Hard Love (Trophy Boyfriends 3)

A twinge of something flutters in my stomach.

Jealousy?

No. It can’t be.

I love Hollis; I’m not jealous of her! That’s absurd.

I’m beyond thrilled she met someone, fell in love, and is going to spend the rest of her life with him.

I hug myself, handing over my shawl to the hostess so she can store it in the coat check closet, then I paste on a smile, glancing at the door for Tripp Wallace to come ambling in.

He enters—saunters, actually—casing the place as if he’s going to be robbing it later, eying everyone up but not greeting anyone.

I run my eyes up and down his body and immediately notice he’s not wearing the navy blue t-shirt he had on before. It’s a long-sleeved button-down, wrinkled. Red and black check plaid.

The same shirt he had on for the bachelor party, so it must have been in his back seat and he threw it on.

My eyes travel south.

Tripp is still wearing those damn shorts!

What the what is wrong with this guy?!

I watch as their mother approaches, taking him by the upper arm and smiling, speaking through clenched teeth. I wonder what she’s saying, can only imagine:

Her: Darling, what on earth are you wearing? You look ridiculous.

Him: It’s the only thing I had.

Her: But was it necessary to wear something you had in your back seat? And where are your pants?

Him: I don’t have pants.

Her: You should have gone home and gotten a pair. Or better yet, the mall is literally one mile away.

Him: Mom, you know I don’t like the mall.

She pats his hand.

Her: I know, baby boy. You don’t like anything.

Also her: You are a wrinkly mess. This is a disgrace.

Him, pouting: I’m not the baby, I’m the oldest.

Him: This whole thing is Buzz’s fault. I didn’t have any time to get ready today.

Her: Stop blaming your brother for the fact that you are wearing dirty clothes to a fancy sit-down dinner.

Him: They were clean when I put them on last weekend.

I snicker, knowing full well he’s getting his ass chewed out for the way he’s dressed, because that’s what mothers do because that is their job.

From what I hear, Genevieve Wallace doesn’t mess around when it comes to her family; a woman doesn’t raise two professional athletes and a successful daughter who is in the same industry by mollycoddling and mincing words.

I snatch a champagne flute from a passing waiter and smile into the rim of the glass as I take a sip.

Madison sidles up to me, nudging me with the tip of her elbow, standing so close I can smell her floral perfume. “Hey pretty lady, I finagled it so you’re sitting next to me. We can eye-fuck the groomsmen from across the main table.”

I don’t want to eye-fuck anyone, let alone any of the groomsmen. They consist of professional baseball players; a few guys from Buzz’s childhood; my cousin Lucien, Hollis’s brother; and one other guy I think must be Buzz’s agent?

Actually, he is kind of cute. Normal-looking, not a hunky, over-exercised and over-toned neanderthal of a man.

Normal. Aka: my type.

“Good, I’m starving.”

Madison pushes her long bangs out of her eyes. Her hair is cut into a long, graduated bob with sideswept bangs. It’s highlighted to perfection and coifed for a beauty pageant.

She nudges me again and leans in closer. “I heard there was a vibrator mishap on moving day—was it The Quickie that the guys found?”

I stare straight ahead and feign ignorance. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Tripp told Buzz you had a pink dildo on your floor when they moved your stuff in and I’m assuming it’s the one I gave y’all for the bachelorette.” She sips from her own glass. “Love that dress by the way. Super cute.”

My ears turn pink. “Can we all please stop calling it a dildo?” I chug whatever is left in my glass. “And what a gossipy little snitch! What did he do, rat me out as soon as they got in their cars to leave?”

“Tripp told Buzz and Buzz told Hollis and Hollis told me. So, yeah. That’s probably exactly what happened.”

“Why would he even care?”

She taps her toe and tilts her head. “Honestly, he probably doesn’t. I mean, look at him.” Her glance is thrust in his general direction. “He’s wearing that broke ass-outfit, looking like he just rolled out of bed—to his brother’s rehearsal dinner. Do you think he gives a shit about finding a vibrator on your floor? No. He’s just bored.” Madison frowns. “Tripp Wallace has no manners.” Then. “Don’t tell anyone I said that—I don’t want it getting back to me, ha ha.”

“There are worse things you could call him than ill-mannered.” I sniff.

“Ill-mannered.” She giggles. “I’ll never get used to how proper you talk.”

Trust me, I’m not doing it on purpose.

“Should we sit? I’ve already circulated, so I think we can take our seats now.”