Hard Love

Sara Ney

Copyright

Hard Love

Copyright © 2020 by Sara Ney

Editing by Caitlyn Nelson (Editing by C Marie)

Proofreading by Julia Griffis

Cover Design by Okay Creations

Formatting by Casey Formatting

All rights reserved.

This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval systems without express “written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

1. Tripp

2. Chandler

3. Tripp

4. Chandler

5. Tripp

6. Chandler

7. Tripp

8. Chandler

9. Tripp

10. Chandler

11. Tripp

12. Chandler

13. Tripp

14. Chandler

15. Tripp

16. Chandler

17. Tripp

18. Chandler

19. Tripp

20. Chandler

21. Chandler

22. Tripp

23. Chandler

Epilogue

About the Author

Also by Sara Ney

One

Tripp

My brother is getting married.

Married.

A grown man who calls himself Buzz.

Like seriously, what the fuck.

Oh, and get this—he’d only known the girl for three weeks before they got engaged.

Three.

Yeah, I didn’t stutter.

I can’t help the bitter taste rising in my throat; he didn’t even bother to deliver the news in person—he sent me a text. Well, my mother sent the text after Buzz and his fiancée told our mom and dad in person, at a dinner I wasn’t invited to.

Roast beef and potatoes with pecan pie.

Beef is my favorite and I didn’t even get any.

My fingers grip the steering wheel of my truck as I pull it into my garage, my gregarious bulldog, Chewy, hopping on his back feet at the sight of my arrival, pudgy face pressed against the screen door in the laundry room.

Chewy.

He’s the only buddy I can trust.

Unlike my backstabbing engaged brother, the dick.

I shove my truck into park, grabbing the iced coffee I stopped for on my way home from work, and shove open the driver’s side door. Hop out and tug at my jeans; they feel restrictive after having worn spandex compression shorts the past five hours. Should have gone with mesh, not denim.

Chewy continues hopping, and I’m shocked the little bastard hasn’t put a hole in the screen door because he sure as shit has dented it in about forty spots.

“Dude, chill,” I tell him, and he chills.

I’m not sure who wields more power in our relationship, myself or the dog. Probably Chewy since I hold the door open for His Majesty so he can prance out into the yard and do his business. Then I hold the door open for him again so he can prance back inside, where I’ll feed him and brush him and I am clearly his bitch.

The bag clenched in my fist gets tossed on the counter; it’s already past six in the evening and I have to arrive at my brother’s bachelor party by eight, which gives me almost two hours to eat, relax, shave, and get my ass back out the door.

I shoot Chewy an apologetic look. “Sorry bud, I have to leave again. Uncle Buzz is having a party, but Molly will swing by to play with you.”

Molly is a teenage neighbor girl I pay fifteen bucks an hour to hang with the dog. She scoops his poop and feeds him on days I’m running late or weekends I’m gone. Which, lately, is a lot.

Like my brother Buzz—who plays professional baseball when he’s not being a professional douche—I play a professional sport, too.

Football.

And right now it’s football season so I’m gone a lot; poor Chewy spends so much time with Molly I should just rehome him. I’m like the dog dad he never gets to see unless it’s summer break. Summer camps and spring training take far less of a toll than fall and winter.

“Yeah,” I inform the dog, “Uncle Buzz has his bachelor party tonight—do you believe that shit?”

Chewy stares up at me, drool hanging from his bottom jowls.

“Want to know what’s worse than a bachelor party on a Saturday night when I could be lying on the couch? A themed bachelor party.” I eyeball the bag on the counter through narrowed eyes and yank open the fridge. The cleaning lady slash housekeeper has left me some chicken patties and a side of potato salad so there’s nothing for me to prepare.

I grab and go.

Heat and eat.

The chicken goes in the microwave, the potato salad goes in my mouth.

“Get this.” I swallow. “We’re going axe throwing and he wants everyone to wear plaid.” That’s what’s in the bag—the plaid flannel shirt I had our mom buy for me. Who has time to hunt that shit down? Not me.

Yes, I could have ordered it online, but who knows what I like better than my own mother?

I peer inside. The shirt is lumberjack plaid—haha, funny Mom—a red and black checkered pattern. Khaki cargo pants.

I groan. Why must Buzz insist on making us look like complete imbeciles in public? As if axe throwing wasn’t bad enough. I’ve never done it, but how hard can it be? Obviously I’m going to dominate at it, but still, I’d rather be couch-surfing with the dog tonight.

My chicken comes out of the microwave, warm and steaming hot and loaded with cranberry stuffing (my favorite), and I prematurely cram a piece in my mouth.

It scalds my taste buds. “Dammit!”

Fuck I’m so hungry.

I barely taste it as I pack it down my gullet, trying to finish my meal so I can take another hot shower. When I’m finally upstairs in my bathroom, I study my reflection in the mirror.

Do I shave, or leave it?

If I don’t, I’m going to look even stupider and lumberjack-ier in that dumb plaid shirt—but it’s such a hassle getting out the razor and going through the whole process, and I’m not exactly in the mood to put in any effort.

I text my mom.

Me: Do I seriously have to wear this outfit? I’m going to look like a douche.

Mom: Yes. This is not about you.

Me: This is about me not wanting to wear this outfit.

Mom: This is your brother’s big night—be a team player.

Me: This is NOT THE WEDDING, MOM. Could we not call this his “big night”? Everything is not always about him.

Mom: Tripp Francis Wallace I’m not going to say this again. If I hear that you didn’t do your part, I’m going to be so disappointed in you. Your brother has finally met someone decent and you are not going to ruin his bachelor party.

Me: Someone else will probably do that.

I can’t help adding that little jab; let’s be real—Buzz has invited a bunch of freaking idiots who’ll probably get wasted and destroy property.

Mom: Tripp just wear the goddamn shit.

Whoa. She’s getting pissed—Mom almost never swears and she just did it twice.

Mom: Shirt. Just wear the SHIRT. It’s not too much to ask. This is ONE night.

I want to point out that it’s not one night; it’s one of three: bachelor party, rehearsal dinner, wedding and reception. Except there is no reasoning with Genevieve Wallace—nothing has given her a purpose to live more than her youngest son getting married. Nothing can dull her sparkle. Anyone getting in her way will be obliterated and I will feel her wrath if I do not wear this fucking stupid outfit.

Buzz, Buzz, Buzz, it’s always about Buzz.

Me: Fine. But I’m not shaving.

Mom: Oh you’re going to look so handsome! Text me and tell me how it’s going. I want all the details!

Um, yeah—that’s not happening. I’m not going to gossip about some dumb stag party with my mother. I’m lame, but I’m not that lame.

Mom: You’re a good brother Tripp. We’re so proud of you.

No one lays on a guilt trip quite like my mother.

“Proud of me for going axe throwing,” I mutter, grumbling as I climb into the shower. The water shoots out of seven heads—ceiling, three in front of me, three in back. It’s excessive and indulgent, but after an entire day outside, battling the elements during practices and games, I know it was well worth installing the additional plumbing.

Or rather, having Buzz do it.

I bought this house from him after he flipped it and the shower was one of the selling points.

He’s one smart son of a bitch, I’ll give him that. And sure, his fiancée is pretty fucking awesome—but that still doesn’t mean I want to hoof it to Axe to Grind, the throwing bar where the party begins.

Ugh. An entire night of drinking, shooting the shit, and bar-hopping.

My worst nightmare.

Most of the wedding party on the groom’s side are professional athletes—baseball players from his team, the Chicago Steam, and myself. No big deal, not impressed.

That doesn’t mean other bar-goers won’t be. All night we’re sure to be inundated with fans, superfans, jersey chasers, and gold diggers interrupting us for autographs, photos, and forced chitchat.

I’ll have to be polite when I’d rather be myself.

Showering takes my mind off how my day went, at least. Drill after drill at the stadium, followed by an ice bath and a rubdown by the team’s massage therapist. My body aches. My head hurts.

My dick is soft.

Through the glass shower door, Chewy watches me, bored, no doubt wondering when I’ll be done showering so we can play, his favorite ball lying between his paws, covered in slobber.

A twinge of guilt forms in my stomach and I shut the water off. Grab the towel I tossed over the barrier and dry off, throwing on a pair of sweatpants so I can roughhouse with the dog. Tire him out a bit before the dog sitter comes.

I hate leaving him alone.

When it’s time to dress, I rip the tags off the godawful cargo pants; complete with side pockets and heavyweight fabric, they are truly fit for a mountain man.

They fit perfectly.

The shirt fits too as I pull it on, rolling the sleeves up to my elbows. Leave the top two buttons undone so I don’t choke myself, or maybe that’s the solution to get out of this hellish evening.

Viewing myself in the mirror again, I cringe. Dammit, I should have shaved this scruff off. I look ridiculous. Like an actual fucking lumberjack.

I am going to kill my brother.

Whose dumb idea was this?

* * *

I have my answer as soon as I step into Axe to Grind and find my brother and his group of friends. They’re easy to spot—large, loud, and not wearing plaid shirts.

I stomp over, my sights set on one person: Buzz.

He has his back turned, but I’d know him anywhere; broad-shouldered and tall, he’s the spitting image of yours truly—the Irish twin I never wanted, born only a year after me.

He’s clean shaven and freshly shorn, no doubt in preparation for his impending nuptials.

Still.

He ain’t wearing the plaid he said everyone would be wearing, and now I feel like a horse’s ass.

I tap him on the shoulder, and he turns, delight on the face I now want to punch.

“Why are you wearing regular shirts? Where is everyone’s dumb uniform?” Like a dope, I point to the red and black flannel I reluctantly dressed in, the ridiculously uncomfortable pants, the construction boots because only boots looked right with this outfit; all I’m missing is suspenders. “Why am I the only one dressed like this?”

My brother—the merry bridegroom—throws his arms in the air as if I’m the most valuable player arriving to the game, loudly whooping, filling the echoing, cavernous space where the axe throwing cages are. Sawdust and peanut shells litter the floor. Everywhere, people are drinking beer and laughing, dressed like regular people—not morons.

I could kill my brother.

“Hey boys,” he hollers. “Look who’s arrived! Now the party can officially begin!”

I don’t want the party to begin; I want to go home. I want to change my shirt and pants and leave. There must be some gym clothes somewhere in the back seat of my truck.

I stalk over, the scowl across my brow pushing down the rest of my features. “What the fuck, dude? Why aren’t any of you wearing—” I point to my shirt again, indicating the plaid getup I reluctantly donned. “Seriously. Not cool.”

“I changed my mind.” Buzz sips from a beer bottle, conveniently avoiding my death glare. “Did I forget to add you to the group text? Weird.” He inspects his nails, then the paper label on the amber bottle.

Forgot to add me to the group chat my ass, the lying piece of shit! “I hate you so much right now.”

“Oh, that reminds me—I have a gift for you.” His free hand disappears, reaching around his back, pulling out and producing a small stuffed animal. A buffalo? A horse?

A cow?

No. It’s a stuffed toy ox and it’s bright blue.

Babe the Blue Ox—just like the one Paul Bunyan has as his sidekick in the old fable.

Buzz shoves Babe into my arms. “Ladies, ladies, can I have your attention please? Gather ’round—Paul Bunyan has entered the building! He’s single and ready to delight you with his wood-chopping and axe-handling ways.”

Perturbed, I let the stuffed animal fall from my hand to the ground; Buzz bends down and scoops Babe up. Forces him back into my grasp and sidesteps me so I can’t toss the stupid thing back to the ground without coming off as a total, littering jerk.

His hand clamps down on my shoulder. “Relax, bro. Lumbersexuals are so on trend right now.” He smacks me on the back. “Harding, get this gloriously rugged man a brew!”

I loathe him so hard.

“You did this on purpose.” It’s an accusation, not a question, and the asshole doesn’t even have the courtesy to deny it.

“I mean—the original plan was to wear plaid, because hello, axe throwing, but since we’re going out after this, it didn’t make sense in the long run.” He pulls his phone out of his front pocket, taps on it a few times, and points it at me. “Say ‘Johnny Appleseed’!”

The flash goes off, damn near blinding me, and I shield my eyes. “Knock it off!”

“Calm down—Mom wanted pictures.” He examines the photo then does a strange little giggle. “Haha, look, Martinez photobombed.”

Buzz holds the phone out so I can see the screen, see my resting dick face, expression angry.

“Mom and Hollis are going to love this picture.” He taps away. “I sent it to you, too.”

My “Thanks” is droll, laced with sarcasm and leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. I take the beer that’s being handed to me and chug half of it in a few swallows, needing the alcohol to get through this evening. Swish it around and down more.

“Can we get this over with?” I ask, still holding Babe the Blue Ox in one hand. I use him to wipe the foamy beer from my mouth then stuff his tail in a side pocket of my cargo pants.

He dangles at my side, blue and lifeless, a new toy for Chewy to rip the guts out of when I get home.

The guys and I gather at the three axe throwing cages my brother reserved, high-top tables set up for our beverages and snacks. The place is packed full of people; it’s loud and busy and everyone seems to be having a blast.

I scowl.

Someone hands me an axe and nudges me toward the red line on the ground where I’m supposed to stand, surrounded by chain link fencing—to keep axes that ricochet from flying into people, I supposed.

I eyeball the target on the wall, painted onto a piece of plywood. It’s huge—at least three feet across, maybe more, with three possible marks to score. Blue circle, white circle, red center. Bullseye.

How hard can this possibly be?

I’m a fucking badass, and I’m dressed like a goddamn lumberjack, for fuck’s sake.

I stare at the red center as my idiot brother and his buddies begin chanting my name.

“Paul Bunyan! Paul Bunyan!” over and over, and so what if it’s not my name? I know they’re chanting for me.

I lift the beer in my left hand and chug down half the bottle, wiping my mouth on the sleeve of my flannel. Squint my left eye and raise my right hand to aim.

Throw the axe at the red dot.

It bounces off the board.

“Fuck!”

Goddammit, that must be some kind of fluke. I’m freakishly good at everything, including darts. This is basically the same thing.

Behind me, Buzz laughs. “You want some pointers, bro?”

“Piss off.” I glance down at Babe the Blue Ox, still dangling pitifully from my pocket. “Worst good luck charm ever.”

Another axe gets handed to me.

Once again, I zero in on my target, this time squinting with no eyes shut.

I toss the hatchet straight at the red center of the board.

It bounces off.

“Fuck you, you piece of shit!” I shout at it, two of my axes lying miserably on the ground.

“I didn’t realize you swore this much.”

“Can you go away?”

My brother holds up his phone. “Don’t think so. This is my party—I’ll do what I want.” He glances down at Babe. “Loser.”

“Stop filming me.”

“I have to send this to Mom, so keep the obscenities to a minimum.”

Screw you, I mouth to him, mindful of the fact that he most likely is filming me and intends to send the video clip to our mother, who most certainly would not approve of my antics. Or his, for that matter, since it stresses her out when we argue.

“You only have two more chances, dude.” My brother won’t stop talking. “You should have gotten here earlier so you could warm up.” He bends one leg and begins doing lunges, arms behind his head, fingers laced behind his neck.

“I don’t need warming up. I’m going to hit this bullseye.”

He scoffs. “Even if you do, you won’t have enough points to make the board—you’re terrible at this. Even those women over there are at least hitting something. Your axe isn’t even sticking to the—”

“Please just stop talking.”

“—board.”

I sigh loud enough to be heard three counties over.

“Are you going to take all day? It’s Jensen’s turn next.”

Oh my god.

I turn to glare.

He shoos me away, back toward the board. “Focus.”

Who can focus with him hovering, clearly waiting for me to fail?

I pull back my arm, bending it at the elbow, then aim forward, releasing the wooden handle and throwing with all my might.

“There’s a trick to this,” Buzz tells me when the hatchet hits the ground. “You should have watched YouTube videos before you got here. You can’t just aim and throw.”

“Would you shut up?”

“I don’t think giving you another chance is going to yield any results since you have scored zero points. You’re off the team—go sit on the bench.”

I feel my face flush with embarrassment. “You can’t bench me. This isn’t a game.”

“This is my special night,” he informs me. “And you’re giving the Wallace name a bad reputation.”

I open my mouth to argue. “How many points have you scored?”

His chin lifts. “Three. But I also get points for not losing an axe—they’ve all at least stuck and haven’t landed on the ground.”

My ass cheeks pucker, I swear they do. “Fine.”

I stomp to the high-top table the rest of the bachelor party is gathered around, most of them drinking beer and laughing, the giants among men filling the whole room because there are twenty or so of us, many of us professional athletes of some kind.

It feels like I’m at a fraternity party, not a celebration for grown men, and why I can’t enjoy myself is beyond me. Oh. Wait—that’s right, I’m dressed like a goddamn fictional lumberjack and there’s a stuffed animal hanging from my fucking pocket!

Don’t know if it’s my glower from my sour mood, but no one really talks to me. Then again, these dudes are mostly baseball players. There’s one guy I recognize from college, a few from high school, plus one or two coaches, a few cousins, an uncle or three, and my brother’s agent.

There’s a tap on my shoulder; it feels like the tip of a fake nail, and when I glance over, I discover that it is. Bright, neon yellow, and attached to a tan blonde.

“You’re the other Wallace brother, aren’t you?” Well. There’s no mincing words with this broad; she gets straight to the point.

“Yes.”

“Are there any more or just the two of you?”

“Just the two of us.”

She smiles.

Then the woman gasps, noticing my lumber-outfit. “Oh my god, were you just axe throwing? This outfit is to die for! So cute. I love that you went with the theme.” She coos again, practically oozing desperation.

Ugh, I can’t stand cleat chasers.

At another table, one of Buzz’s groomsmen shouts over the music as a pair of highlighter yellow nails graze my exposed forearm. I shiver, and not from delight.

“I wasn’t dressing as part of the theme,” I counter, annoyed.

“Then why are you dressed like a mountain man?”

Dammit! “I’m not dressed like a—”

I clamp my mouth shut. It’s pointless to argue with someone who’s half baked, skin literally baked, and hell-bent on flirting. I could be wearing a garbage bag and this chick would be hitting on me. She knows I’m Tripp Wallace, knows I’m a football player, knows I’m loaded.

“You’re not very talkative.” The girl tries again when I don’t bite on her earlier nonsense about mountain men. “Are you the strong silent type?”

I grunt, hoping she takes the hint and walks away to join her friends. They’re standing in a cluster watching us, heads bent like players in the pre-game huddle, about to take the field.

I don’t want to know what anyone is saying—whatever it is, it’s about me and this chick, and it can’t be good.

After several moments of awkward silence—and me ignoring her—she finally gives up and leaves me alone, going back to her group of friends.

Thank god.

“Dude, come join us again for one last game—we’re bouncing afterwards,” Noah Harding shouts to me over the loud music and the sounds of axes hitting boards and falling to the ground. People laughing. Talking. Shouting. Singing. So much merriment my goddamn head is about to explode.

The last thing I want to do is join my brother and his friends for another humiliating round of axe throwing, but if it means I can hopefully ditch this place quicker, then Noah doesn’t have to tell me twice.

I chug the last of my beer and begrudgingly head over to the cages—Babe the Blue Ox still hanging at my side.

Two

Chandler

My cousin is getting married.

Not just my cousin—my favorite cousin, and I’m so happy for her.

It’s not easy being a part of the illustrious Westbrooke family; always in the spotlight, always putting on a show, always on your best behavior. Which is the reason I learned to smile. To say all the right things, do all the things I’ve been brought up to do.

