Hard Luck (Trophy Boyfriends 4)

Can you blame me for hiding as long as I can?

Tripp has Sprite in the fridge, along with ginger ale and a few other clear drinks with carbonation—he hasn’t said it, but they’re for me. Which means he knows I’ve been throwing up but hasn’t confronted me about it.

He also knows I’ve been working during the day.

Molly told me he’s been asking; considering she’s been dropping in on me during the day, I wonder if he’s paying her to babysit me along with the dog.

I pop the earbuds out of my ears, cutting loose the phone call I’ve just been on while I was texting my brother. It was a family who is trying to get their son onto a Division 1 lacrosse team, needing a recruiter to visit his high school, and wanting to know their options.

They’re a split family, mom and dad having divorced, so I’ve been having to go between both parents, listening to their fights, squabbling, and disagreements to varying degrees.

See, I work for a college recruiter—more of a middleman, actually, between the colleges and universities—getting teenage athletes the eyes they need on them to potentially procure scholarships, or places on a team.

It’s rewarding and horrible all at the same time.

Days like this—hearing the mother of a student athlete crying that her ex-husband never paid for lacrosse lessons, and it all came out of her pocket, and he’s a piece of shit, and on and on and on—instead of discussing what’s best for the son?

Tiring.

More tiring than being awake all night listening to the sound of my own heart beating and my own unhappy thoughts.

The morning sickness has gotten better, but Tripp’s hovering has not. It’s almost as if he suspects something, sticking his head into the guest bedroom each night and every morning before he goes to bed or leaves for the stadium.

It has me up late, thinking.

Strategizing.

What are you going to do, True Wallace?

What on earth.

Are.

You.

Going.

To.

Do.

Someone, anyone, please write a book on What To Expect When You’re Secretly Expecting.

I put all my work stuff aside and exit Tripp’s office—the space I’ve been using, which is actually quite perfect—organizing my date book, headset and earbuds, and folders onto one of his many shelves.

I have a doctor’s appointment this afternoon across town, so I trudge back upstairs to the guest bedroom and riffle through the shirts I hung in the closet, the week half over without a new rental apartment in sight.

Who was I trying to kid, thinking I was going to find a place and move within seven days? My bravado was all smoke and mirrors. Between work deadlines, feeling like shit, and not liking a single place I found on the internet, the likelihood that I’m going to move this month…slim to none.

Heck, I’ll be lucky if I find something in the next thirty days.

And if I’m not mistaken, Tripp is doing everything he can to make me feel comfortable and at home in an attempt to keep me here longer.

Texts to check in on me.

Sending over the neighbor girl.

Having food delivered throughout the day.

Bringing home dinner.

It’s been kind of freaking awesome, if I’m being honest. Like living in a hotel, but one with a slobbering dog and nosey neighbors.

Speaking of which…

“True, are you here?”

Molly’s voice rings out, echoing a little from the foyer, her sneakers squeaking on the clean tile floor.

I pull a shirt out of the closet, swapping out the team football sweatshirt I’m wearing (which I stole from my brother’s closet) and stepping into a fresh pair of black leggings before I hear the pitter-patter of teenage feet bounding up the stairs.

I hear Molly before I see Molly.

“There you are,” she says breathlessly, popping her head into the room.

I’ve discovered Molly is always popping in at her leisure, never asking for permission, never waiting to be invited. It makes sense that she’s inserted herself into my brother’s—and Chandler’s—life. She’s an odd little thing, funny and bossy and probably doesn’t fit in well with her peers.

Too mature.

Too wise.

Too much of everything.

Which explains why she fits in so well here.

“Here I am.” I pull the shirt down in time to cover the invisible bump in my tummy, the one Molly’s eyes are trying to find. My brother may be buying my story, but this teenager certainly isn’t, and I know at some point we’re going to have to tell Tripp.

We.

Since when am I in cahoots with this kid?

“What’s going on?” I ask, grabbing a puffer vest to layer over my top. It’s still cold out—freezing cold, even. I’m too warm for a down jacket but too cold not to wear anything, so vest it is.

“Nothin’. Just wanted to stop in and see how you’re doing.”

I pause, glancing at the clock sitting on the bedside table. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”

“I get done early because I have two study halls back to back at the end of the day.”