Hard Luck (Trophy Boyfriends 4)

“Neither do I.”

Her brows go up.

I reach for a calamari. “We covered this already, remember? At the wedding? I told you I don’t do one-night stands—I grew out of that the night my sisters busted into my shithole apartment and kicked out a girl they thought was a gold digger. I’m scarred for life, and the chick probably was too.”

True laughs. “Probably not. Gold diggers don’t give up easily.”

“Right, but nobody—absolutely nobody—wants an Espinoza girl crashing their party.”

I shudder at the thought, cringing as I tear a piece of calamari in half with my teeth.

We plow through most of the food we already have while I keep a watchful eye on the kitchen door, body filling with excitement each time the server walks through it bearing a pizza.

I sag with disappointment when he moves past us.

“So what was the reason you wanted to reconnect?” True asks, wiping her hands on a napkin then resting them in her lap.

Is she that obtuse? Why does a man invite a woman out if he’s not interested in her? For shits and giggles? I slept with her once, she disappeared—I’m not making the same mistake twice. If she thinks I’m only here to jerk her around, she’s sorely mistaken.

“Do I need a reason to want to see you?”

“Yes.” She laughs. “You barely know me. We’ve met once.”

Good point. “So? Haven’t you ever felt a connection with someone you couldn’t stop thinking about?”

She pauses, and I can see the uncertainty written on her face. “Sure.”

I shrug. “There’s your answer.”

True’s next question comes out slowly, carefully. “You’re not seeing anyone right now?”

Uh—did she not hear what I just said? “No. Not even a little.” There are no appetizers left, but that doesn’t stop me from rooting around the plastic basket in search of scraps.

Where is that damn pizza!

“You know,” she begins anew. “We didn’t really have any serious talks about…stuff. Like…do you ever want kids?”

Kids? “Yeah, like ten.”

“Ten!”

I can see I’ve shocked her, and her expression makes me laugh. “So maybe not ten, but at least three. I want a loud house when I’m old and decrepit.”

“I highly doubt you will ever be decrepit.”

“Aww. Why, True Wallace, was that a compliment?” I’ll take what I can get, even if it’s in the form of the lamest flattery ever.

“Barely.”

I catch a glimpse of our server and he’s definitely, definitely heading in our direction with a pie in his hands. The steaming circle of cheese and goo and meat has my stomach growling before he places it on a tiny metal stand in the middle of our table.

“Dang this looks good. I’ve been craving pizza for days.”

“Doesn’t your brother feed you?” I tease, offering her the triangle spatula so she can take the first slice.

“He eats a lot of healthy food, so it’s a real challenge getting pizza delivered to the house.” She hesitates, adding one, two slices to her plate. Three. “If you don’t count the Chinese food he brings home sometimes.” She groans. “God, I love pizza.”

It’s good, but it’s not my first choice; that will always be Mexican food. Mi madre’s carnitas, grilled corn with chipotle-lime butter, and her sopapillas for dessert.

Delicioso. Delicious.

Second to that? A good old-fashioned steak. Crab legs. Italian.

Damn I’m hungry thinking about all that food.

I serve myself and smile when the server catches my eye with a thumbs-up. He doesn’t approach the table, instead giving us our space, and I shoot him a thumbs-up back to let him know we’re happy.

“So you’re not dating anyone,” I start. “Any reason why, or…”

I know it’s rude to ask someone why they’re single, but True Wallace is a real catch that someone is going to snap up soon, and I don’t want to miss my opportunity. If she’s not dating for a reason, I want to know what it is; maybe I can solve her problem. Ha ha.

“No reason.” She’s chewing. “Just haven’t found anyone, and honestly, those dating apps are the worst.”

“No shit they are.”

“Have you been on any apps?” Her brows and a slice of pizza are raised.

“Yeah—my account got reported for being fake a lot, so I said fuck it and stopped. There’s an app for high-profile people and celebrities, but it’s vapid—who wants to date another celebrity? They’re so high-maintenance.”

“Wait—they have dating apps specifically for celebrities?”

“Yes, but it’s stupid.”

“How did I not know this?”

“You’re not famous enough,” I joke, giving her a nudge with my foot beneath the table.

“I wonder why my brother never said anything about this secret app. I have FOMO kind of.” Pause. “Even though I have a love-hate relationship with those stupid things.”

“Dating apps?”

“Yes. I download them with all this hope—gear myself up for the process, swipe my little finger away until it’s about to fall off. Then I quickly wonder what the hell I’m doing because guys are the freaking worst.” True is chomping on the end of a pizza slice, fervor in her voice. “For real. You start talking and it can go two ways: they want your phone number almost immediately, or they want to talk for a month and will come up with millions of reasons why they can’t meet up or ask you out.”