Obedient. Graceful. Classy.

Serene. Shy.

Those are only a few of the words that have been used to describe me in the past. Words I’ve come to hate, though none of them are bad.

Witty, clever, independent, funny—those are the words I’d rather be called.

Smart. Resourceful. Creative. Capable.

But Hollis handles being a Westbrooke beautifully. A few years older than me, I’ve always admired her independence. Her drive. Her carefree, self-starting attitude and willingness to do things her way.

Therefore, I too plotted my own course.

My stint in Europe following my master’s program wasn’t to shirk any duty or a lack of work ethic; it was to escape the suffocating influence of my family, escape the pressure and expectation of the job I’ve been raised to step into now that I have two degrees.

I’d rather end up like Hollis than like her brother and sister, Lucien and Fiona.

Yes, I am going to work at the stadium once I’m unpacked and moved into my new house—but I’m doing it on my terms: under a contract that I negotiated, until I no longer love it.

You only have one life to live, and now that I’m an adult, I’m living it for myself.

Sure, the progression to independence has taken me a little longer than my cousin, who said no to everything the family offered straight out of high school—but I’m getting there.

Slowly but surely, I’m becoming my own person, freed from my gilded cage.

My eyes stray to Fiona and Hollis, both holding court at the wine tasting slash sex toy event her best friend Madison arranged, a white BRIDE sash hanging horizontally across her chest. She’s wearing a white long-sleeved jumpsuit, a white wig cut into a flirty, chin-length bob, and a tiara.

The rest of us? Pink.

Pink dresses, pink wigs, pink sashes.

It’s classic bridal party and bachelorette attire, half classy, half trashy—celebratory so it’s all oddly appropriate.

To quote the bride: Wear pink to make the boys wink.

I feel flirty and cute in my platform wedges and blush midi dress that’s far more appropriate for warmer weather. I feel sexy for the first time in who knows how long, but I highly doubt any boys will be winking my way tonight.

I give my light pink Barbie wig a fluff. Despite the playful getup, I still scream “good girl”.

In the center of the room is the hostess, an outgoing saleswoman named Ginger, with a vibrator in one hand and a champagne flute in the other. She’s loud, proud, and not the least bit embarrassed.

“…has stimulation for those of you who can’t climax from penetration, which is between ten and forty percent of you,” she’s saying, and my brows go up. “Fun fact, orgasms get better with age, so if any of you ladies are pushing forty, your best years are yet to come.” She laughs. “Come. Get it?”

Ginger passes the vibrator in her hand to Madison, who looks it over before passing it along to another bridesmaid. The blonde holds down the button and watches as it springs to life, buzzing in her hand and making everyone giggle.

“That model uses a USB to charge so it’s much quieter than the models that use batteries.”

So modern.

I’ve never actually held a vibrator—or had one—so would I know what to do with it if I ordered one tonight?

Ginger goes on, holding up yet another pink, gel, dick-shaped item. Similar yet smaller. “This hot number is called The Quickie, and everyone will receive one in their swag bag tonight, compliments of the maid of honor.”

The ladies in the room hoot and holler.

I blush.

Madison airily raises a hand, waving like the queen, adjusting her neon pink wig and invisible crown. “Do go on, you’re too, too kind. No, no—your praise isn’t necessary, the gratitude is enough. Please, hold your applause.” She’s bowing now, dramatically. “Go forth and orgasm—and remember me fondly.”

Someone in the back of the room catcalls and whistles between her teeth.

Ginger clears her throat. “Now I’ll introduce you to the couples’ toys.” She holds up a blue object shaped like a teardrop with a hole in the center. “This is our most current C ring, the Zing Ring…”

I zone out since I’m not part of a couple and therefore have no need for a couples’ toy, let alone a sex toy to begin with.

I don’t realize I’m standing on the outside looking in until Hollis’s best friend Madison wraps her arm around my shoulders and gives me a nudge toward the bar.

“You seem quiet. Is everything okay?”

I blush, not wanting to be a spoilsport or a goody two shoes, or the Debbie Downer of the party. “Am I? Sorry, I’ve had a long day,” I explain, somewhat abashedly. “I have to move into my new place this weekend, along with everything else that’s going on with the wedding.”

Madison hugs me. “You must be beat! But I’m glad you came. It’s been forever since I’ve seen you.”

Yes, it has been. Back when I was in grad school out east, Madison and Hollis flew to visit me a few times and we went out and had ridiculously amazing dinners, shopped, and drank. It’s not that I don’t enjoy a party or the company of friends; it’s just that…I’m so damn tired.

“Do you need help? Moving in I mean?”

“No, I think I have it covered. Or, Hollis does.” I laugh. “She’s arranged to have a truck for me—I have to get stuff out of storage and into my second-story walk-up.” I pull a face.

Madison mimics it, sticking out her tongue. “Second story is bad, but it could be worse. I’m four floors up in an eighty-year-old building, and the elevator never works. It’s horrible—I can never move.” She sips out of her wine glass and watches Ginger. “Whose truck is it?”

“Um…I think Trace is in charge of that?”

Madison’s head tilts. “I don’t think he has a truck—then again, maybe he does. I doubt it would be hard to find one with all those hunky men he’s friends with. Or his brother?”

His brother. Track or Trevor, or another name I can’t remember. The guy I’ll see at the wedding, which, rumor has it, he had to be browbeaten into participating in. Cannot play nice.

Great. I hear he’s a real peach and a bit of an asshole.

Buzz, the groom, adores him.

Hero worship, Hollis said—although Buzz would never admit it. Not to her, not to anyone. He adores his older brother, I’m told. If his brother goes to his parents’, Buzz goes to his parents’. If his brother takes a vacation, Buzz tags along. When his brother moved closer to Chicago, Buzz moved closer to Chicago.

They bicker like crazy. They argue in public. They whine and complain about each other—but that’s the sibling love I would expect from two professional athletes in the same family. It’s what makes them great at their jobs, I would assume.

“Do you need any help?” Madison’s voice interrupts my musing.

“You’re volunteering to help someone move?” Is she crazy? I hate moving and doubt I’d subject myself to it if it could be helped.

“I mean—I could fetch coffee and donuts and pizza for lunch. Refreshments and the like.” Her pink wig gets in her mouth, stuck to her glossy lips, and she sputters. “Moving boxes? Not so much. Food services? Yes.”

My place might be too small for random people who aren’t pitching in. “I think we’ll be okay—it’s not a huge storage space, more like the size of a one-car garage.”

Madison visibly relaxes. “Phew, ’cause I hate moving people and suck at it. I’m likely to disappear on you anyway.” Her eyes roam to a table nearby and she leans, grabbing a tote bag by the handle and yanking it our direction. Peers inside, eyes lighting up as she pilfers through it, plucking up a rectangular box. “Use this tonight and you won’t be stressed out tomorrow. Guaranteed.”

It’s The Quickie, in a discreet package but distinguishable all the same.

Hollis’s best friend tilts her head. “Have you used a vibrator before?”

I can’t lie. Shrug my shoulders when words fail me. I mean, come on—I’m twenty-four years old, but…

“You’ve never…” Madison jiggles the box, close enough to my face that I want to smack it out of her hand.

“It’s not a crime.”

“No, but it should be.” Her eyes roam my face, taking in my red-hot cheeks then straying to my light pink hair. The lacy straps on my blush dress, the rash spreading across my chest from nerves. “So—never?”

I shrug again. “I was too busy with homework and graduating early to worry too much about sex.”

“This isn’t about sex—this is about self-care. An orgasm can seriously take the edge off after a long day. Plus, it can add years to your life. I read that once.”

Maybe. But still…it never crossed my mind. And I was never in a relationship, which placed orgasms far down on my list of priorities. Way, way down. Like—at the end, on a separate sheet of paper. Written in invisible ink.

“Not to get personal, but…” She leans in close. “Chandler, have you ever…you know.”

I narrow my eyes. If she’s trying to find out if I’m a virgin, she’ll have to come right out and ask, because I’m not going to make this easy on her. It’s none of her business, and I haven’t decided if I want to make it such.

“You know what—don’t answer that. It’s none of my business. But do yourself a favor and take this out of the box when you get home. Get comfortable and…don’t overthink it.” She pats me on the shoulder, fingers squeezing.

I’m saved from this conversation by my drunkish cousin, in her cute all-white outfit, giggling into her lacy Madonna-circa-1989 fingerless gloves.

“Would y’all mind if we met the boys out?”

Y’all? Is she Southern now?

“Where?” Madison wants to know, a gleam in her boy-crazy eyes. As long as I’ve known her, Madison has never had a boyfriend, but she’s always on the prowl for one. Not in a bad way; she just cannot find a normal, decent guy to love her.

“The guys are…” Hollis has to check her phone. “Axe throwing.”

Axe throwing? What does that mean? Are they literally throwing axes? “Are they going to be there all night?”

Hollis’s nose goes back in her phone, fingers typing furiously. “For the next hour or so? Would you mind if we popped in? Or is that weird?”

“I don’t think it’s weird to want to see your fiancé—you have a crush on him,” I tease, just to see her blush. And it’s true; she has a major crush on her soon-to-be husband, partly because they haven’t known each other all that long. Weeks.

Not months, not years.

Then again, when you know, you know.

You know?

“We have reservations at Pucker, but I can always cancel them, no big deal.” Madison is already pulling up the bar’s app.

Pucker is the drag bar downtown, in the city, where we were going to spend the remainder of the evening. Apparently there’s a huge chandelier in the center of the room, multiple stages—and loads of fun for bachelorette parties.

Madison, party planner extraordinaire, begins gathering up the troops now that Ginger is done with her sex toy spiel, the energy kicked up a notch at the thought of spending the rest of the night with hunky, manly men.

My stomach churns and I place a hand there, nerves dancing.

Three

Tripp

I’m in hell.

That can be the only explanation for this.

Just when I thought I’d be able to leave after the last game of axe throwing—go home and take off this godforsaken lumberjack costume—Buzz throws a wrench in my damn night because Hollis texted and said the girls were joining the boys for a bit before both parties moved on to their next stop of the night.

Now I’m stuck here still throwing axes for the time being.

FML.

A short while later, the door to Axe to Grind blows open and a dozen tittering women walk through.

Every male head in the place swivels.

It’s impossible not to; they look like a small army of pink Barbie dolls, the only one standing out is unmistakably Hollis, with her all-white outfit, white wig, and BRIDE sash. Plus, they’re loud. And laughing. And wearing pink wigs.

Drones. Pretty little dolls here to cause mischief.

Granted, most of Hollis’s friends seem normal. From what I’ve seen the few times I’ve been introduced, they’re not your average WAGs (wives and girlfriends of professional athletes) since she doesn’t come from that crowd herself. Her friends are hard-working, normal women. Nurses. Teachers. One is a barista. One is a dance instructor. Blah blah blah, I only listen when I have to.

Tonight, they’re decked out and dolled up in some bachelorette party getups I don’t quite understand. Then again, who am I to judge when I’m standing here, holding an axe, dressed like a goddamn mountain man for no goddamn reason.

I look like a horse’s ass and feel like one too.

While the new arrivals flock around my brother and his buddies, I hang back, axe and Babe the Blue Ox hanging at my sides, watching everyone laugh and talk and flirt.

Lift my wrist and check the time on my smart watch.

Too early to cut out. The evening has barely gotten started—I’d look like a jerk for going home.

One more weekend, two more parties, and then I won’t have to dash around like a maniac for this wedding.

Next up: Rehearsal dinner.

Wedding.

Then I should be—

Shit, the gift-opening brunch thing the day after.

There is no escaping this lovey-dovey romantic crap.

And look at those two, kissing in front of everyone. Hollis has her arms around my brother’s neck and his hands are cupping her ass. She looks like a classy version of a hooker, kind of.

Uptown, but cheap.

I mean—no one looks classy in a Halloween wig. Looks like it was just taken out of the bag and combed, tons of staticky stray hairs I can see flying from here.

Her bridesmaids and friends aren’t faring any better in their getups and I wonder why women insist on behaving this way for their stag parties. Are they trying to attract attention? Because if they are, it’s not working, even though every man in this place is watching.

I frown.

Why didn’t they rent a bus or a stripper like most bachelorette parties do? This wanting to hang out with the groom and his groomsmen bullshit cannot be normal behavior, can it?

Then again, what do I know about women?

I set the axe on the table because it looks like the game is at a standstill. Now that the girls are here, laughter rings out at the next throwing cage, one of the bridesmaids or best friends or whoever she is giggling as she attempts a shot at hitting the bullseye.

The axe thumps to the ground loudly, but everyone still cheers.

Why would everyone cheer? She’s a loser.

That axe didn’t even come close to hitting the target! Irritated, I grab the bottle of beer in front of me and chug, second-guessing immediately after if the beer is even mine.

Shit.

I gag, literally, and set it down, glancing around to see if anyone saw.

No one is paying me the least bit of attention, all eyes and ears on two people, the bride and groom, and aren’t they adorable?

I observe as everyone watches them, standing off to the side as usual, alert and perceptive, two of my greatest qualities—other than persistence and physical strength. I like to think nothing escapes my notice; five long years on the football field have assured that.

Five years being paid shitloads of dollars guarantees nothing gets past me. Nothing intimidates me.

I feel a set of eyes watching me, lifting my gaze to find one of the gaggle staring. Like the others, she’s dressed all in pink, though her dress is less revealing. Light pink wig, light pink dress.

No idea what she looks like, not covered in all that fuss. It could be Hollis’s sister Fiona or her best friend Madison sizing me up for all I know—and I’m not interested in either of those women.

I’ve already been down that road with both of them, the shameless flirting on their part, the awkward letdown on mine. Nope, don’t think it’s either of them. They know better than to waste their time.

Must be one of the other minions.

She has a small smile on her face—one she probably thinks I can’t see from my spot at this table, over fifteen feet away—as her eyes rake over my cargo pants and lumberjack shirt. The stuffed animal dangling from my side pocket by the horn.

I’m used to people staring at me; this is nothing new.

I’m not a fucking idiot; I know I’m good-looking. The thing is, I’m just not interested in a woman who’s only out for my money. My looks may fade and my bank account might be depleted. So if someone is going to chase me solely for those two things alone, they can kiss my tight end.

I smirk at my own joke. Tight end, get it?

If this broad thinks I look stupid, that’s her problem, not mine. I’m dressed like this for my brother—not for the judgy bridal party. And when she finally notices me noticing her, she jerks her gaze away, hiding behind the shield of that powder pink hair.

Four

Chandler

The Quickie.

Description: A sleek, tantalizing partner for those of us who aren’t messing around with foreplay. Silicone coated, water safe. Wash thoroughly with Love Care Cleaning Solution after each use, store in enclosed case. Batteries not included.

For those of us who aren’t messing around with foreplay? What does that even mean? Don’t some people use toys when they’re actually having sex? I haven’t ever done so, but I know enough to have gleaned a bit of knowledge.

Sighing, aware that The Quickie is nestled not-so-innocently inside the swag bag I set on the counter, I remove the offending wig on my head and shake out my natural hair—the real stuff underneath—and give my scalp a good massage with my fingers, basking in the relief. It was hot and itchy having that thing on my head for the past several hours, and I set it next to my bachelorette goodies.

The townhouse I’m renting from Hollis (which my father is irritated about, because Westbrookes do not rent, especially from each other—they own) is mostly empty, except for my bed and a suitcase, the rest of my things arriving tomorrow morning.

Wig off, I pad absentmindedly to the bathroom, the echo of loud music still reverberating through my eardrums, the last bar we ended at more of a concert hall with a million amps and scores of people.

I can’t hear myself think, just the sound of electric guitars wailing and pop stars singing.

As my hair goes back in a tie, my eyes stray to the tired, mascara-smudged bags beneath them and I cringe, rooting for a cotton ball, swiping it over my face, removing the makeup caked on there. It takes four until I have everything off and I feel like myself again, the cold water splashing on my face a marvelous sensation.

Ahh.

Never go to bed with makeup on, my nonna used to say. Keeps the wrinkles at bay—and Pond’s Cold Cream.

Cold cream. She swears by it, and so do I because Nonna says so.

The gooey, white concoction gets its turn on my skin, completely drenching it with moisture before I clean it off. More water. Rag. Toner.

Why does it take so damn long to get ready for bed? Men have it so easy…

Once that’s all out of the way, I brush my teeth. Floss. Brush out my hair, braid it.

Pee.

Flicking the switch for the bathroom light, I groan when I see the kitchen light still glowing above the sink. Pad to the hallway and…

My eyes latch onto the swag bag still sitting on the counter, untouched and unpacked. I haven’t even emptied it yet.

So I walk over, hold the canvas tote open, peer inside, and reach a hand in. I pull out a bottle of rosé—blush pink wine in a bottle with my cousin’s and her fiancé’s initials intertwined. A wine glass with my initials. A bottle opener with a pink ribbon tied to it.

A wedding party survival kit in a cute zippy pouch: folded ballet flats so we can take our high heels off and dance, tiny bottle of vodka, travel toothpaste and toothbrush, Chapstick, mints, breath spray, and—a condom in a pink wrapper.

Pink furry slippers—so cute.

A satin robe with a W on the back.

I’m not one of Hollis’s bridesmaids—I haven’t been around enough to have earned that title—but I feel special going through this bag of goodies, knowing only a few select people received these things.

And there’s only one thing left at the bottom.

The Quickie.

Hot pink box. Hot pink vibrator.

I haven’t opened it, but I remember what it looked like when Ginger was showing it off: sleek, rubbery, and dick-shaped.

Phallic.

The box is rectangular and glossy. Expensive-looking and not at all the kind I imagine you’d find at an adult toy store, not that I’ve ever been inside an adult toy store. Not that I’ve imagined it.

Cough, cough.

The box rests in my hand.

I wonder if the vibrator is charged.

Stop it, Chandler—you aren’t going to use it.

Why not?

Because you have no idea what you’re doing!

No one is here to see you—what could possibly go wrong?

Ha! What could possibly go wrong?! Famous last words, ones I’ve said hundreds of times right before things went horribly wrong.

It could zap you in the crotch.

Oh my god, be serious—it’s not going to zap your vajayjay.

But it could. Freak accidents happen all the time, and my parents would die if I had to call them from the hospital the weekend before Hollis’s wedding because their daughter’s junk was electrocuted.

I study the side of the box intently, reading from the side: This hot little pleasure ride is authentically designed with a raised vein texture, penis tip, and five adaptable speeds to customize your experience. Tailored for the novice, this pretty pink vibrator is the perfect shape and size to coax one orgasm after another out of you!

Pretty?

Dicks aren’t pretty and neither are the plastic versions of them, thank you very much. Someone should send a memo to men: no one wants a dick pic—at least, not one that’s unsolicited.

Not that I’ve ever received one, which kind of feels like an insult…

Still, I pry the box top off and gape down at the pink silicone toy, nestled in a bed of satin, its gold metallic accents shining back at me. One button. Five settings.

Settings? What do they mean by that?

My index finger pokes the fake dick.

It’s not soft or pliant as I’m expecting it to be, but it’s not hard as a rock either. Not really as realistic as they’re claiming it to be.

My cheeks flush and I leave it in the box, set it back on the counter with the rest of the bachelorette goodies, and flick the kitchen light off. Pad back to my bedroom, where the bed and bedding have been set up, and pull back my top layer.

Climbing in, I let out a huge sigh when my weary head finally hits the pillow. Hands folded across my stomach, I let my eyes drift shut. Breathe in and out then roll to my side, uncomfortable. Sigh. Roll to my back, then to the other side.

