah, yeah. “In that getup? You’re cute.”

I tilt my head, still standing here idly, having done zero carving on this orange pumpkin on the counter in front of me. At the rate I’m going, it’s never going to be ready to display on the front porch!

At least he scooped out the middle to give me a head start.

“By the time I have my goblin teeth carved, you’re still going to be staring at that thing.” Tripp laughs. “Just put something stupid on it.”

“But I don’t want it to be stupid—I want it to be cute.”

“Carve a T plus C,” he says, not looking at me.

T plus C? What does that mean?

T plus…

“Tripp plus Chandler?” That cannot be what he means. That’s almost…romantic, and surely that’s not his intention. We’re not dating!

“Sure, why not?” His tongue is stuck out the tiniest bit as he concentrates on his task.

“Uh, because? That sound relationshippy.”

“So?”

Is he for real right now? This is only our first date and it wasn’t even his idea—it was the idea of a conniving fifteen-year-old girl, one I’m expecting to pop out from behind the living room drapes at any moment.

“It sounds like we’re, you know—in a relationship.”

“So?”

I prop a hand on my hip. “Would you stop saying that?”

“It’s a pumpkin, Chandler. It’s not a marriage proposal.”

“I know that, Tripp.” My tone sounds slightly insolent, almost condescending, but we’re entering strange waters here. It almost feels like we’re about to have “the talk”.

You know the one. The What is this we’re doing? talk, only having it was not my intention. Like—at all.

“What if I just carve the word CHEWY on it?” I suggest, uncomfortable with his.

“That works too.” Tripp’s wide shoulders shrug. I can’t tell if he’s disappointed or not, because he won’t look at me. Just grumbles out a “Go for it” and continues working.

Hmph.

I carve his dog’s name on the pumpkin—it takes me all of the next hour, my wine glass magically refilling itself, grapey and delicious—then take a quick break to check the seeds we threw into the oven to bake.

They look nice and crisp sprinkled with salt, butter, and a bit of olive oil, and smell fantastic too.

I use a spatula from a nearby drawer to push them around the pan so they bake evenly. Steal one and blow on it before popping it in my mouth.

It’s warm and crunchy.

Yum.

“No fair!” Tripp catches me snacking out of the corner of his eye. “I want some!”

Fair enough.

I offer him one, but instead of taking it, he opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue.