Hard Love (Trophy Boyfriends 3)

Well. Her and Buzz.

He’s pretty damn hilarious, too.

“I can’t. Hollis and Buzz are back from their honeymoon and she invited me over for dinner to look at their pictures.”

He tips his head. “They just got back today?”

“Yes?”

“And they’re having people over? I would think they’d want to rest and unpack.”

I stand, pushing my desk chair in and powering down my computer. “I don’t think Buzz is the rest-and-unpack type.” I pull my tweed blazer off the hook on the wall and shrug into it. “Besides, they haven’t seen anyone for over a week, so they’re dying to socialize.”

I’m not sure if there will be anyone there besides me, but Hollis mentioned one of the cleaning ladies had dropped off a pan of homemade lasagna, garlic bread, and a giant tossed salad—enough to feed an army—and only a fool would pass up a meal like that.

Especially when operating on a fixed income, like I am.

I haven’t been grocery shopping this week, and my refrigerator and cabinets are looking a bit too bleak. Free food and excellent company?

Yes please.

I’ll have seconds of that!

“Sorry Dad. Maybe some other time.”

I don’t go to my parents’ place often—they’re both very stuffy and formal, and I’m not about living in a gilded cage. That may be great for my mother, but it will never be the life for me. Sitting through dinners with them is almost unbearably stiff.

Considering we’re not living in the 1950s anymore, it’s weird that they run the house as if it were a country club. I want to laugh and talk with my mouth open and snort and have fun!

“Thanks for looking over that new agent contract,” Dad goes on, changing the subject to one he’s comfortable with: work.

“Not a problem.”

“Even though I know that’s not your forte, you should get familiar with the legal mumbo jumbo.”

“Right-o, Daddy-o.”

His lips purse.

I roll my eyes behind his back as he walks me to the elevator bank. Like the gentleman he was raised to be, Dad pushes the down button for me and waits for the car to arrive.

“Have a good time tonight,” he says. “If we don’t see you at the house this weekend, have a good weekend.”

It sounds odd hearing your parent tell you to have a good weekend as if you’re a regular employee and not their daughter.

“Thanks Dad.” I laugh, grateful for the elevator’s arrival, and sigh against the wall when I get in and the door closes, thankful to be alone. Thankful to be done for the day.

Okay, I admit it: this job is painful.

It’s not horrible—there are worse things in the world than being your dad’s gopher and being bored at work, especially in this economy—but the atmosphere is stuffy and cold, which makes the workplace suck.

Typical Westbrooke vibe.

I don’t bother heading home to change my outfit for Hollis’s house; it’s Friday, so this morning I decided to dress casually, ended up wearing jeans and a sweater—perfect for lounging around on my cousin’s giant, comfortable couch.

There are half a dozen cars in the drive when I arrive, stomach already growling, my manners niggling at me—should I have stopped and gotten something to bring along? A bottle of wine perhaps? Salad dressing? Dinner rolls?

Shoot, I don’t know, but it suddenly feels rude showing up without food to share. Hollis and Buzz have been gone all week and she most likely hasn’t been to the store.

Relax—they have people for that.

Not that Hollis has become lazy, but Buzz has a housekeeper who thinks it’s her new mission in life to keep him and his new wife fed. Every week she keeps their fridge stocked, house clean, and bellies full.

I shake off the guilt at arriving empty-handed and lift my hand to the door to knock. When it’s pulled open, it’s not my cousin’s face that greets me or even her new husband’s, but the one face I didn’t think I’d be seeing again any time soon.

Tripp.

“What are you doing here?” he rudely questions, filling the doorway, wearing gray sweatpants and a Blues hoodie. His feet are bare, but he’s wearing a stocking cap as if it’s twenty degrees outside and he’d catch his death without it.

I square my shoulders. “I was just going to ask you the same thing.”

There.

That should shut him up.

“It’s a family dinner,” he tells me, opening the door farther so I can enter.

“Good thing I’m family,” I smart back, stepping inside with a toss of my hair, mumbling “Ass” under my breath.

I don’t wait for him to catch up but stop short when I arrive at the kitchen, a vaguely familiar older couple seated at the counter staring at me, along with another young woman who can only be the other Wallace.

True. Their sister.

We’ve met, but only briefly, amidst the chaos and confusion and excitement of the wedding parties and preparation, surface small talk and banter, though nothing deep.