Sigh.

My eyes open and I look to the white wall next to my bed, though I can’t see it in the dark, imagining what the place will look like once the furniture is moved in, pictures hung, knickknacks put out. Hard to do when I haven’t spent any actual time in my new place, having gotten into town less than twenty-four hours ago—just in time for my cousin’s stag party. I moved in a few boxes and managed to assemble my bed, unpack some toiletries, get dressed, and not be late for the night out.

I’m exhausted, and the wedding fun has just begun.

“An orgasm can seriously take the edge off after a long day,” Madison told me earlier in the evening, and my thoughts go from the unloading and moving I have to do tomorrow to that little pink dick in a box on my kitchen counter.

It’s not a dick, it’s a dildo.

No it’s not—a dildo doesn’t move by itself.

Stop internal dialoging, you freak.

I close my eyes, determined to fall asleep. Toss a few more times, unable to find a spot that’s conducive to passing out, the new sounds outside my window doing nothing to lull me into slumber.

“An orgasm can seriously take the edge off after a long day.”

I turn.

Flat on my back, I feel around on my bedding for the black satin eye mask I tossed there when I put the sheets and pillowcases on. Cannot find it without turning on the light.

Sigh.

Counting sheep? Do people do that anymore, or is that for children? I suppose I could find a soothing, spa-like playlist and listen to a babbling brook—but then I’ll lie here listening to the babbling brook and forget that I’m trying to sleep.

I drum my fingers against my quilt.

I shouldn’t have had any alcohol. I’m about to catch a second wind—I can feel it in my bones.

“An orgasm can seriously take the edge off after a long day.”

Take the edge off? It’s not like I necessarily had a rough day—just a long one. But maybe there’s something to be said about men and sex and their falling asleep so soon after they orgasm.

Should I…

I cannot get my mind off that vibrator. Or the face of that guy standing next to the table tonight, dressed as if he worked at the axe throwing place.

Vibrator.

Lumberjack.

Vibrator.

Lumberjack.

Vibrator…

Not that I’d have a clue what to do with it.

Curiosity getting the best of me, I let my body slide off the mattress, feet hitting the floor, on autopilot in the dark, leading me back to the kitchen counter and that glossy box I know the exact position of. Toss the goodies back into the tote then snatch up the vibrator. Bring it back to the bedroom with me, pulling off the lid and letting the box hit the sheets.

I slide back in.

Half in, half out of the covers, my thumb presses the little gold button at the vibrator’s base—but it doesn’t turn on.

Huh.

Maybe it needs to be charged?

I try again, holding the button down longer, the small pink wand buzzing to life, a low purr filling the quiet room.

It hums.

Quivers in my palm.

I hold it up and can see it moving via the small light glowing from the power button, clicking it a second time.

The pink bullet pulses.

Dzzt, dzzt, dzzt.

Dzzt, dzzt, dzzt, faster and faster and faster, changing cadence with each click of that gold button.

My thumb presses down, and it shuts off.

I lay it on the mattress, curiosity appeased. It’s not like I’m going to do anything with it—ha! As if.

I wonder if I could sell this thing; I certainly don’t need to keep it around if I have no intention of using it. They’re expensive—I bet this was at least a hundred bucks!

Lord I’m cheap if I’m thinking ’bout selling a vibrator to make some cash. Oy, if Hollis knew…

Madison? She would have a fit.

Lying there, wide awake, my hands still flat on the bed, fingers mere inches from the “pleasure ride”. Also, how is it a ride if you’re not on top of it?

I ponder this while I lie there, restless, conscious of it next to me but afraid to touch it. Afraid? Please, don’t be ridiculous.

Intimidated, maybe. Clueless, absolutely.

What does a person do with it, anyway? Put it all the way inside and crank up the power? Rub it around the outside? It’s not that I’ve never felt around “down there” with my hands; I’ve just never used a toy.

So what if everyone is doing it? So what if sex toy sales skyrocketed during the last global pandemic? How would I even know if I was enjoying it?

I am not a prude.

Am I?

I sigh, slightly bored and not even close to drowsy.

The weight of “The Quickie” is like a thousand elephants beside me, bogging down the mattress, a distraction I did not need tonight.

Really, Chandler? You couldn’t stand the distraction of perhaps loosening up a bit after the longest day of your life?

Just do it. What’s the big deal? No one is here. No one can see you. No one can hear you. Zero people. If you’re bad at it, who is going to know?

Me. I’ll know.

You don’t count, you chickenshit. It’s a vibrator, not a taser. Chill.

My hand finds it in the dark, my cheeks flaming hot all the while—I don’t have to feel them to know they’re red. On fire.

I hold the power button down; it lights up.

I’m wearing pajama bottoms—do I hold this thing over the top of them? That seems counterproductive, and I chuckle to myself as if the thought is absurd, moving the pink machine over my thigh, letting the quiver hit my skin. Teasing the leg of my sleep shorts, the hem short enough that the barest brush of a hand would expose my goods.

This feels as awkward and as unnatural as an author must feel reciting sex scenes into a dictation app.

The pink glows in the dark as I lead it to the inner crux of my thigh, dragging back and forth, experimenting. Close enough to the mound beneath my underwear, but far enough away that I’m not officially masturbating yet.

It still feels peculiar.

Maybe pull your shorts down, weirdo.

I bite my lip.

* * *

What is that damn noise?

It sounds like banging—no, not the sexual kind of banging; I’m talking about the sound of someone knocking on a door.

Obnoxious and annoying so early in the morning.

What time even is it?

Early—my alarm hasn’t gone off yet and that’s set for eight.

I suck in the saliva that’s dripping down the side of my mouth and crack an eye open, the sun blinding me with its beaming rays of light.

Ugh. Too soon, TOO SOON.

I throw an arm over my eyes. Where is that damn eye mask when you need it?

Knock-knock.

Ding, dong. Ding.

Dong.

That’s weird. Now it sounds like the knocking and doorbell are coming from inside my place.

I roll to the side, eyes cracking to stare at the blank, white wall. I really need to hang up some artwork—so blah. So boring.

My phone buzzes.

Grabbling for the nightstand without having to roll toward it, I feebly feel around, fingers making contact with my cell, blurry eyes coming into focus.

Hollis.

I swipe to answer, pretending I’ve been awake for hours. “Hey!”

“Let us in.”

“Let you in?” I repeat, confused.

“We’re outside. No worries—I have coffee and donuts.”

Outside. Coffee. Donuts.

Knocking.

“Oh shit, oh shit.” I throw back my covers, kicking them off. “Shit, what time is it?”

Hollis laughs. “Don’t worry, we just got here. We’ll sit on the steps and eat your crullers while you get dressed. Take your time.”

I love crullers—they are my all-time favorite donut! “Don’t you dare!” I threaten.

“Mmm mmm mmm,” my cousin taunts before hanging up. “Yummy yummy.”

I palm the phone and glance at the time.

8:05

My alarm never went off! Or…I never set it?

Does not matter—I’ve got to hurry!

Get dressed. Brush my teeth. Brush my hair! Oh god, there’s no time for that.

I’m so embarrassed—not that my cousin is the epitome of being on time, but because they’re here to help and I’m still in bed. Instead of crawling back under the covers, I want to crawl under a rock.

I stumble to the closet, the boxes of clothes still mostly packed away, but at least I know what’s in them. That one is jeans, that one is leggings and sweatshirts, and that one is…

That one…

Oh my god WHO CARES you are wasting time!

I pop open the one with leggings inside, snatching up the first pair I find on top; they’re brightly colored, covered in pops of pink, periwinkle, and sage green, a kaleidoscope to cheer me up when I can barely focus.

On goes a tank top—oops, but first a bra—a neon pink bro tank with my old grocery store’s pig logo and Piggy Wiggly, Shop the Pig! tagline emblazoned on the front. I won it during a raffle fundraiser and why have I never thrown it out?

The disaster of an ensemble will have to do; there are people waiting on my front stoop outside who undoubtedly now think I’m a rude, lazy deadbeat, and I don’t have time to choose a semi-decent outfit and run a brush through my hair.

I dash to the front door, throwing it open to reveal two familiar faces and one…

“Chandler,” my cousin says by way of introduction, box of donuts in her arms. “This is my future brother-in-law, Tripp—he’s the only other person we knew with a truck. I figured you would need two.”

Um.

Holy shit. It’s the lumberjack from Axe to Grind.

“Your friend Harding has a truck,” the brother grumbles. “I could have used the extra sleep.”

“You’re the best man,” my cousin’s fiancé, Trace, reminds his brother, shouldering his way past me, into my new place. “You don’t need extra sleep—you need a personality adjustment. Consider this community service.” He turns to me, setting a tape measure down on the table in my entry. “Chandler, meet the family Grinch.”

I sink my eyes into Buzz Wallace’s brother; I’ve heard about him, know he’s a professional football player and Buzz’s oldest sibling. Lives not too far away, hangs around my cousin’s house a lot now that she’s living with her fiancé. His brother is always there, it seems, especially when she makes a home-cooked meal.

They have a tightknit family, tighter than ours ever was, which is part of the Wallace appeal. Hollis craves that—her parents are cold, distant socialites, out for their own best interests. It makes sense that she would gravitate toward a family that’s constantly in each other’s business.

Her fiancé hates it. She loves it.

And oh.

My.

God.

Tripp Wallace is…he’s…

He…

I blush, fumbling in the doorway, standing like an idiot in my loud printed leggings and pig tank top and bare feet, the hair I haven’t brushed yet thrown into a messy bun.

My stomach does a clenching thing while my eyes hit the floor, inspecting the lavender nail polish that didn’t match my bachelorette dress last night.

When he brushes past me to get into the house, I catch a whiff of him: freshly showered and masculine, like he was soaked in men’s Bath & Body Works products. Tall. Broad. Tan. A masculine manly man. So manish it’s as if he just cut the lawn outside his house with his own bare hands—then chopped a truckload of wood and stacked it with his pinky finger, all before downing a dozen raw eggs for breakfast and washing them down with Powerade.

He doesn’t say hello.

Okay then…

I close the door behind everyone and inhale a deep breath, letting it out when I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror that was left behind in the foyer.

Shit—no wonder he didn’t glance twice at me. I’m a disaster!

I groan, calling out to the small group congregating in my kitchen. “Give me a few minutes and I’ll be right there, I just have to…” I let my voice trail off, catching my cousin’s eye as I beeline down the hall toward my bedroom, serious panic setting in.

Shit, shit, shit.

You can’t change your clothes, but you can do something with your hair. And brush your teeth—if you change your clothes, they’re going to know.

Maybe they won’t notice if I change outfits? Throw on something more put together, as if I didn’t stumble into these leggings five minutes ago after they beat the door down.

Who cares what you’re wearing—this is a moving day, not a beauty contest.

One I wouldn’t win.

Sighing, I stand with a comb in my hand, parting my hair down the middle so I can throw it into two French braids, the task going quickly now that my dark hair has grown out well past my shoulders.

I secure the end with an elastic and plait the second row.

Brush my teeth and splashing cold water on my face are my only beauty concessions as I scowl at the smattering of freckles that have somehow recently materialized across my nose.

There is nothing sexy or alluring about me; the young woman staring back at me might have a master’s degree and know all kinds of neat shit, but she has no idea how to attract a grown man.

Grown man? Tripp Wallace can’t be more than thirty years old.

Still—professional athletes date supermodels and actresses and singers.

Hollis is none of those things and Trace dated her—wants to marry her after three weeks!

You don’t want to date Tripp Wallace, you’re just nervous that he’s in your house—he’s opened his mouth once and was a bit of an ass to his brother.

So.

No worries. Just go back out there, smile. Look happy! Then they’ll leave and you can unpack and move on with your day.

Good. Right. It’s settled.

“Thanks for coming you guys—it shouldn’t take long, I just have some things in a storage unit nearby. Just a small garage full, maybe less.” Easy peasy. If they fill both their trucks, we should be able to get it all in one trip to the unit.

I rented it a few months back from Hollis when I knew I’d be back in Chicago though I couldn’t move anything in yet. It had to be cleaned, guest bedroom carpet replaced, a few odds and ends fixed.

The usual.

The unit is three streets over, with an alley for convenience (a rarity in the city), so the guys won’t be standing in the street with cars zooming by, honking, people shouting while they try to load boxes into the truck.

Thank god—I can’t imagine what an ass Buzz’s brother would be if people were yelling at him to move his freaking truck so they could pass. I can hear it now: “You’re blocking the street!”

I grimace at the thought.

“Of course we want to help!” Hollis is cheery, sipping on her coffee and nibbling on a donut. Her fiancé looks cheerful, too, so the little bit of guilt I was feeling fades.

“She promised she’d blow me later if I didn’t complain,” Buzz announces nonchalantly, opening each cabinet and looking for a—“Where are your cups?”

I gawk at him, at the way he so casually mentions my cousin giving him a blow job later in exchange for his help at my new townhouse.

Is this what athletes are like?

“I haven’t unpacked them yet. They’re probably still in the storage unit.”

Buzz walks back to the counter, swipes two donuts from the box, and stuffs one in his mouth. Slaps his brother on the back. “Let’s get cracking so we can finish up early and watch the game.”

“I’m playing in the game, idiot.”

Buzz rolls his eyes. “It’s not even a division game, it’s preseason,” he informs me. “Let’s get cracking so you can get to the stadium on time to play in the game.” He kisses my cousin on the lips. “You stay here—we’ll go empty the unit and be back in half an hour.”

He snatches the key from the counter while his brother grumbles under his breath.

“It’s still a game and it’s still televised, dick.”

Alrighty then…

I watch as the brothers continue to volley insults back and forth, my cousin ignoring them both, as if this happens all the time.

They insult each other all the way out my front door and down the steps, can be heard bitching and moaning and lobbing slurs until the sound of two slamming truck doors and dual truck engines roar to life.

“Are they always like that?” I ask my cousin, moving to close the door behind them.

“They’re being polite in front of mixed company.” She laughs, taking a dainty bite of her pink glazed donut. “Sometimes I don’t know what to do with myself when they start in on each other.”

“Their poor mother.”

“That’s what I always say! They also have a sister—you’ll meet her at the rehearsal dinner—who’s just as bad.”

“And you love it,” I say, sidling up to the small counter in my kitchen.

“And I love it,” she agrees, blushing. “I love everything about how they’re a family of lunatics. I love how they act like they can’t stand each other, but they spend all their free time together. Tripp is Trace’s best friend. He says it’s Noah Harding, his teammate, but the truth is, it’s his brother.” She licks her frosting. “I cannot wait to hear his speech at the wedding—it’s going to be terrible.”

Terrible? Why would she say that? “How do you know?”

One of her perfectly manicured brows goes up. “This is Tripp Wallace we’re talking about. He probably doesn’t realize he has to do a best man speech at dinner—he’s going to be caught off guard, say something stupid, then their mom is going to be furious and it’s going to be amazing.” She gives me a once-over. “Come to think of it—Tripp is single.”

“No.” I laugh.

“Why? He’s adorable!”

Yeah—adorable in a grizzly, I-hate-everyone sort of way. If you’re into that sort of thing, he would be the guy.

“He’s not my type,” I lie. Physically, from what I’ve gleaned of him, Tripp Wallace is most definitely my type. Tall. Gorgeous and in great shape. Dark hair, dark eyes. Giant biceps for carrying my boxes. Huge hands he used to push his brother out the door with…

“Don’t lie to me. I’ve seen the guys you’ve gone out with.”

She’s not wrong—I love athletes. Maybe not professional ones, though. College boys are less intimidating and it’s not as if none of my father’s players have hit on me in the past. They definitely have, but I never felt like it was sincere; it was a way into the family.

I haven’t made the same mistakes Hollis has—I have never dated any players.

I like to window-shop but have never bought the goods.

“You should show him your moves later,” my cousin is saying, still picking at the donut I wish she’d just shove in her mouth and eat already. Jesus, who nurses a donut this long? Bite into it!

“What moves?”

“Your karate moves—I bet he’d love that.”

Fun fact: I am a first degree black belt in karate. My mother wanted me to learn self-defense at an early age—thought it was more useful than gymnastics or dance team or ballet—and by the time I was in high school, I’d earned my first black belt. When I was leaving for college, I’d earned a stripe.

Basically I can flip a grown man easier than I can do a cartwheel.

“You can’t just bust out karate moves—that’s for self-defense only,” I say indignantly, chin tipped up. “Besides, what reason would I have to utilize my martial arts skills on him?”

“Badassery.”

That’s a good reason. “That’s not a reason.”

“Showing off? Peacocking? Men do it all the time.” Finally, Hollis commits to tearing off a chunk of sugary deliciousness. “At least talk to the man. I’ll probably make you dance with him at the wedding.”

Here I thought her fiancé was the matchmaker in their duo. “What are you going to do, make an announcement in front of the whole room?”

“Don’t worry about me, worry about you.”

In the short time she’s been with Buzz, Hollis has gotten fun. Her messages are funny, her laughter is easy—happiness radiates from her. It’s infectious.

Her phone buzzes. “The guys will be back in ten minutes. They have most of it loaded into the back of the trucks already.”

“I don’t even want to look when they get back.”

Hollis laughs. “I guarantee you your shit is piled a story high, like the Santa sleigh in the Grinch. Crap spilling everywhere.”

Definitely not going to look when they pull up.

“Just tell them where you want the boxes when they bring them in. I’ll be the job supervisor.”

“I am just so thankful you’re helping me right before the wedding. I know you have a million things you need to be doing.”

Hollis shrugs. “Nah, don’t think twice about it. My mom and sister and Madison have turned into wedding-planner-zillas—I haven’t had to do anything. Mostly because when I try, they get frantic and it screws up what they’ve already planned. This wedding is my mother’s dream and Fiona is so excited. You’d think it was Madison getting married the way she’s carrying on, and honestly?” She picks at one of the sprinkles covering the donut. “I’m happy to let them. Trace and I just want to be married—we weren’t going to do a big wedding, but my family wanted one. And his mother would have a heart attack if we went to Fiji and eloped.” Another shrug.

“You’re a better woman than I am. No way would I let my mother and sister and friend plan my entire wedding.”

“Seriously? It’s amazing. All I have to do is show up. It’s like having all these surprise parties—and you know how I love surprises.”

She always did.

“Still. I would kill my mom. She would drive me completely bonkers.” My mother has always controlled everything I’ve done. Putting me in the activities she wanted me to be in, signing me up for classes she felt were cultural—not necessarily ones I was interested in. Made me hang out with girls who were from good families, not girls who were fun to play with.

The only freedom I ever tasted was those four years at college—one I chose that was a plane ride away.

My moving back to the city where I grew up isn’t what I planned for myself. I wanted to be far away and stay far away. Problem is? No job offer could compare to the one my father, uncle, and grandfather made me.

The plan? Work the next five years, stash the cash, then search for my dream job.

My cousin’s voice interrupts. “You’re zoning out on me. Earth to Chandler.”

My head shakes. “Sorry. I was just…”

“If you married Tripp, we would be sisters.”

That is the sort of thing we daydreamed about as kids, marrying brothers and becoming sisters. Even though Hollis has a sister, they weren’t as close as she and I were. I don’t have any siblings, but have always wanted one.

It would be so perfect.

If the guy wasn’t a douchecanoe.

I scrunch up my face. “I love you, but…”

“So no to Tripp? You don’t want me to…” She gives her upper torso a shimmy. “Facilitate a union?” Her brows go up and down.

