Hard Fall (Trophy Boyfriends 2)

Hollis: My friend Natasha?

Me: She sounds mean.

Hollis: She is. And if you don’t behave, I’m going to tell her you’re bothering me.

Me: Does Natasha also hate food?

Hollis: **narrows eyes**

Me: Does she? Does she hate tacos?

Hollis: Taco Tuesday is HIGHLY overrated.

Me: What the hell are you, some kind of monster?

Hollis: LOL

Me: Don’t patronize me with your LOL. **crosses arms and turns to the wall**

Hollis: Oh, you’re going to be sassy now? Fine. No tacos for you.

Me: **runs back** Wait! I spoke in haste.

Hollis: LOL I’m sorry but you’re killing me. Why are you like this?

Me: Soft shell or hard shell. You have to choose. Go.

Hollis: Hard shell.

Me: Good. When can I pick you up?

Hollis: UH!

Me: Going once…

Me: TWICE…

Hollis: Fine! FINE! Come get me. I can always eat.

Satisfied that I’ve won our little back and forth, I shoot her another text, giving her a half hour to get ready. Go to the kitchen, which hasn’t been completely demoed yet, and wash my face in the sink. Hands and arms too—I’m covered in sawdust and grime. Super manly, but kind of gross. No helping my shirt since I don’t have anything clean to throw on, but I find a baseball cap to cover my mop.

I do a walk-through of the house, a mid-century colonial in an up-and-coming neighborhood I bought at an auction last month, doing a sweep to make sure no power tools are plugged in or left on.

Damn if I’m not whistling, totally in the mood for Hollis and tacos.

Tacos and Hollis Tuesday.

Nice ring to it, though she would probably disagree. I’ll have to run it by her…

I have my truck today, the sports car an impractical mode of transportation for a construction site, and pull it out of the short driveway, feeling all sorts of masculine as I navigate my way toward Hollis’s place.

It’s not as far as I’d have to drive if I were coming from my house, so I’ll be a few minutes earlier than what I told her, but I’ll just sit in the truck and wait it out so I don’t rush her.

I know how pissed my sister would get when we used to rush her while she was getting ready, and the last thing I need is a riled Hollis refusing to come outside because I’ve pissed her off.

Dude, I remember this one time when we were all going to a holiday play at the community center. True had to have been 17 or 18 and was the last person to get ready. Tripp and I thought it would be funny to stand in the doorway of the bathroom and remind her of the time, every 60 seconds. “It’s six oh five, Trudie—hurry up.” Then, “It’s six oh six, True. Better finish up—Dad has the car going.”

I will never forget the wild look in her eyes as she told us to shut our mouths and go away then screamed for our mother to get us to leave her alone, veins popping out of her porcelain skin.

Guess girls don’t like to be rushed.

I’m early, but not unforgivably so, so I shoot her a text to let her know I’m here, in case she’s ready to go.

Me: Downstairs, take your time.

A few seconds later: Coming!

I can almost see the little cutie bounding down the stairs, and then I do see her. The door to the building opens and she steps out, all sunshine and happiness and blonde hair on what was an okay day.

Ripped-up jean shorts. Yellow tank top. White sneakers.

Little ray of brightness is what she is, and I hop out of my side to greet her at hers, pull open the door for her with a smile.

She gazes at me skeptically as she hefts herself up into the passenger side with a, “No funny business. This is just about food.”

“Sure thing,” I tell her. Shut the door. “Not.”

She should stop being so goddamn adorable if she doesn’t want me to harbor any illusions about changing her mind, because that’s my plan.

I need a girl I can bring home to my mother, and Hollis Westbrooke is perfect in every way.

Other than the fact that she hates me…

…but let’s be honest, opinions are meant to be changed, and I’m an eternal optimist, something few people know about me.

“Hope you brought your appetite,” I quip when I climb in and buckle up. “How many tacos can you eat?”

Hollis considers the question. “I don’t know, four?”

“Four!” I shout out an evil laugh, as if four is the funniest, most deranged number I’ve ever heard. “Amateur hour.”

“Um…are you trash-talking right now?”

Yes. “No, it’s just that four tacos, or four of anything, barely whets my appetite.”

She scoffs at my boasting. “Well you’re huge and I’m not, so.” Her chin tilts up and she ignores me to look out the window.

I’m huge? Huge in a good way or in a bad way? Tell me, tell me.