Hard Luck (Trophy Boyfriends 4)

“You’re joking, right?”

“I wish.”

“Then it’s a good thing they can’t read my mind…”

I have to stop daydreaming long enough to pull up to the gates of my condominium complex and buzz myself through the gate, careful to pay attention to avoid running over any pedestrians with my car.

I check my phone again, just in case.

Nothing.

True: Sure, I think getting together is a good idea.

My heart races at the sight of her name, at the fact that she’s messaging me back—finally!

Me: I’m sorry—who is this?

True: This is True. True Wallace?

Thump-thump goes the heart in my chest.

Me: I know, I’m totally joking—I know exactly who this is. I’ve been waiting four days for you to message me back.

True: Sorry, I was just…

Me: Busy?

True: No. Nervous.

Me: At least you’re being honest.

The text bubbles appear, then disappear from the chat, and I stare at my glowing screen. Why isn’t she saying anything back? It’s been forty-five seconds!

I close the chat and busy myself by opening the email app. Silence my phone so I don’t rush to reply like a loser when it dings, checking and checking to see if she’s responded.

I fight the urge to message her again, a million things I want to say to her racing through my mind. God forbid I look needy.

True: How does next week work for you?

My heart races.

Me: Sí. Yeah, that totally works. I’m free all week, super flexible. Just let me know when you want to get together.

That.

Did.

Not.

Sound.

Chill.

At.

All.

Jesus, Mateo, simmer down—she hasn’t said she’s going to marry you. She said she had time to get together.

It’s not a date.

Wait…why isn’t this a date?

You idiot, you didn’t ask her on a date—you said you wanted to talk.

Didn’t you?

I scroll back up to read the first messages I sent and comb through the words, looking for the key word—date—and coming up blank.

I would like to see you.

Ugh.

I would like to take her out! Goddamn, I’m an idiot—I’m going to blow my chance with her. It sounds like I’m sticking her in the friend zone.

Actually, no. Correction: she’s putting ME in the friend zone.

There’s got to be a way to get out.

Nine

True

Why does Buzz suddenly keep stopping by Tripp’s house?

It’s as if he knows.

Just like Chewy, he’s been sniffing around me all week, dropping by without warning, interrupting my work, pretending to do things around the house.

“I do not need curtains put on these windows!” I’m shouting at him as he uses a level to screw in an anchor so he can hang a pole. “Did Tripp tell you to come over?”

“Tripp doesn’t have time to wipe his own ass, let alone put curtains on these windows. How are you supposed to get any rest with the sun beating down on you first thing in the morning?” He has a screw in his mouth, ready to put it into the anchor. “See, this is the kind of service I provide. You really should consider moving out and into my place.”

I set my laptop aside and gawk. “Is it seriously bothering you that I’m living here? You’re busy getting ready for spring training and the upcoming season, and I feel bad you’re fussing so much…”

He ignores my comment, glancing down at me from the ladder he’s balancing on. “Living here? I thought this was temporary.”

“Ugh! You know what I mean! The point is, you’re always freaking competing with Tripp—when are you going to grow up?”

Moron.

“Competing with Tripp? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Of course he says this as he’s drilling holes into a wall that does not belong to him, in a house that does not belong to him, completely uninvited.

The drill bleats out shrilly, drywall dust falling to the ground.

“Where did these curtains even come from?” They’re navy blue blackout shades that do not match the bedding in this guest room.

“I took them off the window in one of my guest rooms.”

My mouth falls open. “Hollis is going to kill you.”

“No she won’t—she won’t even notice. Besides, she’s been wanting to redecorate the upstairs since she moved in, and this will give her an excuse.” He pauses, twisting his body around to look down at me. “Can you make me a sandwich?”

Is he freaking serious?

“No! Make your own damn sandwich.”

“I was just asking! There was a fifty-fifty chance you’d say yes, jeez.” My brother pauses. “Want to go grab lunch?”

I cock my head, considering his question. “Wait—did you come over here to talk me into having lunch?”

He doesn’t reply, just keeps measuring and screwing.

“Trace Wallace, you are not putting holes in our brother’s wall as some pretense to lure me out of the house!”

He turns again, hands and drill in the air. “What! If I had just asked you to lunch, you would have said you were working. I had to have an alibi.”

Oh my god. “You’re putting holes in Tripp’s wall! You are horrible!”