I laugh. It’s sweet that she thinks he’d even want to date me if she suggested it to him. “No, I’m good.”

Her eyes trail to the swag bag from her bachelorette party, and she gives an “Ooo” before pulling it toward her. Peers inside. Roots around. “The vibrator isn’t in here. Did you get one?”

“I did.”

Hollis glances up at me. “Where is it?”

I stare at her silently, unwilling to point toward the bedroom or admit that I may have tried using it last night before passing out in bed with exhaustion.

“Chandler Westbrooke, were you jerking off last night?” she shouts as the front door opens and Buzz sticks his head through, ears perking up at the tail end of Hollis’s statement.

“Babe, we’re back.” He has a shit-eating grin on his face.

Oh good, he didn’t hear her talking about—

“Who was jerking off last night?” he asks, coming all the way through, holding a box labeled Books. “Was it you?”

He’s looking straight at me and I go to the fridge, yanking it open solely to avoid his gaze. Stare down at the empty ice box, glowing light illuminating the zero foods I have stocked on the shelves.

“We were talking about sex toys.”

I want to groan when Hollis supplies Buzz with details.

No we weren’t talking about sex toys! She was, I want to say, but I don’t want to sound like a petulant child. One who’s embarrassed to discuss sex in front of practical strangers—even ones who are about to become family.

“I hate when you call it jerking off,” Buzz tells his fiancée, kissing her on the top of the head on his way to the living room. “It’s such a dude-like thing to say.”

She pops donut onto her tongue. “Is there a daintier way to say it?”

“Yes. Just say masturbate,” he says over his shoulder. “Or pleasuring yourself.”

“Ew.” In goes more donut. She chews.

In walks Tripp.

He doesn’t speak, just stands there holding a cardboard shipping box, brows raised expectantly.

“Living room.”

Off he goes.

What is his problem? I mouth to Hollis so he doesn’t hear me.

My cousin shrugs, and we follow him with our eyes as he passes by again, heading back out to the truck for more stuff.

“Probably sexual frustration. He doesn’t date much.”

“Dating and sex have nothing to do with each other,” Buzz remarks, passing by the kitchen and out the front door.

Does the man have supersonic hearing? Jesus, he was in the other room when Hollis said that.

“We should probably help them.” I worry my bottom lip, not wanting to appear lazy after the guys came to help me move.

“Pfft, let them do it. Have you seen them? They’re built like tanks.” She lifts her coffee mug and slurps. “Besides, I’m the bride.”

“I’m not.” I glance at the front entrance. “Are they going to think I’m a brat for not helping?”

My cousin scoffs. “Pfft, no—Buzz told Tripp it was your birthday so he wouldn’t make you feel bad for taking it easy.”

Why does that not surprise me? “Let me guess—he’s the type of guy who tells the servers at restaurants it’s someone’s birthday for the free dessert.”

She nods. “Free dessert, yes, but mostly the embarrassing singing part.”

Sounds about right.

The guys reappear, Buzz holding boxes, Tripp carrying two suitcases I remember packing clothes inside of.

He stares at me.

“Those can go in the bedroom,” I direct. “It’s down the hall and—”

“Is it the only bedroom?” Tone impatient.

“Yes.”

Rolls his eyes. “Then I think I can figure it out.”

Rude.

I stand, slack-jawed at the end of the hallway while he hefts the gold suitcases I stuffed to the gills, down the hall, each arm carrying one.

He returns from my bedroom and disappears outside, quickly reappearing with a side table clenched between his hands, blank expression on his face as he regards me for instruction.

He speaks. “Bedroom?”

“Yes please, on the right side of the bed.”

I trail behind him for lack of anything to do, not wanting to unpack with people here.

I find Tripp Wallace—all six foot something of him—standing next to my bed holding the side table. He’s staring down at my carpet, bending at the waist to scoop something off the floor.

When he stands, he’s holding something pink; it takes my brain a good ten seconds to register The Quickie, plucked from the floor and pinched between his fingers.

“You dropped something.” For the first time today, I glean a glimpse of a smile on his face. His arm is raised, hand holding my new joy buzzer, inspecting it with amused eyes. “Is this yours?”

Duh. Who else’s could it be?

It must have fallen on the floor in the middle of the night from all my tossing and turning.

And he’s touching it!

“I didn’t…” I stutter, horrified. “I don’t…” I’m traumatized, even though I know I’m hardly the only woman to own a vibrator. I just got it last night!

“You should keep this in a drawer if you don’t want anyone to see it.”

My mouth gapes again. As if I wanted him to pick it up off the floor! As if I’m flaunting my sex toys!

And why the H is he still holding it like a pickle?

I want to die. Or slap it out of his hand.

“It was a gift,” I say lamely, defensive, which isn’t necessary. This is my house. My bedroom. Why am I explaining myself—it’s none of his damn business! Besides, who isn’t masturbating these days?

You aren’t. That was the whole point of trying to get off last night.

It was a fail, but at least I tried.

“A gift?” He’s wide-eyed, still holding the vibrator. “Who gives a dildo as a gift?”

“It’s not a dildo!” I want to lunge forward and grab it, but I also do not want to look like a complete mental person by leaping across the bed.

“Yes it is.” He wobbles it.

“No it’s not!” Because I hate that word and refuse to lay claim to owning one. “There’s a huge difference.”

“Fine.” His finger pokes at the gold power button. Then he crosses his arms and the entire jiggly pink wonder disappears beneath his folded forearms. “What’s the difference?”

My brain scrambles. I pull the phone from my pocket and google ‘What’s the difference between a dildo and a vibrator?’ I read the results. “A vibrator contains a battery, or USB, so it is electronic and can vibrate, while a dildo has no battery or power source and cannot vibrate.” I thrust my phone in his direction. “See?”

“That doesn’t prove your point. They’re both rubber cocks.” He unceremoniously tosses the pink bullet to the bed. “The only difference is one needs a battery.”

He strolls out of the bedroom, as if he didn’t just manhandle my vibrator, call it a cock, then toss it on the bed casual as you please.

Tripp and Buzz are back outside, and when I look down to the street at them standing beside his truck, sweat forms on my brow.

Oh god—is he telling his brother he just found a dildo in my bedroom? Probably. Hollis did say they tell each other everything; why wouldn’t he give him this scoop?

I straighten my spine; Buzz wouldn’t care even if his brother did tell him my little secret. Still. I stare at them out by the truck, watching like a hawk, until Hollis interrupts my little spy session.

“They have to be almost done, yeah?” She’s standing beside me now, gazing out at her fiancé adoringly, fiddling with the large diamond on her ring finger.

They are almost done, having made quick work of unloading the pickups, contents almost entirely in the house. These boys aren’t messing around.

“What do you think they’re talking about?” Hollis wonders.

Dildos and vibrators.

“Not sure.”

“They really don’t have a ton of time to dawdle—Tripp has to get to the stadium.”

“What time is his game?”

“Seven.”

Dang. One game eats up the whole day? I did not know that.

My cousin gives me a sidelong look. “We’re watching it at home if you want to come over. I’ll make a charcuterie board and you can chill.”

“Ugh, that sounds delightful, but I should unpack. At the rate I’m going, I’ll never get moved in before the wedding.”

“If you change your mind, I’ll send you the address again.”

Hollis moved in with Buzz shortly after they got engaged and I’m renting her old townhouse. It kind of worked out perfectly, the timing and all.

“I will.” I hug her even though she’s been at my place for the past forty-five minutes, licking at donuts and drinking her coffee.

They’re here another twenty minutes while the boys haul boxes in, now stacking them two, three high—as many as possible without things toppling over, not because they’re in a rush to unload the bed of the truck, but because they’re…it’s some weird sibling rivalry thing.

Buzz has two boxes that must be heavy, but Tripp has three, giving his brother a jab with his hip just as they reach the stairs. Buzz stumbles, curses.

“Tripp, knock it off!”

Tripp laughs, loud and good-humored—I can’t see his face, but I imagine the whole thing has been transformed by that laugh, smile shielded behind the stack of boxes in his strong arms.

“Where do you want these?” his voice asks.

“Living room.”

Before I know it, I’m collapsing on my couch—not from exhaustion, but from the piles of totes and boxes, hours’ worth of work taunting me.

I order a pizza and, sighing, heave myself off the sofa.

Time to get to work.

Five

Tripp

Tonight I was able to dress myself.

I grunt, sliding down out of my pickup truck, feet hitting the pavement of the church my brother is going to be married in.

I’m late by an hour, not because I was fucking around at home, but because I’ve been at work, stretching with the trainer after a minor injury from last week’s preseason game.

My brother and Hollis tried their best to book their wedding for a weekend Buzz and I both were in the off-season, but that was a damn near impossible feat and they weren’t able to pull it off.

We are never not training, so even though I don’t have any games, haven’t started my regular season, and we’re still only working out and practicing, the season is rapidly approaching.

Choosing a wedding date was like moving mountains, and in the end, they sandwiched it between Buzz’s baseball season and my football schedule.

My hair is still damp from the shower I hastily took before leaving the stadium, the clothes on my back a little casual for a church rehearsal, which I’ll hear about from my mother as soon as she catches sight of me.

This wedding is like the Met Gala for Genevieve Wallace—you would think she was the mother of the bride.

I’ll admit, Hollis has been amazing, taking my mother’s input and letting her do some wedding planning without balking, which has turned Mom into something of a momzilla. Suddenly, she’s making demands of me—do this, don’t do that, wear this, cut your hair, don’t say this, try to smile.

Try to smile? Pfft.

I smile plenty.

Frowning, I shuffle my way into the building, flanked by potted trees that, apparently, are going to have pale pink roses in them? And white twinkling lights?

Who knows. It’s like the goddamn bubblegum forest barfed all over the church and I have to hear all about it from my brother and his fiancée every time I go over to their place or they come to mine for food.

I cannot escape this wedding, their bliss, the nonstop merriment.

I cannot wait for it to be over.

Also, my brother refused to delay his honeymoon so I could go to the Maldives with them, a place I’ve never been, and is it too much to ask that they fucking postpone it until February?

They wouldn’t even listen to reason; he was such a selfish dick about it.

“Get your own wife. You are not coming on my honeymoon. Are you insane?”

“Who gives a shit if I don’t have my own wife—stop being greedy. It’s not like you’re going to be alone on that island, so what if there’s one more person?”

Me.

“I don’t need my brother breathing down my neck while I’m trying to get laid and romance Hollis.”

“What if we all come?” That idea sounded horrifying, even to my own ears. “Then I’d have someone to hang out with in the sun and sand.”

“We who?”

“You know, me, Mom, Dad, True—”

My brother threw his hands up in the air at that point. “Stop talking.”

“I’m going to get me one of those pedicures where you put your feet in the fish tank and they eat the dead skin off your heels.”

“You aren’t going to do shit.” Buzz laughed. “And that’s fucking disgusting.”

But cool.

“Why won’t you let me live my life? You’ll hardly know I’m there. I’ll get my own hut over the water if it’s going to be such a damn problem.”

“Oh, I’ll know you’re there alright. You’re like a fucking bull in the housewares department.”

A bull? “There’s no need to name-call.”

“You’re not coming.”

“You don’t have to answer now. Take some time to think about it.” I reached over to press a finger to his lips, but he smacked my hand away.

“I don’t have to think about it. The answer is no and will always be no. Nein. Nyet. Ochi. Non. Loh.”

Dang. I didn’t realize he knew so many languages.

“Shhh.” Is he being a bitch about this because I stole the last of his filet mignon leftovers out of his fridge? “No need to be hasty.”

Buzz isn’t the only Wallace who can be tenacious. I was the fucking Most Valuable Player at the Super Bowl three years ago, chump. Suck on that.

“Go home, Tripp, or I’m telling Mom.”

My face scrunched up, indignant. “You always tattle on me.”

“No, you always tattle on me.”

It’s true, I do. But it’s not like he doesn’t always deserve it…

My brother is getting married.

When I walk through the door to this house of prayer, my family will be gathered there, for him. And Hollis.

Her family too, a cause for celebration bigger than the World Series—which he’s never played in—or the Super Bowl. No one cares about those championships this weekend; they only care about Buzz and Hollis.

Trace and Hollis.

My fucking brother is getting married—I don’t know how many times I have to tell myself before I’ll begin believing it, before it’ll sink in.

The limit does not exist.

I stand stoically at the front of the church while they rehearse, Noah Harding, my brother’s best friend, serving as the officiant, going through his spiel while we look on, the entire process taking longer than it should because everyone and my goddamn brother keep cracking jokes.

Fine.

I will admit, it’s a pleasant evening.

And okay—I’ll admit, the room looks nice. Stunning, even, and I can say that even though I’m a guy, right?

Everyone is gathered around and on their best behavior, dressed up and decked out for the occasion—everyone, it seems, except me. In my after-workout gear, which normally I wouldn’t feel self-conscious about, but for some reason I do. Guilty even. The good news is my mom hasn’t found me and hasn’t chewed my ass out about my clothes yet, and no one has said a word.

But then—I was late, so not many people have noticed I’m even here.

It seems the ceremony is going to be casual, lots of personal touches, personal anecdotes about the loving couple from their family and friends, which I thought usually happened at the reception following the wedding, but what do I know about weddings? I’ve only been to a handful of them in my life. For some reason, I rarely get invited to them—and the ones I have been to are hella fancy and stuffy. Generally it’s been my teammates marrying high-maintenance women who spend hundreds of thousands of dollars showing off for their friends.

Who knows. Maybe everyone is already married, so there are no weddings.

Or, maybe I’m an asshole and no one wants to waste the space inviting me to their thing. Their event.

Whatever, like I have time for that crap.

The wedding planner is busy matching people together, her clipboard in hand, no doubt listing the pairings of the bridal party. We move through the motions of the processional or whatever it’s called—the grand march or some shit—where we walk down the aisle, two by two, like we’re marching onto Noah’s Ark. (Noah’s Ark from the Bible, not Noah Harding, the baseball player officiant standing on the pitcher’s mound. Er, I mean, podium.)

I pull at my crotch, adjusting my shorts, while the young woman beside me tries to push her hand through the crux of my bended elbow so we can start walking to the front.

“I’m Shoshanna Lohenstein,” she tells me, batting a pair of false eyelashes. They’re too black, too long, and flutter like engorged butterflies fucking her actual eyelids.

Shoshanna. Lohenstein.

If that doesn’t sound blue-blooded and snotty, I don’t know what does.

“You’re not the maid of honor,” I state matter-of-factly, hoping like hell they haven’t changed the plans and stuck me with this Barbie doll. “Where is Madison?”

“I’m the practice stand-in—Maddie is putting out fires with the mother of the bride. She’s like, losing her mind. Maddie, not Mrs. Westbrooke.” She pats my arm. “I hope you don’t mind.”

I snort.

From what I’ve seen of Madison Newtown, when it comes to parties and planning, she runs a tight ship and has everything under control. I wonder where she’s at, because I’d rather have her standing next to me than this socialite debutante—but I don’t care enough to find out.

“Whatever.”

I stare straight ahead to deter any conversation.

The last thing I need is to encourage the Shoshanna Lohensteins of the world.

Her nails—I look down at them digging into my bicep—are painted in bright colors, sunk into my skin as if she has no intention of letting go when we get to the end of the aisle.

I’m correct; I have to peel her off before fleeing to the groom’s side. Just the tiniest bit afraid, I chance a glance over my shoulder to find her leering at me like I’m a piece of meat.

Avoid that woman at all costs tomorrow night.

I manage to avoid her eyes the remainder of the rehearsal, made slightly easier now that she’s seated in one of the pews, replaced by Madison, who returned from wherever the hell she’d gone off to.

The minutes pass by.

I watch the clock at the back of the church. Stare up at the painted rectory. Watch the florists and planners and workers decorating the church for the ceremony tomorrow.

It’s a goddamn forest in here.

Romance exploding everywhere.

Then.

The whole thing is over, and the entire group is gathering toward the back of the church to discuss who’s riding with who to the restaurant for the rehearsal dinner, a clusterfuck if I ever saw one.

I jingle my keys and make for the exit.

“Bro.” I hear someone call out, but bro could be anybody. Plenty of these dudes could have a brother here.

I keep walking, but a hand clamps down on my shoulder, stopping me.

“Bro.” It’s Buzz. “Bro, can you give Chandler a ride to dinner? She came with me but Mom wants to ride with us and go over some last-minute stuff, so I’m sending Hollis with—”

He needs to stop using the B word before I lose my mind.

“It’s fine.” I cut him off, nodding toward his fiancée’s cousin, who lingers a few feet away, clutching her purse. “We don’t have to discuss it to death.”

My brother glares at me, shooting me a warning look. Can you be nice? he mouths.

I roll my eyes. Duh. I’m always nice.

I force a smile that feels more like a wolf grin, minus the fangs.

Shit. Maybe I am being a dick.

Too late now, as I’m ushered out with the rest of the herd, the wedding planner and florists needing the room to spread out the decorations and arrangements that still need to be placed.

I thought they were going to have a low-key situation, not this fancy, frilly, pretty crap. So many florals the fragrance makes me sneeze.

“Are you allergic to the roses?” Chandler asks as we head toward my truck.

“No.”

Maybe.

Who knows. I’ve never sneezed over flowers before, but I’ve also never been in a room full of hundreds of them, so maybe I am.

I hit the remote to unlock the doors and shoot her a sidelong glance.

She doesn’t look like the type of girl who has a hot pink vibrator stashed next to the bed; then again, I don’t look like the type of dude who has to jerk off a few times a week because he cannot get laid.

Looks can be deceiving.

The smallest running back on a football field can score the most points.

The largest linebacker can miss the easiest block.

The most unassuming wallflower can have a drawer full of sex toys.

I put that out of my mind as I hit the start button for my truck, engine noisily thundering amongst a parking lot full of luxury sedans and sport utility vehicles. Family cars.

“Thanks for the lift.”

“Sure.”

I hope she doesn’t keep talking—I have nothing to say.

“And thanks for helping me move. I don’t remember if I told you that or not.”

She did, only a dozen times last weekend while I was schlepping boxes into her house—as if I had all the time in the world to waste, fucking around with her move, this girl who is going to be my brother’s new family.

In-law.

Family-in-law.

Regardless, Buzz is excited, so I guess I should ease up on the indifference and throw the girl a bone.

Chandler is cute but meek, nothing to write home about. A woman who looks more like a recent college grad, or jailbait. I spare her a glance, keep my eyes to the front, small talk unnecessary.

“You were the one dressed like a lumberjack last week.” Chandler attempts to tease me, albeit shyly, eyes downcast and cheeks flushed.

I grunt, having no response to Captain Obvious, despite having just decided to converse with her for the sake of my brother. If she tells him I was rude, he’ll be pissed. It’s not that I worry about him, but he’ll squeal to our mom, and she’ll chew my ass out. I’m sick and tired of having my ass handed to me by our parents, having gotten more lectures these past few weeks than I did my entire youth.

“This is your brother’s special night—don’t ruin it.”

“You’re a reflection of this family—please don’t ice anyone out with your bad manners.”

Bad manners? Since when is being honest bad manners?

“Could you at least smile? It looks like you’re headed to a funeral, not an engagement party.”

“No, you may not bring Chewy to the wedding ceremony.”

What about the reception?

“No dogs! PERIOD!”

This whole month of festivities has been a drag. Who wouldn’t want my dog at the wedding? He’s fucking awesome!

