Hard Love (Trophy Boyfriends 3)

Uncle Thomas is such a dick. Not some of the time—all of the time.

I’m so jealous of Hollis wheedling her way out of the family clutches and I hate myself for falling into them.

It’s temporary.

This latest rejection letter is one of many and the thought that I’m running out of options depresses me. Taking another bite of this shitty bagel, my mood sours.

Grumpy.

Guess Tripp and I aren’t so opposite after all.

I’m halfway through the doughy bread ring when my phone chimes for the first time this morning. Desperate for a diversion, I snap it up quickly, eyes hungry for the words blinking back at me.

Tripp: Hey, wyd?

My heart rate quickens from the random text; I haven’t heard from him since Sunday when I left his place, three entire days passing since we had mind-blowing sex.

He wants to know what I’m doing.

Me: Uh…working? You?

Tripp: Done early.

Me: Oh, that’s nice.

What is his point? It’s late morning on Wednesday and I don’t know anything about the football schedule, but I would assume he’s been running drills all morning and visiting the team’s physical trainer before his game this weekend.

I wait for another message, watching that tiny screen for the three conversation dots to appear in the bottom of the chat box.

Tripp: I’m hungry, how about you?

The bagel seems to crumble in my grip, growing ashy in my mouth. I want to spit it into the trash, knowing Tripp’s texts are leading to an invitation.

Me: I grabbed a bagel on my way to work but forgot the cream chee

Delete.

That sounds stupid; he doesn’t care what I’m eating or not eating.

Me: I’m always hungry.

Tripp: You want to grab lunch at Café Louis near Washington Park? I can meet you halfway.

YES! Yes, yes, yes!

Mentally, I fist-pump, having zero people to celebrate this midday date with. The list of girlfriends I’m going to text is short. Actually, I’ve only confided in Hollis, since she knows him best and is now related to him. My other girlfriends wouldn’t understand—plus, I don’t want to prematurely say anything because if things don’t progress, the constant “How is Tripp doing” messages would drive me up the wall.

Me: Lunch would be great! How does 11:00 sound? That way we beat the rush.

Tripp: Exactly what I was thinking.

Tripp: Want me to come grab you?

Me: No, no, meeting you is fine. I’ll just hitch a cab and then you could bring me back?

Tripp: Awesome.

Tripp: It’s a date.* * *“Uh, is that a disguise?”

I find Tripp hovering near the entrance of the café, donning a baseball cap, sunglasses, and a hoodie. These three things do nothing for his anonymity; rather, they cause him to stand out instead of blend in.

“Sort of.” His big shoulders shrug and, color me surprised, he leans down and kisses me in the corner of my mouth as a greeting.

I blush from my toes up to the roots of my hair, ignoring the butterflies in my stomach and try to sound normal when I say, “Well you look sketchy as frick. You should take that hood down at least, you weirdo.”

“I want to be left alone.”

So adorably clueless. “Um, you stand out like a sore thumb. That sweatshirt is bright blue and has the Blues logo on it.”

Tripp looks down at me. “You look cute.”

Do I? Eh.

What I look is professional, in a high-waisted black faux leather pencil skirt, tucked-in black silk blouse (with little red dots on it), and red heels on my feet.

“Thank you.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ears. “I wasn’t expecting to go anywhere for lunch, otherwise I would have—”

“No, I like this. You look hot.”

Hot.

I do?

Not so sure about that, but I’ll take his word for it.

“You must have a thing for the secretarial look,” I say as we wait for the hostess to seat us. When she approached before, Tripp silently stuck two fingers in the air and didn’t say a word.

“Is that how you always dress for work?” he asks, putting his hand to the small of my back, guiding me behind the hostess as we weave through the crowded café, the occasional patron glancing up to stare at Tripp as we walk past.

Men and women.

The men want to ask for his autograph, the women want to hit on him. Fuck him. Take him home in the middle of the afternoon.

I can see it in their eyes, and it’s nothing new to me, having grown up around athletes. Tripp seems immune to it, hand now skimming from my shoulder down the side of my silk-covered arm.

When we’re seated, menus in hand, he takes down the hoodie and removes his sunglasses, intense brown eyes boring holes as he studies my face.

“How have you been?” He wants to know, unapologetic and making no excuses for not having reached out since Saturday. Technically it was Sunday when I left, but still. Same thing.