Hard Fall (Trophy Boyfriends 2)

“One of us will have to sleep somewhere else.” Her eyes stray to the ground, to the beige carpet. It’s new and clean, but it’s…carpet, and I’m not sleeping on it. No fucking way.

“Are you suggesting I sleep on the floor in my own home?” The mere idea has me scandalized.

“No, I’m suggesting you sleep on the floor in your parents’ home.”

Um, I bought half of it—that makes half of it mine, doesn’t it?

Obviously I don’t say that out loud—she’d probably judge me for bragging about my generosity—but it’s on the tip of my tongue because I have very few actual legitimate arguments against not sleeping in the same bed.

“We’ll only take our bottoms off, how’s that?” As far as compromises go, this one sounds pretty darn reasonable.

“I’m very fertile,” Hollis informs me, flipping her hair back. “You should stay as far away from these ovaries as you can unless you want me showing up on your doorstep in nine months.” She rubs her belly in slow circles and I feel myself hardening.

I’ll fucking put a baby in that sexy stomach.

“Is that supposed to be a turn-off? Because I just came in my pants twice.” Pause. “Congratulations, you’re having twins.”

Her nose and mouth contort. “You are so gross.”

“Why are you acting like I’m happy about this arrangement? Do you honestly think I want to spend the night at my mom’s, in a dinky bed, when I have a California King at home and four-billion-thread-count sheets?”

“Yes.”

Fine. I admit it. “I couldn’t have orchestrated this any better if I’d planned it myself. There, are you happy? I’m not even a little mad about it.”

“What if we wait for them to go to bed, then you sneak out and go to the other bedroom?”

Shit. That makes perfect sense, except I don’t want to sneak out and go to the other bedroom. I want to get handsy with Hollis and make out like teenagers in my old bed. Is that too much to ask?

“My mom stays up late. Roger bought her an iPad a few years ago, and she’ll spend half the night scouring the buy-sell posts on the internet.” Genevieve Wallace loves a good deal.

“So?”

“So. If she so much as hears a peep, you’re going to have to make up an excuse for why you’re sneaking out.”

“You’re the one who will be sneaking out.”

Might I remind her, “This is my room.”

“Fine. I’ll go to the other room once she’s asleep.” For a few moments, she’s silent. “Or, you could sleep in the bathtub.”

“Um, have you seen me? I haven’t fit in a regular bathtub since before my balls dropped.”

Hollis stares. “I don’t even know what that means.”

“Puberty. It means puberty.”

“You could have just said ‘since I was young’.”

Yeah, but where’s the fun in that? I walk to the dresser on the far side of the room and pull open the top drawer.

Empty.

Pull open the second one and am relieved to find a few old t-shirts, several from high school and another few from college. Pull one out to hold up for her inspection. “This should work for pajamas, yeah?”

“Is that for me or for you?”

“You. I’ll just sleep in boxers.”

Her eyes drop to my waist, face turning a pretty shade of pink, lips pressing together. She’s biting her tongue, and I wonder what she wants to say but won’t.

I root around in the drawer and unearth a pair of mesh basketball shorts. “Do you want these, too?”

She takes the offering from my hands. “Thanks. I’ll just get changed in the bathroom.”

While Hollis takes her sweet time, I strip down to my boxer shorts, folding my clothes and laying them on the chair in the corner, and decide maybe I should wear a t-shirt, after all. Level the playing field, so she’s not intimidated by my abs of steel and rock-hard pecs.

What is taking her so long? “What are you doing in there? Did you fall in the toilet?”

A muffled voice comes back at me through the door. “I’m not coming out. I look stupid.”

Stupid? Not possible. “Just get out here—who cares what you look like? We’re just going to sleep.”

I hear a frustrated ugh followed by another silence, followed by the sound of the lock unclicking.

Then. Hollis is standing in the doorway, framed by the woodwork, light shining behind her, glowing like a goddamn angel. The clothes may be ill-fitting, but she’s glorious and I can’t get enough of the sight of her.

She crosses her arms, pouting. “This is ridiculous. This shirt is forty sizes too big.”

It seems someone is prone to exaggeration, and it’s not me. “You look fucking adorable.”

She looks like a child playing dress-up, actually—the giant shirt hanging off her slender frame, navy athletic shorts down past her knees.

“I feel stupid.”

“You shouldn’t. I won’t even see how hideous you look once we turn the lights off.”