Chandler is quiet, as if reading my mood, and when I glance over, she’s got her eyes trained out the window, chin propped on the hand resting on the door armrest.

Fine.

Good.

Dude, why are you being such a damn grouch? My brother’s voice suddenly becomes my conscience as my fingers grip the wheel tighter. But now that we’ve driven this far in silence, it would feel weird to suddenly make conversation.

Wouldn’t it?

It takes another ten long minutes to arrive at the restaurant where dinner is, and Chandler pops her door open and hops out before I can even think of going around to the passenger side to help her.

She climbed in just fine by herself—why would I help her down? Don’t women want to be independent?

Guilt niggles at me the smallest bit, the manners Mom instilled in us kids echoing through my head, rules about opening doors for women and ‘ladies first’ and showing respect and helping old people across the street.

It’s not disrespectful to let a chick open her own truck door—don’t be stupid, I tell myself. You don’t even know her.

I can’t think any more of it, because Chandler Westbrooke is gone, hightailing it across the parking lot like a rabbit afraid of its shadow.

Six

Chandler

The ride to the rehearsal dinner with Tripp Wallace was torture.

Absolutely the most awkward twenty minutes of my life. The guy couldn’t be more socially inept if he tried. Barely spoke, did not help me up into the truck, or down out of it, for that matter.

Not that I expected him to.

Okay fine—a very small part of me kind of did.

I let myself out and beeline for the door, beating him by at least twenty yards, leaving him sitting in the parking lot. It feels rude; I wasn’t brought up to leave anyone behind—but I get the feeling he purposely lingered so he wouldn’t have to walk with me.

And can we just talk about his wardrobe for a second? I know he came from work—I think Hollis said something about him having to practice earlier today—but couldn’t he have packed a more appropriate outfit to change into than shorts and a t-shirt? It’s as if he didn’t even try.

Not that I’m judging him.

But come on, we were in a church, and now we’re about to stroll into a nice restaurant for a lovely meal, and he’s wearing freaking shorts for crying out loud.

Unbelievable.

Put some effort into it—your BROTHER is getting married!

Can’t lie though…he smelled incredible.

I give my head a shake as I pull the door open, greeted by the hostess, who asks if I’m with the wedding party and leads me to the back room. Walking through, it has the same feeling as walking into the church—potted trees with glowing lights frame the doorway, Hollis following the theme throughout all her pre-wedding celebrations.

A twinge of something flutters in my stomach.

Jealousy?

No. It can’t be.

I love Hollis; I’m not jealous of her! That’s absurd.

I’m beyond thrilled she met someone, fell in love, and is going to spend the rest of her life with him.

I hug myself, handing over my shawl to the hostess so she can store it in the coat check closet, then I paste on a smile, glancing at the door for Tripp Wallace to come ambling in.

He enters—saunters, actually—casing the place as if he’s going to be robbing it later, eying everyone up but not greeting anyone.

I run my eyes up and down his body and immediately notice he’s not wearing the navy blue t-shirt he had on before. It’s a long-sleeved button-down, wrinkled. Red and black check plaid.

The same shirt he had on for the bachelor party, so it must have been in his back seat and he threw it on.

My eyes travel south.

Tripp is still wearing those damn shorts!

What the what is wrong with this guy?!

I watch as their mother approaches, taking him by the upper arm and smiling, speaking through clenched teeth. I wonder what she’s saying, can only imagine:

Her: Darling, what on earth are you wearing? You look ridiculous.

Him: It’s the only thing I had.

Her: But was it necessary to wear something you had in your back seat? And where are your pants?

Him: I don’t have pants.

Her: You should have gone home and gotten a pair. Or better yet, the mall is literally one mile away.

Him: Mom, you know I don’t like the mall.

She pats his hand.

Her: I know, baby boy. You don’t like anything.

Also her: You are a wrinkly mess. This is a disgrace.

Him, pouting: I’m not the baby, I’m the oldest.

Him: This whole thing is Buzz’s fault. I didn’t have any time to get ready today.

Her: Stop blaming your brother for the fact that you are wearing dirty clothes to a fancy sit-down dinner.

Him: They were clean when I put them on last weekend.

I snicker, knowing full well he’s getting his ass chewed out for the way he’s dressed, because that’s what mothers do because that is their job.

From what I hear, Genevieve Wallace doesn’t mess around when it comes to her family; a woman doesn’t raise two professional athletes and a successful daughter who is in the same industry by mollycoddling and mincing words.

I snatch a champagne flute from a passing waiter and smile into the rim of the glass as I take a sip.

Madison sidles up to me, nudging me with the tip of her elbow, standing so close I can smell her floral perfume. “Hey pretty lady, I finagled it so you’re sitting next to me. We can eye-fuck the groomsmen from across the main table.”

I don’t want to eye-fuck anyone, let alone any of the groomsmen. They consist of professional baseball players; a few guys from Buzz’s childhood; my cousin Lucien, Hollis’s brother; and one other guy I think must be Buzz’s agent?

Actually, he is kind of cute. Normal-looking, not a hunky, over-exercised and over-toned neanderthal of a man.

Normal. Aka: my type.

“Good, I’m starving.”

Madison pushes her long bangs out of her eyes. Her hair is cut into a long, graduated bob with sideswept bangs. It’s highlighted to perfection and coifed for a beauty pageant.

She nudges me again and leans in closer. “I heard there was a vibrator mishap on moving day—was it The Quickie that the guys found?”

I stare straight ahead and feign ignorance. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Tripp told Buzz you had a pink dildo on your floor when they moved your stuff in and I’m assuming it’s the one I gave y’all for the bachelorette.” She sips from her own glass. “Love that dress by the way. Super cute.”

My ears turn pink. “Can we all please stop calling it a dildo?” I chug whatever is left in my glass. “And what a gossipy little snitch! What did he do, rat me out as soon as they got in their cars to leave?”

“Tripp told Buzz and Buzz told Hollis and Hollis told me. So, yeah. That’s probably exactly what happened.”

“Why would he even care?”

She taps her toe and tilts her head. “Honestly, he probably doesn’t. I mean, look at him.” Her glance is thrust in his general direction. “He’s wearing that broke ass-outfit, looking like he just rolled out of bed—to his brother’s rehearsal dinner. Do you think he gives a shit about finding a vibrator on your floor? No. He’s just bored.” Madison frowns. “Tripp Wallace has no manners.” Then. “Don’t tell anyone I said that—I don’t want it getting back to me, ha ha.”

“There are worse things you could call him than ill-mannered.” I sniff.

“Ill-mannered.” She giggles. “I’ll never get used to how proper you talk.”

Trust me, I’m not doing it on purpose.

“Should we sit? I’ve already circulated, so I think we can take our seats now.”

I’m pulled toward the dinner table, toward the front of the room where the bridal party is seated.

There are place cards on each plate—small cream rectangles of paper with our names hand-lettered in calligraphy—and I remove mine when I sit so I can fold the linen napkin across my lap. I pop the little paper token in my handbag. Not sure why I keep my name tag, but I do, tucking it away where it will most likely be forgotten until the next time I use this clutch.

Which will be never, because where do I go?

Nowhere.

I sigh, watchful as the guests in the room begin taking their seats, everyone doing a slow walk around the U-shaped table to find their place setting.

I feel Tripp Wallace hesitating beside me, standing behind the chair, hands on the seat back. Give his big, strong hands a sidelong glance and gulp, reaching for my water goblet and taking a healthy swig.

He tentatively pulls the chair out from the table and sits, giving me a nod.

His elbow bumps my upper arm.

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” He can’t help that he is built like an army tank.

Tripp folds his arms in and looks horribly uncomfortable.

He moves to take a drink of his own water and bumps into me again. “Shit, sorry.”

I smile to myself. Poor guy.

In a weird way, I feel a pang of sympathy for him.

He spreads his legs, bumping my knee.

I take another sip of water, the heat from his thigh seemingly burning a hole through the fabric of my dress where it’s covering my leg.

I shift in my chair, wishing they’d get this show on the road—start serving food, the bride and groom both stand to give their ‘thank you’ speeches for all the help and blah blah blah we can’t wait for tomorrow thank you for being part of it.

Servers begin refreshing waters as seats fill, taking drink orders, setting down carafes of iced water.

My beautiful cousin, dressed in white, takes a seat at the head table, her fiancé standing until she’s settled. He kisses the top of her head before sitting himself, putting his arm on the back of her chair.

She leans back into him so he can plant another kiss on her temple, the pair of them smiling contently, radiating joy.

The butterflies in my stomach stir.

Food starts appearing from out of nowhere, and a playlist comes on over the speakers located in each corner of the room. It’s full of flowers and trees and twinkling lights.

Magic.

And this is just the rehearsal dinner…

I wonder what tomorrow is going to be like. I haven’t actually seen Hollis’s dress, and they weren’t done decorating the church tonight—there were still three more trucks full of plants and props in the parking lot when we pulled out, ready to unload.

The wedding planner will be pulling an all-nighter, that much is certain.

To my left is Tripp, to my right is another guy I’ve never met, and I peer down at his place card: Ryan Sherman.

Huh.

He doesn’t look like any relation of the Westbrookes; he must be on Buzz’s side of the family.

But then…why isn’t Tripp talking to him?

I shrug, then turn. “Hi, I’m Chandler.”

He tilts his head. “Ryan.”

“I’m the bride’s cousin,” I tell him, filling in the details he didn’t ask for.

“I’m here for the free food.” He laughs, napkin still on his plate.

“Oh.”

“Just kidding,” he finally supplies with a laugh. “I went to high school with Buzz—I’m doing a reading at the ceremony.”

“Ah, okay. I’m doing a reading too.” A short one, because they don’t want the ceremony to stretch on too long.

“Can you believe the bastard is tying the knot?”

“Um…” How do I reply to that?

“How you doing, man?” He reaches around me to smack Tripp in the bicep. “Long time no see, right?”

“Right.”

I glance back and forth between them. “Did the two of you hang out together when you were younger? Or are you just Buzz’s friend?”

“Nah man, we go way back. I used to hang out at their house all the time. Played baseball with Buzz.”

“Did you play in college?”

“No, I turned down the scholarships.”

Tripp snorts.

“I’m happy for him though.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m in healthcare.”

Healthcare? That could mean so many things. “Are you a doctor?”

Tripp snorts again and I shoot him a scowl. What is his problem?

“IT.”

“IT?” I repeat, not sure how information technology is considered healthcare.

“I work at St. Joe’s Hospital on their database.”

Then why didn’t he just say he’s in computers?

“Healthcare my ass,” a low voice says. “What an idiot.” He mutters so quietly I have to strain to hear and think I must be mistaken. He did not just call Ryan Sherman an idiot.

Did he?

We go about ignoring each other—clearly he has no interest in the polite, meaningless conversation you’re required to partake in when in mixed company. Or seated next to someone at a party. Or because you’re a nice person!

Polite conversation was instilled in me as a child by my stuffy, snotty parents.

I almost lick my lips when the leafy salad is set down in front of me, heaped full of lettuce, cucumber slices, beets, carrots, crisp snap peas, and a few bright red cherry tomatoes. Using the tip of my fork, I give those a nudge toward the edge of my plate; they are my least favorite when it comes to vegetables.

“Are you going to eat those?” Tripp’s voice asks, all the while his thigh’s continuously bumping mine under the table.

“They’re…not my favorite,” I say by way of explanation. It’s neither a confirmation nor a denial, but his knife is already rudely seizing them both. That’s right, he uses the serrated knife intended for steak and other meats to claim the tomatoes.

“Cool.” He flicks them onto the top of his own salad, already chomping away like a cow gnawing on cud.

Basic Etiquette 101? Don’t take the food off of someone else’s plate at a dinner party! I hardly even gave him permission. What a brute!

Nostrils flaring, I do my best to continue eating with him breathing heavily beside me. The noises he’s making have me wanting to scream. Listening to him is worse than listening to someone slurp on cereal—or soup.

If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he was doing it on purpose…

We ignore one another.

The salads eventually get removed, replaced by our main entree; mine is baked chicken with gravy, more vegetables, mashed potatoes, mushrooms, and—

“Are you going to eat those?” Tripp is gesturing with his head toward my mushrooms, eyes homed in on them.

Those are my mushrooms. “Yes.”

His shoulders fall.

When I reach for my dinner roll, placed on the small saucer to the left of my plate, our hands touch when Tripp’s meaty fingers grip my bun.

“I swear on all that is holy, if you touch this bread, I will stab you with this butter knife.” I flash it at him before lowering it below the surface of the table.

Both the dark, bushy brows over his onyx eyes shoot into a hairline that’s even darker, shock and awe across his face.

“You’re mean.” He retreats with a glower.

Well duh—I’m hungry, too. “You can’t just steal someone’s food.”

“I wasn’t stealing—I was asking. You’re tiny, so I assumed you don’t eat.”

Tiny?

Don’t eat?

No one in my entire life has ever called me tiny, implied that I was tiny, or assumed I wasn’t going to eat all my food.

I’m average. Normal. Your typical body.

Five foot six and a size eight, ten if I eat ice cream and dessert for a week.

I have jeans for both occasions, but what woman doesn’t? I narrow my eyes to gauge his sincerity. Is he insulting me? Or is he being honest?

Tiny? Bless his heart. His brains must be addled from being tackled on the football field one too many times.

“Right,” I say, retrieving the roll and tearing it in half, watching with satisfaction as his eyes greedily watch the entire thing. Baiting him because he wants it and cannot have it.

“I’m six foot three. My brother purposely fed me rabbit food.”

I glance over at his plate; placed in its middle is the smallest filet mignon I have ever seen, three delicate steamed carrots, and some parsley.

It is indeed rabbit food.

Still. I hardly believe Buzz would do this to his own brother, on the eve of his wedding.

“Why on earth would he purposely not feed you?” Tripp is huge and could eat a steak the size of this plate! That one is the size of a…of a plum.

Tripp rolls his eyes in a way I have not seen an adult do, so dramatically it takes his entire body to execute it. “Look around! Everyone else has a ribeye, or an entire chicken on their plate! I don’t even have mashed potatoes! And look how small my dinner roll is.”

He holds it in the palm of his hand; it is in fact the size of a walnut.

I snicker.

“Are you trying to suggest your brother has the time to arrange bird food with the caterers just to be a jerk?”

“Now you’re catching on.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

He crosses his arms like a petulant child. “Why does everyone take his side?”

I gape at him. “Are you for real right now? I’m not taking his side, I’m merely pointing out the fact that Buzz is like, super busy right now and why the heck would he ruin your dinner?”

“Because this is what he does.” He stuffs the entire tiny hunk of bread into his mouth. It barely counts as carbs.

Still not convinced he’s not full of shit, I cross my arms, contorting my mouth. “You’re being really dramatic.”

I go about cutting my chicken breast with a knife and fork, the juicy center giving off the most delicious aroma.

Tripp sticks his fork into the center of his steak.

It’s basically the size of a meatball.

I stifle a laugh as he nibbles at it, eyes rolling back theatrically.

“Mmm. Yum, so good. Best little meat I’ve had all day.” He moans again, this time drawing attention to himself. “Nom.”

When I raise my eyes to the center table, Buzz is watching with a smirk on his face. Lowers his head and continues eating until my cousin elbows him in the rib cage. She sets her napkin to the side of her plate, pushes her chair back, and stands.

Comes striding the few feet it takes to get to us and stares down at Tripp’s meal.

“What is this? Where is your food?”

We were just served, so theoretically, even if he was the world’s fastest eater, he’d have some sustenance remaining on his plate.

Tripp holds up his fork.

“What’s that?” Hollis points to his mini-muffin-sized meat, planting her hands on her hips and glancing back over her shoulder, at her fiancé.

“A steak lollipop,” he says.

“A what?”

In her head, I know she’s thinking, We’re not serving steak lollipops, because that’s exactly what I’d be thinking, too, if this were my wedding and my rehearsal dinner.

“And these are the carrots for my pet rabbit, Mr. Tibbles.” Tripp pokes at the orange spears, which are about the size of my pinky finger.

Hollis holds her arm up, gesturing for a server, then for the wedding planner.

They both swiftly come over.

“Can we get him some more food please? This is unacceptable.”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Westbrooke.” The server worries her bottom lip. “We had a list of guests’ dietary restrictions, and there was a note for Mr. Wallace’s plating.”

The wedding planner flips through the paperwork clipped to her pink clipboard. Her index finger roams down a column on one of the sheets. “Yes, here it is. We received a phone call about Mister Wallace and I made a note.” She clears her throat. “To avoid, um…” Her mouth contorts. “Er—it says…”

Hollis leans to read over the wedding planners shoulder. “Oh for god’s sake,” she sputters. “What is wrong with the two of you?”

Tripp chomps down on his dollop of steak. “What did he write?”

“I’m not reading this out loud.” Hollis snorts.

“Does it say anything about too much food giving me bloody diarrhea?”

She blinks. “How did you know?” Then, “Tripp, I am so sorry—there is a time and a place, and this was not the time for one of his jokes. We’ll bring you more to eat.”

“Don’t worry about it—your cousin and I are sharing.” He nabs a mushroom from my plate.

“No we are not.” I box him out again. “Bring him more food.”

He manages to steal my dinner roll, which has no doubt gotten cold from all our squabbling.

“I didn’t say you could have that!”

“Oh that’s right, you said you’d stab me if I took it!” His voice is loud and carries, and people are looking, but that was his intention because he’s glancing around, holding the bun in the air. “With a butter knife!”

“Lower your voice—you’re making a scene,” Hollis chastises. “She should stab you, preferably with your meat lollipop.”

“That sounds phallic when you say it, you know,” Tripp points out not so delicately, lowering his arm to tear into my bread with his teeth.

My cousin rolls her eyes, flipping her long hair. “You’re not supposed to flirt with the bride. It’s bad form.”

“Flirting?” Tripp scowls, chin tipping up. “I flirt with no one.”

“I know that. I’m just giving you a hard time.” She gestures to the caterer. “Another steak if you could, a baked potato if you have it, and probably more bread. For her, not for him.”

“Me want!” Tripp calls to their backs as they retreat, slouching in his tufted chair, pouting. “Why do only you get bread?”

“Because you had your grubby mitts all over my bun! You can’t feel up the merchandise without getting your germy germs on it.”

He looks amused, for once in his life. “Are you even listening to yourself right now?”

“No.” I position my body so I’m facing slightly away from him. “Go away.”

“You know,” he says, “you’re not as boring as I thought you were.”

Uh, what?

Was that supposed to be a compliment?

“Boring?” What a rude thing to say to someone’s face! Er, their back. “Excuse me?”

“Here I thought you were a real stick in the mud.”

“A stick in the mud?!”

He uses the opportunity to snag a chunk of my chicken. “Are you going to repeat everything I say, or are you going to let me eat in peace? I’m starving.”

Oh my god—it’s not like he’s sitting there without a meal. Tripp Wallace is so beyond infuriating! And impolite! And spoiled…and…arrogant! If I didn’t know he came from a good family, I would think he was raised in the wild, with wolves. The Paul Bunyan outfit from the bachelor party suited him perfectly.

Butthole.

“What did you just say?” He has more of my mushrooms poised at his lips, about to be shoved into his mouth. “’Cause it sounded like you called me a butthole.”

“I most certainly did not,” I huff, though I guess I said it out loud.

He laughs, exuberantly enough that his leg collides with mine. “I haven’t been called a butthole since sixth grade.” The mushrooms go in; he chews. “It’s my two favorite words.”

