Hard Luck (Trophy Boyfriends 4)

Probably more money than she can make in a year.

So for now, they think I’ve been knocked up by someone from my past, a guy I went to high school with who I had drinks with one night.

They freaked out.

At one point, we FaceTimed so Winnie could cry, a bit jealous perhaps that I’m having a baby before her, since she’s the one in a long-term relationship.

They were supportive, obviously, but it felt weird texting to break the news. I tried to be upbeat and cheerful, but they could see how tired and worried I was. Am.

The whole thing is just so messed up.

When Buzz drops me off at Tripp’s house, the first thing I do is steal away to the bathroom and lock myself in—I’m not risking either of my brothers trying to barge in. Or Molly skulking around to spy on me.

Pulling up Mateo’s number, I send him a text.

Ten

Mateo

It’s just pizza.

Just.

Pizza.

Calm your nerves, dude—you’ve played in the World Series, this doesn’t even compare, and it’s not even a date, so what are you so freaking nervous about?

My stomach rolls.

I haven’t seen True since her brother’s wedding, and I’ve been doing my damnedest to meet up with her, everyone in her family avoiding me or denying my requests for her information, and now I’m finally going to see her.

Granted, I’ve built this moment up in my head and it’s probably not going to amount to anything, but…

Still.

It’s just pizza.

That’s what True wanted, so that’s what we’re going to do.

I thought it was a little odd. Most women would at least suggest coffee? Or dinner—a real one. Steak, potatoes. Maybe Italian…

Not her.

I take one look at her when she breezes through the entrance and my heart skips an actual beat; she’s bundled up and adorable, already peeling off her thick winter jacket, long hair peeking out beneath a cable-knit hat. Giant puff ball on top I immediately want to fluff with my fingertips.

Rosy cheeks. Serious expression.

I stuff my hands inside the pockets of my coat, feeling a bit bashful, and give her a nod.

“Hey.”

Take them out again to give her the standard hug-slash-greeting and pat on the back.

“Hey,” she says at last, shivering a little.

“They have a table for us. A booth, actually.”

“Oh great—I love booths.”

Same.

So much comfier and more intimate.

Granted, this is a Chicago pizza place, so how romantic and intimate is it going to be?

Plus, a few dudes around the room have noticed me despite the blue New York Yankees baseball hat I’m wearing as a disguise, to throw people off my scent.

Super fans gonna super-fan, and heads are turning.

Whispers are whispering.

It’ll only be a matter of time before someone musters up the courage to come to the booth and ask for my signature.

True’s jacket comes off before she slides into the booth, and I quickly do a scan before her lower half isn’t visible: jeans, sweatshirt, black winter boots with fur sticking out the top that matches the fur on the ball of her hat.

Unlike most women try to do when they’re meeting a man they haven’t seen in a long time, it’s obvious she’s not trying to impress me—not in that outfit.

This is like…friend zone outfit status, not a “hanging with bae” outfit.

Not a good sign.

Dammit.

Once we’re settled, the server comes over with two glasses of ice water—the kind served in big red plastic Pepsi glasses filled with crushed ice. Sets down two sets of forks and knives wrapped in paper napkins.

True and I ignore each other the first few minutes, respectively poring over the menu when in reality, I already know what kind of pizza I’ll eat, the only kind I prefer.

Sausage. Mushroom. Black olives. Extra cheese.

“Want to get a pizza?” she says, even though she’s the one who suggested we meet at a pizza joint.

Uh. Were we supposed to order a different kind of food?

“Yup. Whatever kind you like.”

Her lips press together. “I’m boring—just your basic sausage, mushroom, black olives.”

A girl after my own heart. “Sounds good to me.” I glance at the menu but don’t really have to. “Garlic bread or no?”

True puts her hands up. “No. No, no—lord no. If I eat garlic bread, I’ll…” She stops talking.

“You’ll…?” Have diarrhea? Get the shits? Fart a lot?

Come on, don’t keep me in suspense here.

“I just don’t like to eat garlic or onions.”

Ahh—she’s worried she’ll smell. I keep those thoughts to myself, having been trained by females who would kick my ass for saying shit like that out loud to embarrass them.

“Got it. No garlic bread, no onions.” I file that information away. “What about regular bread? With cheese?”

True snaps up the menu, gaze roaming over it. “Oh! What about fried pickles!”

Fried pickles? What the hell?

“Uh. Sure.”

Her eyes are still scanning. “Maybe calamari? With ranch and marinara for dipping.” She glances up at me. “Do you want anything?”