Hard Love (Trophy Boyfriends 3)

Drip, drip goes the ice. “I accept your apology.”

“And…” He takes a drink of the cocktail—or ice water; I’m not quite sure. “I shouldn’t have said what I said last night. When you said you didn’t know how I felt and I implied it wasn’t my problem if you couldn’t figure it out, that was a dick move. My mother would kick my sorry ass if she’d heard the way I talked to you.”

I wanted to kick his ass, too.

Heat fills my face and I blush as he continues speaking.

“The truth is, I’m really rusty. I haven’t actually dated anyone—not anyone I took seriously. I didn’t give a shit what they thought because they weren’t women I wanted around. I…I missed you after I left last night, and I’ve felt like complete shit since. I realize all I would have had to fucking do was say, ‘Chandler, I like you. I want to see where this goes.’”

I hold my breath.

“I want to have you around. I think you’re sexy and hot as hell, and I want to…” He considers his next words. “I want to help you find your dream job and achieve your goals.”

Sexy and hot as hell?

I blink.

He wants to help me find my dream job and achieve my goals?

Stop it.

Stop it right now.

My nose tingles, the telltale sign that I’m going to start crying—not sad or frustrated tears, but happy ones, and I tip my head back so they don’t well up in my eyes. Wipe at my nose to get rid of the prickle there.

I’m not successful, not even a little.

Tripp’s face falls. “Did I say something wrong?”

I wave a hand in front of my face like I’m shielding it from the paparazzi, unable to talk. “No, it’s good, it’s good.”

“Then why are you crying? Fuck, I fucked this up, didn’t I? I’m sorry,” he babbles, vomiting apologies all over the place and I just need him to stop talking, because the more he talks, the more emotional I get. “Shit.”

“I’m not a crier,” I tell him, crying.

“Then why…”

My hand waves again. “I’ll be fine in a second, just give me a minute.” I root around in my bag to retrieve a tissue, wiping my eyes and dabbing at my nose.

Ew.

I’m hideous—and he just called me sexy and hot as hell? Is the man out of his mind?

Ugh. “Okay. I’m better now. Continue.”

He doesn’t seem convinced. Gets up out of his chair and comes around to my side of the table.

“Can I touch you?” he asks, holding his hands in the air before I nod, then places them on either side of my face. Wedges himself between my legs and plants a kiss on the tip of my nose. “You’re so cute.” Kiss. “I missed you.”

Kiss.

Has hell frozen over? Has Tripp Wallace finally been hit so hard in a football game that his brains have been fully scrambled?

Motionless I sit as he kisses my face. “I’m far from perfect. I’m literally the biggest jackass I’ve ever met and I don’t make apologies for that, so I ask that you bear with me. I don’t want to know what my life is like without you.”

“Is this you declaring your love for me?” I can’t help asking, enjoying the horrified look on his face, then let him off the hook with a “Relax, I’m joking.”

His head gives a little shake. “No, it’s fine. I just have to get used to it. I’ve never told a woman I love her before—my mom and sister do not count.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying…maybe I will say it. Not right now, obviously, but someday, if you’re willing to keep me around.”

I tilt my chin up so he has access to my lips. “I think I’m willing to keep you around.”

“Molly and Chewy are part of the package deal.”

That makes me laugh. The neighbor girl slash matchmaker and the slobbery bulldog.

“You know, I always thought it was going to be your mom, brother, and Hollis who pushed us together, but here it ends up being the fifteen-year-old girl next door.” I nibble my bottom lip. “We should get her a gift or something.”

“No way! That’s like putting out a bowl of milk for a stray cat. Once you start feeding it, it never leaves.”

“I think you’re past that point already.” I laugh.

Tripp presses his body into mine. “You coming home with me?” Kisses the side of my neck and I relish the feel of his lips on my skin, mindful of the other people in the room. The last thing we need is to wind up in the news again, locking lips in public.

We’ll be forever known as the most PDA couple in sports history.

Maybe that’s what the world needs though.

More love.

With that thought, I let my hand stray to the back of his head, fingers raking through the hair that could use a good trim. And when his erection nudges the apex of my thighs, I groan.