“Butthole is one word.” I sniff again.

“Okay Miss Know-It-All.” He chews on more of my food.

He doesn’t have to say the next few words; I can see him thinking them: Boring. Conservative. Shy. Obedient.

If only he knew…

Seven

Tripp

My brother is saying his vows.

Like, now. As in, I’m standing at the end of the aisle waiting for Hollis to appear for the grand march or the whatever it’s called. All eyes on the door—kind of like at the beginning of every football game, when we run out of the tunnel from the locker rooms to a stadium full of people.

I pull at the collar of my white starched shirt, the stark black tuxedo professionally fitted but still uncomfortable, cutting off my air supply—and my dignity.

Yanking on it, I make the mistake of glancing out into the pews and catch the eye of Shoshanna Lohenstein, whom I managed to avoid last night at dinner, though she tried to catch me coming out of the bathroom after I took a leak.

Her talon-like nails were out in full force.

I snicker into my boutonnière; last night, with the help of Clark O’Brien—a childhood friend of my brother’s—I painted HELP on the bottom of one wedding shoe and ME on the other.

My mother gasps and I don’t dare look at her, because I know she’s looking at me.

Why would she just assume I’m the one who did something wrong? It could have been anyone, but of course, they’re going to automatically accuse me.

Typical.

The white acrylic paint I bought at the craft store stains the tips of my fingers; my paint job was messy as fuck.

* * *

Buzz is a married man.

Just like the Super Bowl or World Series, the celebration after the ceremony—i.e., the big game—consists of tons of food, confetti, and alcohol.

Even the paparazzi are staked out outside the reception, a few select stations and publications allowed inside for exclusive photos.

MLB Network hovers in a corner, having gotten the rights for the first dance and cake cutting. Two photos for two million dollars. SportsCenter outbid them for the shots at the church and two from the honeymoon.

The honeymoon, I’d like to remind everyone, I was not invited to.

Begrudgingly, I slurp my wine and push the soup around its bowl, barely listening as Madison—Hollis’s best friend and maid of honor—stands to talk. And talk, and talk, and—

“…and now I’d love for the best man to join me in standing. Tripp Wallace would love to say a few words.” She hiccups and sits down, kissing Hollis’s face and blowing one to my brother.

A microphone is thrust into my hand.

What the fuck does she want me to do, give a speech?

My mother somehow magically materializes from behind, resting her hands on the back of my chair. Leans down to whisper, “You do have a best man speech prepared, don’t you, dear?”

Um, no, I don’t.

I lock eyes with True, my sister, placed a few seats down—the sly expression on her face a gloating one. She knows I have nothing to say and is going to roast me about it for years, I just fucking know it.

I stand, reluctant.

Pick up my wine glass for something to hold, keep my hands busy.

Didn’t someone tell Madison I’m an athlete, not a public speaker? What the hell do I say? The last time I was at a wedding, I barely paid attention to the ceremony, let alone the speeches at the actual reception.

Shit. I should have googled what to say.

The small crowd of guests look on, half of them bored, half of them waiting on pins and needles for what I’m about to say, and that damn Shoshanna, seated at what must be the singles table, licking her chops.

Cleat chaser…

Stay away from her if you get drunk, Tripp. Stay away from her if you get drunk—when you get drunk.

I open my mouth.

“We are gathered here today…” I start, causing the crowd to laugh. Crap, I sound like a preacher in church. “I mean—thank you for coming. Um…” I pause. “I’ve known my brother for all his life.” More laughter, and a deep scowl from my mother. “I’m Tripp Wallace, the groom’s brother.” I refuse to look over at my family again, and I want to die. Or get tackled by Arnie Felder, left tackle on my team, during practice.

Anything but this.

“Um.”

From the front head table, where Buzz is seated with his new bride—the new Mrs. Wallace—I hear his distinct chuckle.

“Go on. You’re doing great.”

No doubt this is his doing, in retaliation for me painting his wedding shoes. I want to tell him to fuck off, but this is his party and I don’t want to be rude.

Or get scolded by Mom.

“Um.” I pick at the on/off button on the microphone. “So. Buzz and I both play ball, and we’re always so busy, so none of us really expected him to ever find someone and settle down. Especially with someone like Hollis—I just assumed it would be with a groupie who managed to get herself knocked up.”

“Wow,” I hear someone from the crowd mutter.

“Hollis Wallace,” I go on. “How terrible does that sound together? Yikes.” I pull a face, let out a puff of air, and breathe into the microphone, the sound causing the speakers to emit a high-pitched screech.

More crickets.

I chance a glance over at my sister again. Her eyes appear to be damn near bugging out of her skull.

“I mean, come on—I’m only saying what everyone else is thinking.”

“Oh my god, is he drunk?” one of the bridesmaids asks another, whispering amongst themselves but loud enough for me to overhear. “Oh god, he must be.”

I ignore them.

Take a chug of wine, downing the entire glass.

It tastes like shit.

I open my mouth—but it’s not the sound of my own voice I hear when my lips part; it’s someone else’s. A feminine, amused voice. A chuckle. A low clap against a champagne glass.

“I think what Tripp is trying to say is…” Chandler Westbrooke is speaking, standing at the next table over, looking angelic and serene and completely in control. “It must have been fate for Hollis to meet a Wallace, because the names rhyme and go together so very perfectly, don’t y’all agree?”

Chandler begins clapping until everyone joins her, the echo of the microphone tapping a tambourine-style accompaniment, along with the clang from the glass in her hand. The ring on her hand glistens.

Hair twisted in an elegant bun, and it’s the first time I notice her all evening, having not seen her at the wedding ceremony since she wasn’t actually in it.

“We are all so happy for you both,” she tells the happy couple before facing the guests again. “I’m Hollis’s cousin, and for as long as I can remember, I’ve always aspired to be like her. Always independent, marching to the beat of her own drum. Following her own path and chasing her dreams. The one thing I remember her always wanting—besides a career in publishing—was her own family. Lots of kids. Y’all, I wouldn’t be surprised if we have another exciting reason to celebrate a year or two from now!”

My new sister-in-law covers her mouth with her hands to feign a giggle then throws her hands in the air as if to say Who knows! while her cousin goes on.

I stare.

Where the fuck did this come from? I was talking, for Christ’s sake!

Mousy, meek Chandler commandeering the room and hijacking my speech? So fucking rude.

Where does she get the nerve? I was doing fine on my own!

“Hollis and Trace,” she says, using my brother’s real first name, “today was incredible. The flowers, the ceremony, the vows.” She wipes one single tear form the corner of her treacherous, speech-stealing eye. “Trace, when you told Hollis you were her ride or die and that you knew you were going to marry her the moment you laid eyes on her, my heart melted.” Her hand goes to her heart. “No doubt you broke a lot of hearts today, am I right ladies?”

No doubt you’re a goddamn thief, I want to shout. I mean come on.

“Hollis, I love you. Trace, I cannot wait to get to know you better. Welcome to the family.” A few more claps. “Let’s all raise our glasses for a toast.”

The sound of glass clinking against cutlery rings throughout the room as guests raise their glasses—water glasses, wine glasses, highball glasses. “To Hollis and Trace—to Trace and Hollis. May you be blessed as husband and wife. We love you! Cheers!”

“Cheers!” The word is followed by tinging and clinging and lots of laughter. My eyes zero in on that damn scene stealer as she blows kisses at her cousin—and my brother—tossing a glance in my direction before taking her seat a few chairs down.

And here after the rehearsal dinner last night, I thought maybe she wasn’t so bad.

Turns out, she’s a glory hound.

* * *

At least the bastard fed me this time.

Satisfied, I watch the band strike their first few chords. Begin a popular song that’s currently at the top of the charts as Buzz and Hollis begin their cute, coordinated moves through a floral arch in the doorway of the banquet hall, leading into their first dance.

Everything according to plan.

Alone at a table I sit. The place settings and cutlery have all been cleared, and I’m hiding from the single women like a coward; it’s mostly bridesmaids and friends of the bride, man-hunting tonight because everyone knows weddings turn women into maniacal, boy-crazy, man-eating man-chasers. They get wedding fever, romanticizing everything leading up to the wedding, on the prowl, as if the event is a buffet of men ripe for the taking.

I will not fall victim to the bridal party.

Nope. Not happening.

I will continue eating these late-night snacks.

I have a career, a house, a truck, and a kick-ass dog at home waiting for me. There is nothing more that I need.

I wish the vultures would stop hovering—the whole business of them scouting the room for me is making my blood pressure rise, and hiding at a party when I should get up and join the guys at the bar is such a wussy thing to do.

I heard a few of them are smoking cigars out on the balcony. A cigar sounds fantastic right about now.

I stand.

Pop one more shrimp in my mouth, wiping my finger on a white linen napkin.

I get ten feet from the table before a hand cuffs my arm; I look down at it then up into the eyes of the freshly minted Mrs. Wallace.

Hollis Wallace.

I’ll never make the mistake of mocking that name again—not after an entire room full of people gave me shit for it.

“Are you going to the bar?”

She wants something; I can feel it in my bones.

“Was planning on it.”

“Would you do me a teensy-weensy favor?” Hollis has her hand on my arm, a smile on her face, and a sparkle in her eyes that has nothing to do with the chandelier above.

“Sure.” What favor could she possibly need?

“Could you ask Chandler to dance? She loves it but has been sitting there all night.”

Anything but that.

Who gives a rat’s ass if her cousin isn’t dancing? I sure as hell don’t. She has two working legs; it’s not like she can’t go dance by herself if she really wants to.

Chandler is a menace. “Don’t you think she’d dance if she wanted to? I don’t want to bother her,” is my lame excuse, taking the place of a flat-out refusal.

Hollis fake pouts, pushing out her lower lip. “No one has asked her.”

This isn’t a damn middle school dance—who cares if she’s acting like a wallflower. It’s not a crime to not dance at a wedding; in fact, who wouldn’t rather sit and shoot the shit with friends instead?

There isn’t a man here who wants to be dragged out onto the hardwood dance floor.

I glance around.

Except maybe that guy out there already. And that one. And that one—he undeniably appears to be enjoying himself. A fucking blasty-blast, that’s what he’s having.

“You’re telling me not one of these dudes has asked her?” I look around at the hordes of guys my brother invited.

“Not a single one of these dudes,” Hollis teases. “Besides, Chandler is shy.”

Shy = boring.

I stifle a yawn; that’s how fucking boring Hollis’s cousin is. The very last thing I want to do is trap myself by dancing with the chick who humiliated me during the dinner speeches.

“Please?” Hollis draws the plea out, eyes beseeching like a child begging for ice cream, not wanting to be let down. She has no other arguments than asking for this favor.

I’m sure there will be many more to follow in the upcoming years, but for now, Hollis Wallace has not asked me for a damn thing.

Well. If you don’t count helping Chandler move her shit from storage into her townhouse. That was a favor, but technically, Buzz was the one who asked.

“Fine,” I snap, resigned to the task.

“Oh goodie!” Hollis claps like women do when they’ve had a few too many drinks. “Yay!”

Goodie.

Yay.

A slower song starts and couples migrate onto the dance floor, one by one. The giant, crystal chandelier—brought in specifically for the event—glitters, tossing diamonds around the room like sparkles.

I drag my feet—literally drag them on the marble tile floor—until I present myself to an unenthused Chandler Westbrooke; she’s doing what I was just happily doing: socially distancing herself and pretending I didn’t just walk over. Like she can’t see me looming over her.

Faker.

She looks through me.

“Would you like to dance?” I jam my hands into the pockets of my tuxedo pants.

Her chin tilts. “No thank you.”

Excuse me? Did she say no?

One glance across the room has me meeting my new sister-in-law’s hopeful gaze.

She gives me a thumbs-up.

Fuck.

If I walk away, she’ll think it’s my fault we’re not dancing.

“I…” Uh. How the hell do you try to convince a woman to dance with you when she’s already told you no because she’s being stubborn? Big deal, I ate most of her food last night.

Luckily, I don’t have to wonder how to convince her, because no sooner do I part my lips to speak than I see Hollis dragging my brother across the room toward us, making a beeline.

When they arrive, she reaches over and grabs her cousin by the hand.

“I love this song! Come on, let’s all go dance!”

I swear, Chandler Westbrooke lets out an unladylike groan so loud it could wake the dead.

What the fuck! I’m a good catch, goddammit—why wouldn’t she want to dance with me? Not that I want to dance with her, but it’s the principle of the thing.

Chandler stands, her cousin’s hostage.

I tag along, unenthusiastically.

Hollis, you shady, tricky little shit.

She fits right in with the Wallace clan.

If she’s trying to play matchmaker, it’s not going to work; many have tried, all have failed. Including my mother and my brother.

Whatever.

Awkwardly, I decide where to place my hands on her body.

Chandler is small, shorter than me by maybe a foot, if my drunk math is correct. Maybe she’s five foot five to my six three? I don’t know, I don’t have a ruler, leave me alone.

Hesitantly, I do what my brother and every other dude on the dance floor are doing: put these paws on her waist. She half-heartedly places her hands on my shoulders. Like two kids at a middle school dance, there is enough space between us for another body, afraid of full-frontal contact.

“Sorry,” I tell her for lack of anything witty to say.

“It’s fine. We’ll survive for three minutes.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Chandler rolls her eyes. “Oh please, like you actually wanted to dance with me.”

I don’t deny it—she’s not wrong.

I didn’t and still do not.

“You don’t have to act so put out about it though.” Even to my own ears, it sounds like I’m sulking. Affronted by her indifference.

“I’m not put out about it—I’m taking one for the team,” she counters, riling me up even more.

Taking one for the team?

“Uh, plenty of women would die to dance with me” is my lame, ego-fueled reply.

My lack of a social life is by choice, not lack of options.

Chandler makes a show of looking around at the near destitute dance floor. “Oh my god, we should hurry and finish this dance. Just look at the line of women. It’s probably around the block—good thing this song is almost half over. Give the rest of the mob a fighting chance.”

Sarcastic little asshole.

And she looks so unassuming and sweet, not including the dildo I found in her room.

“Let’s just get through this,” I tell her, giving the crown of her head a glance.

Her hair is smooth and curly, twisted into some extravagantly elegant half-up, half-down do. Professional and fancy for one not part of the wedding party, though she was in the family photo.

“T-minus two minutes,” she reminds me.

“Is it necessary to do a countdown?”

“I like putting you in your place.” Her head is turned and she’s not even facing me anymore—she’s watching the rest of the guests dance and flirt and have fun.

“Putting me in my place?” Give me a fucking break. “You don’t have the balls to say boo, let alone put me in my place.”

“Okay.”

Okay? She just gave me the proverbial middle finger; god I hate when people just say okay as a reply. It’s worse when they text it. Worse than that?

K

“How much longer do we have?” I want to know.

I feel her sigh; it’s that heavy. “Behave and I won’t have to karate-chop you over my shoulder.”

“Karate-chop me over your shoulder—pretty sure that’s not a thing.” I pause. “As if you could flip me.”

Chandler’s mouth tips into a curve on one side. “Whatever you say, Tripp.”

She appears to be mocking me, but it’s difficult to really tell in this dim light, sparkles ricocheting off the chandelier, fucking with my eyesight.

“You know karate?”

“I’m a black belt.” She sniffs, indignant.

I snort. “Sure you are.” And I’m Paul Bunyan,and Chewy is Babe the Blue Ox.

“First degree.” Her brows are raised and she looks so incredibly like her cousin in this moment—the cousin who is watching our every move over my brother’s dumb shoulder.

I force a smile. See! Having so much fun! Great idea having us dance! I broadcast with my lying eyes.

“Liar,” I mutter through clenched teeth.

“Unfortunately, you sound like every man I’ve ever told that to. Not that I care.”

“You do care, or you wouldn’t have mentioned it. And it’s not even believable—come up with a better lie to reel men in with.”

Chandler’s eyes narrow, so much I discern it through the disco lights. “You’re such a cocky asshole.”

I shrug. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Sorry I called you an asshole.” She backtracks almost immediately. “I don’t even know you.”

I shrug again, unfazed. “I’m not sorry I called you a boring stick in the mud.”

Chandler hesitates.

Nostrils flare.

She’s doing a great job of keeping her cool considering I just lobbed an insult directly at her—

I’m off my feet in an instant, flat on my back in the center of the dance floor, staring up into Chandler Westbrooke’s satisfied face.

Disoriented.

Shocked.

“What the actual fuck.” I exhale, wind knocked out of me.

Hollis’s face appears. Then Madison’s. Then my brother’s.

“Dude!” Buzz is laughing hysterically. “She knocked you on your ass.”

As if I didn’t fucking know that, Captain Obvious.

“Thanks. Thanks so much, I wasn’t aware.”

That makes him laugh harder.

“Oh my god, Tripp, are you okay?” Madison is asking, pursing her red lips.

“I’m fine.” I lift my head, back aching as if I did just get slammed by Arnie Felder. Except it wasn’t a linebacker laying me out; it was Chandler Westbrooke.

She extends a hand, which I ignore. Buzz also extends his palm and I slap it out of my face.

“Get the fuck away from me,” I snap, feeling like a colossal idiot.

I can get up from the floor myself. I don’t need help.

“That was the best thing I’ve seen in my entire life,” my brother goes on while I catch sight of my mother rushing over.

Awesome.

A crowd is gathering.

“Don’t move him!” a woman’s voice shouts and I crane my neck to see Mom shoving her way through the masses. “It could be his spine! Someone call an ambulance.”

“He’s fine, Mom. He’s just being a pussy.” Buzz is looking down at me, giving my hip a nudge with the toe of his wedding shoe.

Hollis smacks him. “You can’t say pussy at your wedding.”

“Sorry.” He is not the least bit chagrined. “Tripp doesn’t need an ambulance—he needs a waambulance.”

If I were standing, I’d sock him in the balls.

“Boys, stop,” Mom fusses, dropping to her knees in front of me, wearing her sparkly mother of the groom dress, checking for bodily injuries—as if I’m on my back on a football field and she’s the medical staff. It’s a scene we’re all too familiar with.

“Sweetie, are you okay?” Mom’s hands are forcing my eyelids open and I swat them away.

“Mom, I’m fine.”

Just stunned.

What the hell is Chandler doing flipping me at a freaking party in the first place? What the fuck did I say that was wrong? Is she a total psychopath?

“Stop moving!” Mom demands. “Let me see your eyes. You might have a concussion,” she declares, much to my brother’s amusement. Dad hovers not far behind her, arms crossed, looking perturbed.

He rolls his eyes.

Fucking great.

My dad thinks I’m a pussy, too.

“Son, pick yourself up,” he’s saying in an authoritative tone, mouth set in a straight line.

“Roger, he might be hurt,” Mom tells him, worried.

“He’s fine. Anyone can see the girl tossed him on his rear.” He’s eyeballing Chandler with a healthy dose of respect. “Don’t say I blame her.”

I unfold myself from the ground, stiffly sitting up—as if I was down there doing crunches—and rise, swiping at the dust I managed to gather on my black pants and jacket.

Thanks a lot, Chandler.

She’s among the group of onlookers—as if she wasn’t the one who tossed me and left my corpse there to rot while the vultures gather.

What woman is so freakishly strong that they can put a grown man who’s twice her size on the floor like that? Christ.

I didn’t see it coming—and I see everything coming.

I glance at her again, giving her the opportunity to rush over and check my body for injuries, the same way my mother did. Fuss over me, ashamed by her actions, ready to make amends.

The woman just stands there, smug.

