Hard Love (Trophy Boyfriends 3)

Me: If you say anything, I swear I will murder you in your sleep.

Hollis: Blah, blah, blah.

Me: Why are you like this?

She changes the subject.

Hollis: So be honest: have you slept with him yet?

Me: NO! We were at the pumpkin patch today and we’re at his house carving them. I mean—I’m carving mine and he’s suddenly turned into Michelangelo and thinks he’s sculpting his, but that’s a whole other story I can’t get into right now.

Hollis: Pumpkin carving sex.

Me: Are you listening to yourself???

Hollis: Pumpkin carving sex.

Me: HOLLIS, TRIPP AND I ARE NOT DATING!

She needs to stop. I don’t have time for this.

Pumping hand soap into my palm over the sink, I wash my hands and watch the three dots of texting bubbles appear, disappear, and reappear in the chat, heart racing.

Hollis: SO WHAT?? Since when do you have to be dating someone to sleep with them? That doesn’t make you anything but human—he likes you or you would not be in his house.

Hollis: Wait—where are you texting me from? Is he standing there?

Me: No, I’m stuck in the bathroom, hence the urgency.

Hollis: Stop overthinking this. Put your big girl panties on, get back out there, and let nature take its course. INTER-course. HA!!!!

Wiping my hands, I flick off the light switch and walk back to the kitchen, surprised to see two gutted pumpkins on the large center island, tops set off to the side, piles of slimy guts and seeds on two cookie sheets.

Did I disappear that long?

“Thought I was gonna have to send in a search party,” he teases, surprising me again with a laugh. “What happened? Did you fall in?”

My cheeks heat up, the telltale signs of a blush. I go for honesty instead of an excuse. “Hollis texted me and I wanted to finish the convo before I came back out.”

Okay—mostly honest.

I spy two glasses of wine nearby, one for me and one for him—this time it’s white, in goblets shaped like crystal skulls.

The man is a contradiction around every corner.

Blows cold, then hot. Pretends to be uncaring, then shocks me with little gestures, like pumpkin carving and holiday-themed glassware.

“Where did you get these wine glasses?” I hold one up, inspecting the festive vessel.

“My mom got them on sale at the end of the season last year. I have a whole set.” He lifts his wine and takes a sip, puckering his lips slightly to suck slowly—like he’s at a tasting. Sets it down and grabs an orange carving utensil. “Williams Sonoma or someplace fancy—Mom is into this shit.”

Apparently he is too, or he wouldn’t have gotten these out, not when regular wine glasses would have done the job. Or a regular drinking glass, for that matter.

Not that Tripp is going to admit it.

“What should we put on this one?” He taps the carver against his chin, eying the pumpkin as if contemplating his life’s work. As if it’s a piece of marble.

“A face or a quote?”

He considers the question. “We could do a face on one and a quote on the other?”

We.

The word fills my belly with a warmth having nothing to do with the alcohol I’ve begun swigging to calm my tangled nerves, but which is actually giving me the courage to step closer.

Tripp is larger than life—bigger than any guy I’ve dated in the past. Those were boys still in college, mostly. Not men. Fumbling, foolish fraternity boys who didn’t know a thing about life and less about what to do in bed.

I was always too mature for guys my age, having grown up surrounded by adults with unrealistically high expectations of me, and I suppose, in a way, I projected that onto the guys I dated.

Always brief. Short-lived.

Tripp’s size takes over the space between the counter and the island, tall and broad, especially while wearing that sweater.

“Shit.” He suddenly sets down the carver. “You know what I need?”

“What?”

“An apron.” He disappears into the pantry adjacent to the kitchen then sticks his head out. “Do you want one too?”

Lord. Can I handle him in an apron? “Um, sure.”

Tripp is pulling one over his neck when he walks back out, a basic black canvas getup he’s tying around his waist. Has an identical one for me.

Standing in front of me, mere inches away, he slides the thin straps over my head, pulls it down and sizes it. Creates a fold in front so it’s not too long, then slides his arms behind my back, loops it around once, and ties it in a bow at my belly button.

“Well then. Aren’t you fucking adorable.” He leans forward, kissing me on the tip of the nose.

What the what has gotten into him? What the hell is in this wine?

I gaze down into the glass at the golden liquid, expecting to see flecks of moon dust—or a witch’s brew? Anything to explain away this odd, playful behavior.