Hard Love (Trophy Boyfriends 3)

Molly works for me—I don’t owe her an explanation or a gossip session. This is my personal business, not fodder. The kid needs to stay in her lane.

“I’ll be back in about an hour, Mr. Wallace.”

I get the feeling she’s been calling me Mr. Wallace instead of Tripp intentionally to make me sound old, and it’s working. Damn her.

“My dad is Mr. Wallace,” I inform her, repeating the lines I used to hear my father say to my buddies when they’d come hang at our house growing up. The friends I had who were close who considered Roger Wallace to be their second father.

“My parents said I’m not supposed to call my elders by their actual name unless I’m invited to.”

Her elders? “You can call me Tripp.”

Molly shrugs, giving Chewy a sharp tug of the leash to get his rear moving. “Whatever you say, sir.”

“Thanks.” To get the last word in, I add, “And for the record, Chandler Wallace doesn’t like me.”

Molly laughs, turning to face me and walking backward with Chewy down the sidewalk in front of my house. “Do you realize you just called her Chandler Wallace, not Chandler Westbrooke?”

“It was an accident!” I shout.

“Was it though?” I can still hear her laughing. “There are no accidents when it comes to love.” She singsongs the last word. “L-O-V-E, L-O-V-E, L-O-V-E, love love love.” Molly practically skips down the road with the dog, merrily singing the tune.

Oh my god.

“I do not love Chandler Westbrooke!” I shout from the porch. “The woman hates me! There is no us!”

Molly turns around once more. “Thou protesteth too much! Go inside, Mr. Wallace. You sound drunk.”

This kid has made me absolutely insane and I have no idea what I’m even saying anymore, on the front stoop shouting at her with bedhead, wearing what I wore to sleep in.

Jesus, could it get any worse than this?

“I’m not protesting, I’m defending my position!” I bellow back, despite the fact that she and the dog are halfway down the sidewalk and energetically strolling away.

She throws a blithe arm up, wiggling her fingers in the air before lobbing an ‘Okay’ hand sign at me.

Shit.

I turn my head and look next door, only to meet the gaze of my other next-door neighbor, Allan Yumang. Incidentally, he and I have never seen eye to eye, especially about the hedgerow growing between our two properties—not once he erected the fence on his side of it, leaving me with the bush and all the responsibilities having a hedge on one’s property entails.

I like bush, but not that kind of bush.

The whole thing irritated me, particularly considering the fence went up while I was away, probably playing in the Super Bowl or something equally as cool while Allan himself was likely just crunching numbers, since he’s lame and an accountant for some fast food chain.

He’s staring into my yard, then over at Molly’s retreating form, apprehensive.

Fuck. Just what I need.

“Morning, Allan.” I wave feebly, feeling like a giant asshole and probably looking like one too. “Nice weather we’re having.”

It’s not nice weather—it’s cold and damp, with more rain in the forecast for tonight, snow sure to follow in the upcoming weeks.

Allan doesn’t respond, continues staring me down—not that he’s ever been one for conversation, living in that giant house all alone, the weirdo.

“She’s my dog walker,” I clarify, even though he didn’t ask.

Allan still doesn’t respond.

“She was being nosey and asking me personal questions,” I loudly tell him, verbal diarrhea rearing its ugly head, and I wish I would just shut the fuck up about it already. “Dang kids these days.”

He purses his lips and nods, moving toward the Honda parked in his driveway, eyeballing Buzz’s pimped-out Beemer parked in mine with disdain. He clearly thinks I’m one of those athletes who blows his money on expensive houses, cars, and jewelry.

“Welp. Good talk,” I tell Allan, slamming the door closed behind me as I re-enter the house, ranting in my head about what an odd dude he is. I mean, who just stands there when someone is talking to them and doesn’t say anything back?

He probably thinks you’re a total creep, I rationalize. After all, he did just see a teenager coming out of your house, and the two of you quarreling publicly in the front yard.

Yeah, but Molly and I were arguing like we’re brother and sister.

Great. He’s going to tell his wife and she’ll probably tell Molly’s parents, and everyone is going to think I’m a dickhead, not just my family, Chandler, and Molly.

And all by nine in the morning…FourteenChandler“Join Mom and me for dinner?” Dad has his head stuck in the doorway of my tiny little office—more of a cubicle, really—his black hair peppered with gray, the glasses on his nose reflecting the fluorescent lighting from above.

I’ve been here a week and have survived on the Starbucks they serve in the breakroom and the bagels and donuts brought in by contractors—and the administrative assistant Ericka, who’s one of the funniest people I’ve ever met.