Hard Fall (Trophy Boyfriends 2)

Dang, doesn’t her family help her out?

I swallow as I pull my sports car up to the curb adjusting my rearview mirror so I can check out the terrain behind me. As I grab my phone to shoot her a note, maybe this is the wrong place.

I text her to make sure, noting a woman pushing a stroller coming my direction from down the block and two kids playing catch on the other side of the street.

Head down, I double-check the address.

Me: Hey, I’m outside, but I’m not sure I’m at the right place.

Hollis: Are you looking at a black door with a pineapple door knocker on it?

Me: Yes?

Hollis: Then you’re in the right place. Give me a second, I’ll be right down.

I set my phone in the cup holder and wait, watching the neighbors and cars creeping slowly down the street, clock counting away the seconds it takes Hollis to bound through the front door.

“Shit. Maybe I should get out,” I mumble.

I should get out, right? And wait for her? Stand next to the passenger side door or something to be polite since I didn’t go up to her place? Not that I know which one is hers—I’m assuming this is an apartment with multiple units.

Yeah, I should get out.

I walk around, leaning against the black, lacquered paint job of my car, which I had washed to a high shine this morning. Cross my arms and legs like Jake Ryan in the cult teen classic Sixteen Candles so when my date comes out of the house, she’ll see me and be like, Who me? and I’ll be like, Yeah, you! The heartthrob Jake to her Molly Ringwald or whatever her name is in the movie.

The theme song plays in my head, and I imagine us eating birthday cake in the middle of my kitchen table later—but then again, I don’t actually have candles, and it’s not my birthday. Maybe if I’m lucky she’ll make out with me anyway.

Sweet love with her mouth.

I grin, imagining the whole thing, then the front door opens and Hollis steps out, giving me a little wave before turning to lock up.

When she faces me? Goddamn is she adorable in a bright orange and pink skirt, flip-flops, and a tucked-in tank top.

Uh-dorable.

Her hair is down, and she’s carrying a gift bag I can only assume is a hostess gift, not a gift for me. My excitement dims a bit, because I love presents.

“Hey there.”

“Hey,” she says by way of greeting, and I step aside to pull her door open, letting her slide inside and get comfortable before shutting the door. I watch as she buckles her seat belt, walking around the front, a knot forming in my stomach.

Relax, I tell myself. You’re hot shit—what are you so nervous about? Everyone in America wants a piece of you.

Not her, I remind myself. Which could be the point and why I’m working this so hard, when really, I should leave her alone and let the whole thing go. Unfortunately for her, she laughed one too many times at one of my stupid jokes, and because I’m thirsty for compliments, I’m not willing to walk away without a fight.

Or until I see the look on Marlon Daymon’s face when I show up at the party with Hollis Westbrooke on my arm.

If she’ll touch me, that is.

Er, probably not. Hollis doesn’t strike me as the overly affectionate type, and certainly not with me.

But she thinks you’re funny…

“Which apartment is yours?” I glance up through the window at the three stories, guessing she’s either the second floor or the top—in my opinion, no single girl should live on the ground level, for safety’s sake.

“Actually, I own the building.”

I cringe. The place is ugly as fuck. “Oh, that’s…nice.”

Hollis’s laughter fills the cab of my sports car, harmonizing with the rev of my engine. “It’s more of an investment property. I’m slowly renovating it and will eventually sell. I’m hoping next year.”

“So you’re into flipping properties?”

I’m into flipping properties, too.

“Yes, I love it. This is my second place—the last one didn’t take as long, but I really love this neighborhood. The outside might not look like much, but the inside has tons of charm.”

Charm.

A word only a chick would use.

“Nice car,” she says when I put it into drive, her nosey eyes scanning the front seat and then the back. Luckily, I tossed all the trash this morning before leaving to grab her.

“Thanks.”

“Is this your Sunday ride?”

“Mostly. I have a truck, too, for when I want to feel manly and do manly things.”

Hollis laughs, and my chest puffs out. “Manly things? Like what?”

“Chopping wood and stuff.”

My car is filled with more laughter, and I can’t tell if she’s laughing because she thinks I’m cute, or because she thinks I’m an idiot.

“That sounds oddly specific. Where do you find wood to chop?”