Hard Pass (Trophy Boyfriends 1)

“So, food?”

“Yes! Food. There isn’t anything I won’t eat, except…” Her voice trails off. “Onions and garlic. Yikes.” Her mouth twists. “You do not want me eating either of those things. Ever.”

“Why?”

“Uh…” Her head turns to glance out the window. “Let’s just say I don’t smell cute when I eat onions or garlic.”

“Don’t smell cute? What does that mean?”

She gives me a ‘Do I have to spell it out for you?’ look and I zip my mouth shut.

Oh. So what she’s saying is she smells like stank ass when she eats garlic or onions and I shouldn’t keep asking dumb questions about it.

Point taken.

I might be clueless when it comes to women, but it feels like some confidence is kicking in for me.

We chat the rest of the way downtown, only stopping so I can concentrate on not plowing down any pedestrians. They’re everywhere in this tourist destination, jaywalking and crowding the sidewalks, hordes at the stoplights waiting to get across the main drag.

Mason’s is easy to find yet impossible to park at and I’m lucky to pull up, so Miranda can hop out without being in the street. The valets are ready to take the car and my keys. One less thing to worry about.

A young dude comes to my window and I roll it down, keys dangling in the air. As I drop them in his palm, I say, “Can you let them know I’m here please?”

Code for: Get me inside and seated quick so I don’t draw attention to myself. He runs off, frantically whispering to his co-worker, who dashes inside.

Good boy.

I pop on my sunglasses.

Lower my head before opening the driver’s side door and climbing out, meeting Miranda at the curb, hand hovering over her lower back, but not touching her. I want to, I fucking do—I just don’t have the balls.

We’re greeted in the vestibule by a smiling host, most likely the manager, who begins kissing my ass almost immediately, damn near tripping over himself as he holds the door open for Miranda and asks if she’d like her coat checked.

“No thank you,” she replies and I’m glad—no waiting around after our meal if I want to get the fuck out of here. Then again, all I have to do is tell someone we want it and it’ll be delivered like that. Same goes for my car.

If my date is wondering about all the excellent service, she hasn’t said anything. If she’s wondering why everyone is beginning to take notice of us—of me—she hasn’t commented.

Why would she notice asshole? She doesn’t know who you are. She only knows your first name and that you can afford to drop forty-five grand on a couple baseball cards.

“Mr. Harding, we have you in our side dining room. It’s a bit more discreet.”

Miranda’s brows go up. “What are you planning to do to me Noah? Murder me and drag my dead body through the kitchen?”

The manager looks shocked, quickly hiding it behind an eager smile. “Beverly will be taking care of you with the help of Jacob. If there is anything more you need, my name is Carson, and I’ll be happy to get it for you. Just let one of your servers know.”

He pulls a chair out for Miranda then places the white linen napkin on her lap and the menu over her silver charger plate.

“Can I start you off with a bottle of wine?”

I glance at my date, questioning. “Wine?”

“Um.” She hesitates. “If I could just do iced tea that would be great. With a lemon if you have it?”

God, she is so sweet. And polite.

“Absolutely. And for you?”

“I’ll do the same. With sweetener.”

“Outstanding. Your server will be along shortly to take your order.” He’s gone in a flash and I turn my attention to the pretty girl across from me. Do my best to give her a grin, the tight expression strained, I’m sure.

“You poor thing. Are you nervous?” She laughs. “You look…”

“Angry?”

“I was going to say constipated, but angry works, too. You don’t smile a whole lot, do you?”

Why did she come out with me then if she thinks I’m a crab ass? Then, I frown deeper, realizing I am in fact acting like a crab ass.

In my defense, I’m edgy and paranoid. Not at all ready for this dating thing I was thrust into against my will—which is unfair to Miranda, and I realize that, too. It’s not that I don’t like her or think she’s amazing; I just don’t know how to act around a girl who wants nothing from me. I’m used to women with ulterior motives.

This is going to take some getting used to—I mean the girl ordered a four-dollar glass of tea at a high-end restaurant, for God’s sake.

The drinks arrive and we both doctor them up. Miranda sits back in her cushy, velvet padded seat and watches me add sweetener to mine then lay the tiny packet of trash on the saucer.