Hard Love (Trophy Boyfriends 3)

“What’s so funny?”

Why lie? “I was picturing you being nice to me.”

“Are you implying that I’m not nice to you?”

“No, I’m implying that I can’t imagine you saying anything sweet.”

Tripp looks genuinely confused. “Who wants to be sweet?”

That makes me laugh. “Not you, apparently.”

I click the door so it unlocks and releases, opening straight up instead of out, and am suitably impressed. I’ve never been in a car that does that before; it’s totally fancy.

“I can be sweet when I want to be,” Tripp tells me, doing the same with his driver’s side door and stepping one leg out of the car.

I stifle a fake yawn. “Sure you can.”

“Wanna bet?”

“This isn’t a challenge. And besides, the last time I asked you to do something, you reneged.”

Cameras begin to go off, and I blink. Why are they taking photos of us? Do they do this to everyone who walks in, or is someone else inside that’s famous?

I mean—Tripp plays football, but he’s not famous famous—not like a celebrity on television or in the movies. Does football count? I hadn’t thought about it before, although now that I am, I suppose Buzz was ‘famous’ before he met my cousin. People cared about who he dated and what he wore, and the places he went.

“Who are you guys camping out for?” I ask a guy dressed all in black: black camera, black jeans, black windbreaker. His cheeks are ruddy pink and his hair is windblown, as if he’s been waiting for hours.

“You,” he tells me.

It hadn’t occurred to me that fans would give a shit about Tripp and me having a simple drink at a nice restaurant.

Click, click, click, go the cameras, flashes going off in every which way.

“Come on.” Tripp’s hand goes to the small of my back, and I resist the urge to glance back at it. It feels weird having his hands on me. Our dance at the wedding doesn’t count, because it was forced and awkward and…he was kind of drunk.

Tripp grins for the camera.

I almost trip on my own two feet glancing up at him, at that megawatt smile, those pearly white teeth, that cleft in his chin.

I look up.

Then down at my own body.

Down at the large hand placed at the dip in my waist. How did that get there? Why is it there? What is he doing touching me like this?

I didn’t think he could stand me.

“Keep your head down if you want,” he says in my ear, the low baritone tickling my cerebellum. “That will afford some privacy.”

Privacy? Ha!

“It’s too late,” I smart. “I’ve already engaged the dude in conversation and full eye contact, and he’s taken my picture at least a dozen times.” I glance across the street, pointing. “And that guy, and that guy.” I point to the one up the sidewalk a ways, grateful he’s at least keeping his distance. “And why are you holding me? I can walk just fine, thanks.”

I shrug away from the arm behind my back, at my waist, and shoot him a look.

“Just trying to be helpful.” He doesn’t bother to look chagrined, letting me take the lead, walking a few feet in front of him. “I didn’t think you’d mind having my hands on you.”

“Okay, that’s just weird. Stop it.”

If he’s trying to flirt, it’s not working.

We reach the valet podium, and Tripp gives the young guy a nod. “Take good care of her for me.”

And then, as if by magic, the front door of The Ivy swings open, revealing the hostess stand, the hostess, and a grand waterfall cascading behind her.

“Mr. Wallace,” she greets us. “We’re so happy you could join us this evening.”

“Thanks.” Then, “Mr. Wallace is what my neighbor kid calls me,” he grumbles close to my ear.

Picturing a little boy who likes following around a football legend, I smile as we’re led to the bar—a dark, mahogany-paneled room with bottles lined up behind a wooden bar top, its dim lighting lending a refined atmosphere.

The kind of atmosphere I love; hope Tripp doesn’t ruin it for me.

“Sir, would you like to sit at the bar or one of our high-top tables?”

Tripp glances at me, raising his brows. “Chandler?”

I bite my lip, debating. “Um—one of the tables, please.”

Lord knows Tripp is going to say something foolish, and rude, and embarrassing at some point; best if the bartenders don’t overhear our incessant arguing.

We are not alone; several tables are already occupied, along with six patrons at the bar itself, all of whom turn their heads to see who the new customers are.

I recognize one woman as an actress in a daytime soap opera and give her a cursory nod as I slide into the seat our hostess has pulled out for me.

“Thank you.”

“Can I get you any waters while you wait for your server?”

“Yes please—two.”

She leaves and we’re alone.