Hard Pass (Trophy Boyfriends 1)

“Bro.” Noah shoulder bumps him. “Don’t be rude—say hi. To Miranda.”

He looks down at me and those butterflies in my stomach dance.

It’s dimly intimate inside Rent, but I swear, I can see the guy’s face blanch at the sound of my name, throat constricting as he swallows.

I offer my hand like I’m in a damn business meeting, cool, collected, and unaffected by his stature.

“Good to meet you.” I am nothing if not polite, though this whole situation is killing me softly.

Noah’s buddy doesn’t take my hand; rather, he shoves his inside the pockets of his dark jeans. They’re denim, but clearly expensive given the cut and the sheen visible in the lights.

Jeans. Navy dress shirt, top two buttons undone. Belt with the gold logo of an Italian luxury brand.

Well la-di-da, Mister I’m too good for you fancy pants.

“Sorry to bother you,” I sass, rejected and embarrassed. “We can’t all be supermodels here to kiss your ass.”

Oh my god, Miranda, what has come over you? Down girl. Down.

Chin tilting up, my smile is forced and wane, the lump in my throat making it impossible to say anything more. I knew coming over here was a shitty idea—except for Emily and Claire, who are beaming and flirting and happy.

Crap, I can’t drag them back to the table; they’d kill me.

Even so, I am done giving these jerks the time of day.

“Claire.” I tap on her shoulder, gesturing. “I’m getting a drink at the bar. Keep an eye on me—don’t let me get trafficked. I’ll be right there.” I shrug my way past Noah, his giant friends and my regular-sized ones, inching up to the bar, leaning in.

I wait.

And wait.

And wait for one of the four freaking bartenders to notice me, or give me the time of day, or do their damn job!

Not a one of them comes to ask for my drink order. I grow more agitated by the second, this feeling of being overlooked the entire night wearing on me, assaulting my self-confidence in a way it never has before.

I’m cute, goddammit! What the hell is everyone’s problem?

Goddamn these jeans.

Curse you.

6

Noah

“Dude, what the fuck is your problem?” Wallace ambushes me the second Miranda strays to the bar, her feelings obviously hurt, his drunken eyes wide.

“I don’t have a problem.”

“Why the hell were you so rude? Why didn’t you fucking say anything or introduce yourself—you looked like a prick.”

“She thinks you’re me, so what’s the point?”

He throws his arm up, pointing to her back as she stands alone, patiently waiting for the service that probably won’t come. She’s simply not important enough to rush for and she’s dressed like a goddamn school teacher in that cute, peasanty shirt and blue jeans.

Jeans. In a nightclub.

I snort.

She’s a sassy one, clearly not giving a crap what anyone thinks. Or she didn’t realize how dressy this place is.

It’s one thing for me not to care—I’m not here to pick anyone up, not here to fuck anyone for the night. I’m also not here because I want to be. I was dragged here and by the looks of it, she was, too.

You should go back to your booth in the corner, little girl.

No one is helping her at the bar, but I turn my attention back to Wallace, who will not get out of my face.

Annoying fucker.

“What the hell do you expect me to do, tell her in the middle of the damn nightclub that I lied?” My arms cross defensively. “I don’t think so.”

“At least go talk to her—you were a total ass.”

“You’re always an ass. What’s your point?”

“She’s cute and until you gave her the green weenie, she was flirting with you.”

Flirting with me? “Are you out of your fucking mind? She was being polite. End of story, case closed.”

“You’re as high as I am drunk—she was making eyes at you, idiot.”

“Stop. This isn’t a middle school dance, so kindly climb out of my asshole.”

“You’re so blind.” He shoves me. “Go over there.”

I slap his hand away. “Drop it, would you?”

Now I do feel like we’re in middle school, arguing on the side of the fucking gymnasium about which girls we’re going to ask to slow dance.

He shoves me again, big paws pressed in the center of my chest. “Go over there.”

“Get off me, Wallace.”

“Git.”

“Stop!” I’m whining like a fucking pussy, slapping at his hands while he drunkenly pushes me closer and closer to the bar where Miranda is standing and I groan when my shoulder bumps into hers.

“Shit. I’m so sorry.” The apology rolls off my tongue. “He’s drunk and being an ass.”

Her eyes wander to Buzz, the big oaf hightailing it back to the group of our buddies, laughing like a moron. Her lips part. They’re glossy and plump. Smiling. “Him? Being an ass? Shocking.”

I have no idea what to say.

The music is loud, the song awkwardly romantic, and neither of us speaks for a long moment, Miranda’s hip pressed against the bar top.