Chandler has nothing to say.

No defense, no apology.

Stands there with a shit-eating grin on her face. I hate to call it a smirk, but there’s no denying that smug countenance. And fuck if one of her brows doesn’t arch in my direction.

An arched brow of victory.

I showed you, that brow is saying, taunting me. Superior.

That’s one chick I’ll never call boring again.

Lesson learned.

“Nothing to see here,” I tell my friends and family, phones pointed in my damn direction. “Put those away, would you?” I shield my face, but the damage is done.

A SportsCenter journalist approaches.

I recognize her from the locker room; it’s Sunny Bellefonte and she often covers our games. Great, just what I needed—media coverage of me being dumped on the ground by a waif.

“That was something I wasn’t expecting to see at a classy wedding.” Sunny is chuckling. “What’d you do to piss her off?”

“Nothing.” Except call her boring and imply that she was less exciting than watching paint dry. “That was not part of your exclusive, by the way,” I complain, dusting off my knees.

Sunny’s laugh is patronizing as she sizes me up. “That hardly matters, Wallace—a dozen other people caught that on their phones and the video has already made it onto the internet.” Her finger hovers over her tablet. “Would you care to name the young lady who flipped you on your back?”

“No.”

“No?” Her blonde brows are raised. “Is she a girlfriend?”

“Hell no.”

“Yeah.” She taps her chin with the tip of her tablet stylus. “The independent, badassery kind of woman hardly seems like your type.”

Is she implying that Chandler Westbrooke is independent and badass?

Mousy and lame is more like it.

I whip my head around to glare at Sunny, reacting to her barb. “Not my type? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“No offense, Wallace, but you seem more like one to go for the flighty, submissive type. Not the kind who’s going to kick your ass in public and leave you lying there.” She’s laughing again, definitely condescending to me. To my face.

Is something in the water tonight? Why am I being ganged up on?

“I heard your speech at dinner.” Another sardonic laugh. “I’m sure half the ovaries in the room shriveled up and died, while the other half still want a piece of you.”

My sister-in-law didn’t invite any bimbos to the wedding, if that’s what Sunny is implying, so her theory holds no weight. Still, the fact that she thinks those are the only women who are attracted to me stings.

I’m butthurt. “Are they paying you to come here and harass me?”

“No, they’re paying me to get a photo of your brother getting a piece of cake set on his tongue by his lady love.”

“That happened an hour ago—why are you still here?”

“You never know what’s going to happen, and you, my friend, just made my whole evening of skulking in the corner worth it.”

“I hope they aren’t feeding you,” I grumble. “You’re nothing but a thorn in my side.”

Sunny laughs. “I think I’m the least of your worries. Everyone watching that video now thinks one of two things: One, you’re a dick who pissed off that girl enough she tossed you. Two, you’re a pussy.”

Are women allowed to use that word?

“Jeez, Sunny, don’t you have someone else to go harass? Noah Harding is here with his girlfriend—why don’t you go stalk them?”

“I talked to them already and got the pictures I needed.”

Dammit. “Go dance.”

“I’m here to work.”

“What about Duke Zemetz?” They call him Z-Man, and he’s actually not a teammate of my brother’s, but a member of another professional football team Buzz happens to be good friends with. A Pro-Bowler running back with a long career in front of him.

Nice dude.

Her ears perk up. “Duke is here?”

Bingo! The diversion I need. “Last I saw, he was by the snack buffet.” Hollis and Buzz had finger foods brought in, as well as food trucks outside, to feed guests and make sure no one left here soaked. Sloshed. Blitzed. Drunk.

Ubers and vans are lined up outside, too.

Sunny is already halfway across the room toward the food and Duke, giving me the chance to slip out the side door.

No one will miss me.

Least of all Chandler Westbrooke.

Eight

Chandler

Voicemail one: **beep!** Chandler, honey, it’s Mom. Are you going to call us back about that Wallace boy? What’s going on, sweetie? Mommy loves you, kiss kiss.

Voicemail two: **beep!** Chandler, Dad here. Mom told me to call you. I assume you’re coming to work on Monday like we planned—don’t forget to meet with HR first. And call your mother.

Voicemail three: **beep!** Hi Chandler, my name is Sunny Bellefonte and I’m with SportsCenter. We haven’t met, but I was a guest at your cousin’s wedding this past weekend. Well, maybe not a guest, but I attended and got some fabulous photos and footage. I tried tracking you down at the reception, but you’d already gone and slipped through my fingers. I was hoping you’d have a chance to talk and would give me a call back. My number is…

* * *

On and on they went.

And the voice messages don’t come close to comparing to all the texts.

I hide.

Hole up in my new place for days, ignoring the messages that aren’t from close family and friends.

Hollis.

She brought me takeout last night, wanting me to feel at home, despite the reporters and paparazzi now breathing down my neck for an interview.

Breathing down my neck they are.

In droves.

Not that I blame them—they get paid when they get the scoop, and not a single one has gotten a sound bite from me. Not that they haven’t stopped trying.

I do feel a little guilty about the headlines, though. And the memes with Tripp’s shocked face as he hit the floor, stunned.

Chicago Blues star goes too far and gets tossed by pint-sized mystery woman…

This was before they discovered my identity as one of the Steam heiresses and didn’t know what to call me, though finding me wouldn’t have been difficult with more digging.

Lazy.

Chicago Blues star Tripp Wallace goes to the boards for bad behavior…

To the boards? That’s a hockey reference, so that reporter clearly had no idea what they were reporting. Typical.

But the part about him being thrown on his ass for unbecoming behavior? Makes me feel terrible.

Proof that things aren’t always what they seem, but I can’t very well come out and tell Sunny Bellefonte I used hard-earned karate skills for no good reason—flipping Tripp after he called me boring one too many times.

Petty much?

Yeah, no. I can’t say that or I’ll be the one who looks like a douchebag.

Still, it makes me uneasy seeing his face plastered all over the news, bad press roasting him.

I can’t eat.

Can’t sleep.

Guilt is a terrible bed partner…

Nine

Tripp

My phone is blowing up.

Has been for days.

Everyone wants a statement about the flip. The video has gone viral; news outlets from around the globe are having a field day with the story, with the video of Chandler and me dancing. Us arguing with our surly expressions then her tucking her hand beneath my armpit, lowering her head, and tipping me onto the cold, hard floor for the whole damn world to see.

I could have broken my neck!

Sunny Bellefonte won’t stop calling, relentlessly in pursuit of an exclusive interview—one I refused to give her the night of the wedding. She even went as far as sending her questions to my publicist—wanting to interview Chandler, us both, together—and after some brief snooping, it wasn’t difficult to obtain her information.

I mean, Chandler is the granddaughter of the Steam’s owner. You’d have to be living under a rock if you’re in sports and don’t recognize a member of the Westbrooke family when you lay eyes on one.

Same brown hair. Same smile. Same observant eyes.

“For the last time, I am not doing an interview,” I tell the team’s publicist for the second time today. He has been tailing me since I arrived at the stadium for practice, waiting near the locker room showers for me to emerge.

“That’s your decision, but you kind of look like a…” He pauses, hesitant. “Schmuck.”

A what? “How did I become the asshole in this narrative?” I throw a towel over the back of my neck, fresh from the shower, with Travis already riding my ass, trying to earn his overinflated wage.

I’ve been at work seven hours; can he not cut me some slack? I’m naked for fuck’s sake.

Jesus.

“Look Mr. Wallace, with all due respect, you haven’t had any press in a while—months. It might be good for your image, especially with, um…salary renegotiations coming up.”

Is he threatening me? It’s hard to tell with the sweat rolling down his nervous brow.

“How is getting bested by a girl good for my image, Travis? Help me see it. Paint me a picture, would you?” I scoff.

“Well.” He pushes his black-rimmed glasses farther up the bridge of his nose. “You’ve hardly been warm and fuzzy to reporters—Tom Brady did a whole segment for E! from his house in California.”

Fucking Tom Brady with his organic garden and his giant mansion and charity work and being married to a supermodel.

Big deal.

Like it’s hard?

“Honestly, Travis, I don’t give a shit what anyone else is doing or not doing, and I certainly don’t feel like giving an interview to Sunny Bellefonte is going to make a bit of difference in my contract negotiation.”

I’ve given Sunny enough already—she was in the room when the whole thing happened, saw it firsthand. If she didn’t get photos or video or a few sound bites when she had me, that’s her fucking problem.

“She might have been in the room,” Travis says, “but she didn’t scoop it. It was viral before she knew what was going on.”

“That’s her problem,” I reiterate, in no mood to beleaguer the point. I grab my navy duffle out of my cubby and pull out a clean pair of boxer briefs. “Sunny Bellefonte will make it through the day with or without the exclusive.”

Travis stands behind me, still hovering, awkwardly clutching his tablet and phone, looking a lot like Hollis and my brother’s wedding planner—or like he needs to take a giant, anxiety-fueled shit.

It is not my fault the dude is afraid of me and doesn’t have the balls to boss me around. Our last publicist would schedule the interview, tell me when and where to show up, and threaten to fine me if I didn’t do my job.

She knew how to throw her weight around and had bigger balls than most men—certainly bigger balls than Travis here.

I’m obligated to do press; it’s written into my contract. I know it and Travis knows it, but he’s too chickenshit to lay down the law with me.

A weakness I exploit.

I pull on mesh track pants, stomach growling. I’m starved and having dinner with my parents at my place and cannot freaking wait to see what Mom brought over.

“Is that all?” I keep challenging him. “I’m having company over.”

“Uh…for now, I guess, Mr. Wallace.”

You guess? I want to sarcastically say. “Then we’re done.” And if he calls me Mr. Wallace one more time, I’ll lose my damn shit. We’re the same age. It’s weird; he needs to stop.

“J-just think about it. The story is hot—trending on social media.”

Social media, I want to snarl. What good has that done anyone? Bunch of people taking pictures of their food and babies. Ha!

“Yeah, yeah,” I tell him, walking away. “I’ll think about it tonight.”

At never o’clock sharp.

* * *

“…I cannot believe that after five days, the story hasn’t died down,” Mom is saying, hefting a giant pan of homemade lasagna out of my oven. She’s been at my place baking most of the afternoon and it’s a rare treat having my parents all to myself without my butthole brother and sister present.

It’s nearly impossible finding windows of opportunity for family gatherings like this and with Buzz on his honeymoon and True traveling, I think Mom is feeling lonely since the wedding chatter has died down.

So, they made the two-hour drive to feed me, and lecture me as they typically do.

“If possible, it’s gained momentum.” Mom sets the pan on a hot pad in the center of my kitchen counter.

She’s not wrong. The video is being played and replayed on networks I’ve never even heard of. Entertainment channels and gossip blogs. The news. European news.

I can’t go out in public without fans approaching—they all seem to bring it up. Instead of getting excited about an upcoming game, they ramble on and on about Chandler Westbrooke kicking my ass.

“Wallace, would you mind telling us how tall the girl was who whooped your butt?”

“She sure showed you.”

“You lost your man card after that, huh?”

Thanks everyone.

Thanks.

“You know,” she prattles on, passing Dad the plates. “You know,” she says again to make sure I’m listening, glancing over at me. “I’ve been thinking about all this Chandler karate-throwing business that’s been going on—all the ladies in the book club are in a tizzy about it.” Mom uses a spatula to carve out a piece of flaming hot cheese, sauce, and pasta—like slicing a cake—scoops it up, slides it onto my father’s waiting plate. “The girls are convinced none of that whole production was real.”

Calling them the girls is being generous. These women—the members of her book club—haven’t been girls in about sixty years.

See, Buzz and I are in a book club with our mom. It’s called something lame, like the Bellmont Readers, and it’s mostly grandmas and shit, plus me and my brother. No one really knows about it except them, and Buzz and now Hollis, who sometimes comes to the meetings too, if the book selection is a title she’s been wanting to read.

There are ten of them and the amount of gossip and nagging these women do is beyond.

“They’re convinced the entire thing was…” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “Staged.” A sigh. “I told them, ‘No way would my Tripp let a young woman manhandle him like that.’”

Right. Exactly.

I nod.

“Mom’s got your back,” Dad says, not wanting to be left out of this conversation but not having much to add.

“Anyway,” she goes on, “it made me wonder if maybe you did plan it as some sort of entertainment. You boys have always been showboaters—always in competition with each other.”

Huh? “Why would I try to show my brother up at his own wedding?” What kind of a prick does she think I am?

“I don’t know, sweetheart, but it inevitably happens whenever the two of you are in the same room. You’ve been that way since you were little. Remember your brother’s tenth birthday? When you blew out the candles as soon as we were all done singing and made him cry?”

Yeah, I remember.

I smirk.

“You’re an upstager. You have been since you were little.”

“What? Me!” Pfft. I refuse to believe it. “And that wasn’t the case.” Not this time.

Mom’s shrug is noncommittal. “I’m just saying.” She stabs the lasagna onto the tines of her fork, brings it to her lips, and blows.

“Chandler Westbrooke hates me,” I reluctantly admit, letting the fact linger at the dinner table.

“No shit.” Dad snorts. “That girl can’t stand you.”

“Roger!” Mom chastises him. “Be nice!”

“He’s not wrong,” I allow.

“Maybe so, but what if you were seen out with her? Like in public.”

“People would assume we were dating.” And that would be horrible and suddenly I’m shaking my head no. “Mom, no.”

But she is grinning. “It would get the press off your back.”

Is she insane?

“No it would not!” If anything, being seen with Chandler would make things worse. They’d have a new something to latch onto. A new story, more speculation, more drama. The story needs to die and the only way to do that is to leave it alone.

“At least everyone in America wouldn’t think my son was a damn pussy,” Dad mutters.

“Dad, what the fuck!”

He shrugs. “Come on, we’re all thinking it, I’m just saying it out loud.”

Wow. Words I said just the other night at my brother’s wedding, while making an ass of myself in front of an entire room of people. Famous people. Wealthy people. My family. My friends. Hollis’s family.

Shit.

“Think about it,” Dad drones on. “You get the Westbrooke girl to be seen with you, take her somewhere nice—I’ll throw in fifty bucks to offset some of the cost. Or a park.”

That’s Dad’s big idea? A park? Parks are creepy and weird, filled with people doing weird shit, like throwing frisbees and having picnics and holding hands.

Jeez. I’m screwed.

“And the paparazzi will see you being nicey-nicey and a new story gets circulated.”

Good god, my parents are more diabolical than Travis.

It’s kind of frightening.

Dad’s hands go up as if framing the perfect photograph with his palms and he closes one eye dramatically. “Chicago Blues star Tripp Wallace’s budding new romance with Steam heiress Chanandler Westbrooke.”

“It’s Chandler,” I correct.

Mom rolls her eyes. “Your father is right, dear. This is a great way to salvage your reputation.” She drinks from her water glass. “You’re kind of an asshole.”

“Mom!”

What has gotten into my parents?

“We should call your brother,” she says, picking her phone up off the table. “He’ll know what to do.”

Over my dead body!

I snatch it out of her hands. “No we should not!” Is she insane? Buzz is likely to agree with anything and everything they say or give them some shady piece of advice just to be a dick and make me look like an assbag. “No.”

“Don’t say no to doing something with her for show so quickly—think it through first.” Mom takes her phone back, gingerly sliding it out of my fingers, and puts it into the pocket of her jeans. “You have to admit, you could use some good PR.”

Good PR? Salvage my reputation?

Who is she? WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE?

My parents have never given a single fuck about my reputation before; the only thing they’ve cared about is that I love my career, surround myself with decent people (like I always have), and continue being a family man.

The one thing they want is for me to continue coming around.

Now it seems the one thing they want is for me to save face and pander to the public.

“Why can’t I just call her and tell her I’m sorry for being a jerk?”

Mom levels me with one of her famous mom stares. “That is not the same as a kind gesture.”

Kind gesture?

What the actual fu—

The more I think about asking Chandler Westbrooke to meet me in public so we can be seen together getting along—and photographed—the more I warm to the idea.

How bad could it be?

What’s the harm in going out for one drink so the world doesn’t see me as some grade-A megadouche?

An hour out of my life to placate my fans? It won’t even be a real date, just a fake one—it’s not as if she’s going to fall in love with me in one night.

Nor I her.

Plus, Chandler wouldn’t need to know the whole thing is fake; I’m a decent actor.

I can fake it. I’ve done it before, if you count a commercial for a new deodorant as acting. Or the advertisements I did for a chain of sporting supply stores. Or the Gatorade commercial, where I had to chug the bottle—or pretend to—while the camera zoomed in on my throat. Then I crushed the plastic bottle in my palms and tossed it in the trash before jogging away and catching a football being thrown from off camera.

So yeah—I can act.

Yup, I can do this. One evening, one hour.

Simple.

Easy.

One photograph is all it will take to restore the shreds of my dignity.

“Fine, Mom. You win. Tell me what I should do…”

Ten

Chandler

“Hello?” I don’t recognize the number on the caller ID, but for whatever reason, I swipe across the screen to accept it.

A pause meets my greeting and I almost end the call.

“Chandler?”

“Yes?”

“It’s Tripp Wallace.” He pauses. “From the wedding.”

I roll my eyes. No duh from the wedding—is there another Tripp Wallace we don’t know about skulking around somewhere, ruining people’s evenings with their horrible attitudes?

He also could have gone with Buzz’s brother or your cousin’s new brother-in-law as an explanation.

I tuck the phone under my chin and cross my arms, though he isn’t here to see the action or the defiant look in my eyes, then remove a colander from a box and place it inside an open kitchen cabinet. “What’s up?”

He must want something—he sure as hell isn’t calling to apologize for being a douchebag. Or to make small talk, or to ask me out.

The idea makes me want to laugh into the receiver of my phone.

Ask me out—ha!

Seeing his stunned expression when his back hit the ground was the most satisfying feeling I’ve ever felt in my entire freaking life.

I try not to chuckle, remembering it.

Damn it felt good.

“I was wondering if you wanted to get…” There is a long pause while he considers what he’s about to say. “A drink or something.”

“A drink?” I repeat, not sure if I heard him correctly. “Uh…why?”

Tripp Wallace does not like me—why the hell does he want to share a drink with me?

The disdain in his eyes when I tossed him the other night made it loud and clear. His dismissal of me during the rehearsal dinner. The way he ignored me in the truck on the way over. How he no doubt had to be forced into asking me to dance at the wedding, my cousin playing matchmaker for some ungodly reason.

No, Tripp Wallace most certainly does not want to take me for drinks.

“What do you mean, why?” His voice is haughty and filled with contempt.

I laugh, shelving a set of rainbow-colored, nesting mixing bowls.

“You don’t like me. Why are you asking me for drinks?” The question is so matter-of-fact, guaranteed to throw him off for a few seconds. The silence on the other end of the line is deafening.

He doesn’t know what to say.

Good.

He’s a dick.

“Can’t a guy ask a girl for drinks without getting the third degree?”

“Most guys. Not you.”

He’s quiet again. “Why don’t you like me?”

My brows go up as I separate the Tupperware containers, popping their lids on so they remain organized. I stack them inside the lower cabinet. “I don’t know you.” Plus, I do not care to.

I tolerated him for the sake of my cousin, but now the wedding is over. He’s going to have to ask me a whole lot nicer to have drinks with him if he wants me to overturn my decision.

Hmph.

I rise, letting the kitchen cabinet door close, moving to the next box full of wares.

“I want to get to know you.”

Wow. What a liar.

Still, I can’t help wondering what the angle is, why he’s calling me out of the blue. It’s so strange. Yet that curious, nosey part of me is willing to bite, to entertain this conversation a bit longer.

Call me crazy, but I have nothing else going on.

Surrounded by cardboard boxes and totes, this is hardly anyone’s ideal night.

“Maybe I’d agree to let you feed me if you weren’t straight-up lying.”

“Who said I’m feeding you? I said drinks.”

That makes me laugh; he is such an asshole!

“I have a lot of unpacking to do.”

“That sounds a lot like, ‘I have to wash my hair.’”

I mean—he’s not wrong. “I’m very busy.”

“Busy is just an excuse.”

I agree. Not that I’m telling him that. “I get that you like winning, but this isn’t a competition.”

“Never said it was.”

“But you’re determined to go out with me.” For whatever unknown reason which makes zero sense. “I’m still not convinced this is legit. Are you asking me out so you can serve me with court papers? Or embarrass me in public?”

“Court papers for what?”

“I don’t know—crimes against athletes.” I close the cabinet and stand, stretching my calves after being in a squatting position the past ten minutes. Hands on my hips, I survey the room full of boxes. “It was great hearing from you.” Not. “Thanks for the invitation, but I’ll have to pass.”

I hear Tripp open his mouth to speak, but before he can argue, I end the call and toss my phone to the counter.

It vibrates and pings almost immediately.

Tripp: YOU HUNG UP ON ME!

Me: Sorry? Has no one ever done that?

Tripp: No, NO ONE has ever done that.

Me: You sound outraged, calm down.

Tripp: I’m just stating a fact.

Me: In all caps…

Tripp: You’re missing the point.

Me: I actually have NO IDEA what your point is…

Tripp: You hung up on me.

Me: LOL

Tripp: You’re a horrible person.

Me: You’re a spoiled brat.

Tripp: I AM THE LEAST SPOILED PERSON.

Me: Okay, well, you’re arguing because I won’t go on a date with you.

Tripp: It’s not a date.

Me: Oh, well, pardon me!

Tripp: It’s drinks. A drink.

Me: Of which I will not be partaking.

This seems to tamp him down a bit, and he leaves me alone for the better half of an hour, during which I manage to unpack the entire contents of my kitchen and begin on the living room. Throw pillows, throw blankets, decorative books, odds and ends.

I’m fluffing the couch cushions when my phone chimes again.

Tripp: Are you done being difficult?

Wow. This guy is not only full of himself, but completely out of touch with how to behave with a woman.

Me: Are you done being an ass?

Tripp: No.

That makes me laugh and I stand in the center of my living room, staring at the glowing screen of my phone, incredulous that this man is so arrogant and unapologetic about it.

Honestly.

No shame.

And believe me, growing up surrounded by pompous windbags, tolerating assholery has become second nature—nothing surprises me about the way men behave when they have too much money, too many people kissing their asses, too many people jumping to do their bidding.

Yes men, my dad calls them.

Not only are the athletes spoiled, the wives can be, too. Making demands and requests. More food in the game suite…more tickets for family…more tickets for friends…better seats near the dugout…better seats behind home plate…better food in the game suite…tickets to this show, tickets to that show. More money. More appearances. More, more, more.

I get exhausted thinking about it; the fact that I’ll be working in the offices at the stadium just takes the wind out of my sails.

A few more minutes go by before Tripp messages me again.

Tripp: I was going through a rough patch.

I look at that sentence and audibly say, “Huh?” out loud to no one, confused. Going through a rough patch…what on earth is he talking about?

Me: I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean.

Tripp: I haven’t been myself these past few weeks.

I roll my eyes, knowing that can’t be true. This man is never warm and fuzzy—he deserved to be tossed on his ass by a female.

Still, I’ll bite.

He wants to play a game and I have time—for now, anyway. I have television to entertain me but haven’t set any of it up yet.

Bantering with Tripp will have to keep me occupied. No harm in that. It’s not like I actually like the guy and there’s any threat of me falling for him.

The idea makes me laugh. Ha! As if.

Me: Haven’t been yourself? Really. Do tell.

Tripp: It would be easier if I told you in person.

Me: We both know that’s not happening.

Tripp: Why are you like this?

Me: Like what?

Tripp: So stubborn.

Not a single soul has ever called me stubborn and I love the way it sounds: So stubborn. My back straightens. Chin tilts up.

Tripp: Are you doing this on purpose?

Doing what? Intentionally trying to piss him off? As if that’s hard to do?

Me: You give me way too much credit.

Tripp: No, I don’t think I gave you ENOUGH credit.

True. But he’s in good company, because everyone underestimates me. It’s because I’m mostly quiet, content to observe from the background and let other people shine. That doesn’t mean I don’t have thoughts or ideas of my own, or that I’m not strong.

My strength is my patience. My contentment. My lack of a need for drama.

Tripp did strike a nerve, though, and I set down the stack of board games in my arms on the coffee table and plop down on the couch, chin in my hands.

What would be the harm in getting a drink with the guy? He’s fun to annoy and I don’t have any plans in the next few days. Many of my girlfriends aren’t available when I want to hang out—several of them are nurses with long hours, one just moved to Florida, and my friend Kristy just had a baby. I can’t take her out for a drink while she’s breastfeeding a newborn—although she probably needs it more than any of us.

I stare off at the blank, white wall, at the spot where Hollis had artwork hung, only the dust shadows and nail holes remaining.

I should fill those and repaint.

Sigh.

So much to do and I start work on Monday.

Tripp: What if I feed you?

Me: You already said you weren’t going to.

My phone rings.

Dammit! It’s him. WHAT IS HE DOING?

I swipe to answer, already rolling my eyes. “What?”

He pauses. “Is that how you answer the phone now? I thought you were nice.”

Nice?

That makes me laugh. “You never thought I was nice, you thought I was boring.” As I love to remind him. “And a stick in the mud—how is that calling me nice?”

“Why do you keep bringing up the boring thing and throwing it in my face? You’re hurting my feelings.” He sounds serious. “I was young and naïve back then.”

“Has anyone ever told you you’re ridiculous?”

“No actually.”

“Well they should because you are.”

He pauses to think. “My sister maybe, but she doesn’t count because she’s my sister.”

I’ve only just been introduced to True Wallace recently. She is the spitting image of her brothers, but female—tall, dark, and beautiful. The trio of them are close, and now that my cousin is part of the family, I can’t help but feel a touch of envy pooling in the pit of my stomach.

“Sisters are supposed to tease.”

Tripp grunts, which I guess is his agreement.

“Um…” I clear my throat. “Why are you calling again?”

“It’s easier than texting.”

“No, taking no for an answer the first time is easier than texting.”

Tripp lets out a low tsss sound. “Sick burn, Westbrooke.”

“This isn’t a competition and that wasn’t a burn. I was merely stating a fact, not trying to one-up you.”

“You couldn’t one-up me—I’d win.”

Oh my god, this guy. “See? You’re doing it.”

“Doing what?”

I imagine it’s the same thing he probably does at his parents’ house with his brother and his sister, arguing so he can win some fictional contest amongst his siblings. Too bad it won’t work on me—his mother is not here to umpire.

Or referee.

Or whatever officials are used in football.

“You can’t just call me and expect me to change my mind. I’ve spent enough time in your company to know we wouldn’t enjoy having a drink together. I’d have to have at least five just to tolerate you.”

I clap a hand over my mouth. That was such a rude thing for me to say!

I immediately feel guilty.

“I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.”

Tripp lets out a low whistle. “First rule of Fight Club, never apologize for brutal honesty. Men will have more respect for you.”

I tip my head. “I thought the first rule of Fight Club was that you don’t talk about Fight Club.”

A loud sigh comes over the line. “Are you always this literal?”

Am I? “I don’t think so?” Not on purpose anyway.

Probably though. But that’s from years of a strict upbringing and private school teachers breathing down my neck, and friends who were snotty and stuck up.

“So what are you doing tomorrow?”

I rack my brain but the answer is immediate: unpacking, lying around, unpacking some more, watching TV, ordering food, unpacking, sleeping.

In that order.

“Stuff” is my brilliant answer.

I can almost hear his annoyance. “At least you didn’t say washing your hair.”

“I’ll probably do that, too.”

Ha!

“Be serious for a second—what’s the harm in having a drink with me?”

“Why are you so determined to get me out of the house? You didn’t even know my name last week.”

“I’m determined to make you like me, that’s why.”

I highly doubt that’s true, but I cannot continue arguing with the guy about his motives.

“You called me out of the blue because you suddenly need me to like you,” I deadpan, clearly not ready to let the subject go.

“Yes.”

“And it has nothing whatsoever to do with me dropping you on your ass.”

He pauses. “First of all, you did not drop me on my ass.”

“Yeah I did.”

Tripp takes a breath in, seeking patience. “You—” Inhale. “Whatever you say, Chandler.”

Whatever I say? Who is this guy and what has he done with Tripp Wallace?

I get an idea.

“Tell you what…” I hope he’s listening. “I will agree to have a drink with you—”

“Great!”

“—if you dress like Paul Bunyan and bring your stuffed blue ox.”

The line goes dead. Silent. “No. No fucking way.”

I feign a disappointed sigh. “Well, sorry it didn’t work out. You have a great night.” I get ready to end the call, but his voice stops me.

“You are an asshole.”

Yet another thing no one has ever called me. I’m racking up many firsts with this guy.

“I’m flattered you think so.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“Wasn’t it though?”

“No.”

“Okay, well…” I blow out a breath. “You take care. Think about my proposal and let me know. Or not. But either way, good luck with your games and…stuff.”

I tap to end the call, satisfied to have gotten the last word.

The last and only word, because I know I will never hear from Tripp Wallace again.

And if I’m being honest? The thought of that has me a little bit disappointed…

Eleven

Tripp

“She wants me to dress like Paul Bunyan,” I tell my mother via FaceTime after the various conversations I’ve had with Chandler. I bend to scratch Chewy behind the ears and his satisfied doggy grin has me grinning back despite myself.

“Why would she want you to do that, dear?” Mom is in the kitchen, phone propped on the counter as she slices up one potato, then another, probably for a meal I’ll never have the chance to eat. “It makes no sense.”

“Because she’s a sadist.” And I pissed her off enough that she took it upon herself to humiliate me in public, and she’s trying to do it again by having me wear a costume to have drinks.

The word sadist has my mother glancing up, brows furrowed with a frown. “Is that a nice thing to call someone? You barely know the girl. She seemed nice enough during the wedding festivities.”

Seemed nice enough? “Are you nuts? You were in the room when she had me flat on my back, remember? You thought I had a concussion and had the ambulance on speed dial.”

Mom shrugs. “A mother’s reflex. Still not a nice thing to say about a young woman you hardly know.”

Um. Flat on back? No remorse? That girl?

Still, my shoulders sag under Mom’s disapproval and I backpedal at my use of such a harsh adjective to describe Chandler. “Wrong choice of words, sorry.”

Chewy stares up at me as I stand in my bathroom about to turn on the shower and clean myself off.

I crank the water on to preheat it while chatting with Mom.

“I just think you should try being a bit…sweeter. Would it kill you to let your guard down and enjoy yourself around a pretty woman?” Her head is tilted forward, the top of her hair parted down the middle, the same style she’s worn since True, Trace, and I were kids. A few more wrinkles in her forehead but still the same constant in our lives.

“Sweet?” I want to gag.

Mom sets down her knife and rests both hands on the counter. “Tripp Wallace, perhaps if you made more of an effort to be fun, you wouldn’t still be single.”

Fun? “What does that have to do with my being single? I’m single because that’s what I want, not because I ain’t fun.”

She clucks her tongue at my bad grammar.

“I don’t need a girlfriend or a wife!” That isn’t exactly true. The truth is, I actually would love a family—I just never have the patience to find one. Plus, there haven’t been any women who wanted to tolerate my special brand of humor. “I have Chewy.”

At the mention of his name, the dog barks for attention.

“Who’s a good boy? You are!” I tell him, giving his ears another fluff. “Good boy!”

“Tripp. Focus.” The sound of the knife hitting the cutting board resumes. “I think you’re going to have to show up for drinks in that outfit she wants you to wear.” She’s done with the potatoes now and moves on to carrots. “If that’s the only way to get her to agree, what choice do you have?”

“I could let the story die down and go back to living my life and not giving a shit?”

“That’s not going to happen as quickly as you think it is.” She pauses again, looking into the camera. “It’s too good of a story and there’s nothing people love more than the downfall of someone famous. Tripp, Dad and I saw some of those signs they had at the stadium at your last game, and they were cringe-worthy.”

Right.

Those signs.

The ones fans made that said “WE FLIP FOR TRIPP” and “WALLACE LIKES IT ON HIS BACK” and, my personal favorite, “HARD FALL FOR YOU #32”.

Constant reminders and those were the supportive ones.

Sometimes I hate that my games are televised—for reasons like this—because if my mother is mentioning it, there’s no doubt Dad will want to have words about it the first chance he gets.

I’m glad he’s at work and not on the FaceTime call; I don’t want to know his opinion about all this.

“It’s only a plaid shirt and a pair of khakis, sweetie,” Mom prattles on. “You look good in plaid. It’s not the end of the world.”

“She wants me to bring Babe.”

“The ox?”

“Yes. And hang him from my pocket and I’ve already let Chewy play with him twice, so one of his eyes is missing.”

Mom winces. Oh, she tries to hide it, but there’s no denying the awkward smile through clenched teeth.

That’s where my siblings and I get that sour expression from…

“People will think you’ve lost your damn mind.”

“No shit.” I roll my eyes at the sentiment, not my mother. “This was your idea—what should I do?”

Mom shrugs. “It’s one night. You’ll get tons of press, especially dressed like a lumberjack.”

God, I don’t even want to know what they’ll write about me, but at least the script will have flipped.

No pun intended.

“I guess so.”

“Look at it this way,” she says, using the knife to push carrots to the edge of the cutting board before dumping them into the pot on the stove. “At least you’ll have plenty to talk about while you’re sitting there.”

“She’s going to make fun of me.”

Mom cocks her head to the side. “Chandler Wallace—oops, sorry. Chandler Westbrooke does not seem like the type of girl who’s going to sit and make fun of you.”

True. But, “She didn’t seem like the type of girl who was going to toss me to my back, either.”

* * *

Me: Do you have time to talk?

I text Chandler even though it’s almost midnight, not expecting her to answer.

Chandler: You mean…on the phone?

No, I mean through brain waves telepathically.

Me: Yes, on the phone.

Chandler: Why can’t you just text me?

Me: You’re not even sleeping.

Chandler: So? You’re still disrupting my peace!

Me: I’m calling.

When I do, she lets it ring good and long before picking up.

“What?”

Oh, she’s answering like that now? Because she knows it irritates me?

I see how it is.

“I agree to your demands.”

On the other end of the line, Chandler yawns. “What demands?”

“Tomorrow when we go for our drink, I agree to wear a Paul Bunyan outfit and have my buddy Babe in my pocket.”

“You do?” It sounds like she’s rubbing her eyes.

“Yes. How does seven sound?”

It’s late enough that I can eat before I meet her there and early enough that I can still order food if I happen to get hungry. Also, I can be home, in bed, by nine at the latest if the whole thing sucks.

“Where?”

“I was thinking The Ivy.”

The Ivy is one of the most popular restaurants in town, an institution in this city. Old-school and exclusive, it caters to high-end, well-heeled clientele. Lots of athletes and celebrities can be seen hobnobbing and business-lunching their way through its palm-leafed green carpeting.

Interesting choice,and my mother’s. Since this was all her idea, I’m sticking to the plan.

“You’re going to The Ivy dressed like Paul Bunyan?” Now it sounds like she’s sitting up in bed—or at least, I imagine she is, wide-eyed and incredulous at my bravery. “Are you out of your freaking mind?”

Apparently so.

My entire family is. It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her.

“That sounds like a yes, you’re available at seven.”

Chandler laughs. “No offense, but I don’t think you’ve thought this through.”

“Trust me, I have.”

Over and over again, every possible scenario running on a loop through my mind, down to the paparazzi that are staples, planted outside the restaurant on a regular basis.

“I mean—that was the deal, so I can meet you there at seven.”

“I can grab you if you want?” Which would interfere with my being home by nine; however, it looks better if she and I arrive together and can be photographed walking inside. I could put my arm around her shoulders—maybe she wouldn’t elbow me in the gut for touching her—which would make a great photo op.

It’s foolproof.

“You don’t have to pick me up. I can drive.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

Her concession is met with a long, weighty pause. The kind of pause where crickets would begin chirping in the background if we had any crickets lying around. Or a looming cloud would lower itself to hover.

“So. Okay. Tomorrow at The Ivy,” I declare. I’m usually way suaver than this with the ladies.

Or maybe not. Maybe Mom was right and this is the reason I’m single. At the rate I’m going—or not going, depending on how you look at it—I’ll be forever alone for the rest of my miserable life. Chewy won’t always be around to keep me company; then what will I do?

Shit.

I can practice flirting with Chandler tomorrow night too, kill two birds with one stone. She won’t even notice.

“Glad we got that settled.”

“I…” Crap. Now what do I say? “I’m looking forward to tomorrow.”

She chuckles, mocking me. “Oh, I bet you are.”

“I am!”

“Uh-huh.”

I pause. “Are you by any chance taking wardrobe suggestions, since you get to dictate mine?”

“Nope.” She pops the P and laughs. “No way in hell would I let you tell me what to wear. Like I trust you.”

No, I don’t suppose she would. But the part about her not trusting me? Ouch. “We’re family, you know. You can trust me.”

“Family is putting it loosely. You’re Hollis’s family now more than mine, but I get what you mean.”

“On second thought…” I’m about to throw out the offer to pick her up one more time, hoping she’ll take me up on it. I need to be seen arriving with her. “How about if I come get you around six? Is that too late to eat?”

Chandler sighs on the other end of the line and pauses, giving it some serious thought. She isn’t going to give in to my pleas just like that, taking a few seconds to mull it over.

“You’re only twenty minutes from my place,” I say, by way of a nudge. “And I’ve been wanting to show off my new car.”

“Your new car?”

Crap. What possessed me to say that? I don’t have a new car—I only have my truck! I am such an idiot; this woman is turning me into a dunce.

“Yeah, uh…my new car. It’s actually a loaner? From the, uh…dealership. Yeah, the dealership. To see if I, um, like it enough to buy it.” Stupid, stupid, stupid, stop talking. This means I’ll have to borrow a car from someone.

Since when did I become a liar?

Since you need her to ride to the restaurant with you, so you can see and be seen.

Yeah, but since when did I start using people for my own selfish reasons?

I glance down at Chewy. He’s happily chewing on a bone, completely oblivious to the pit forming in my stomach. One that feels like guilt and regret.

I scratch behind his ears and his stumpy tail wags cheerily as he gives up his bone, stands, and walks to the end of the bed to fetch a ball that’s lying there. Brings it to me, dropping it near the palm I just used to pet him with.

It’s red and slobbery.

I toss it the few short feet to the foot of the bed.

He leaps at it.

Brings it back.

“What’s that noise?” Chandler asks.

Is she talking about Chewy? “That’s my dog. I just threw him a ball.”

“I thought maybe you would already be in bed.”

“I am.” We are. “But since I’m awake, he’s awake, which makes him want to play.” The red ball makes its appearance in my hand, and I toss it, this time out the bedroom door and into the hall.

Chewy leaps once more, this time off the edge, into the dark. I can’t see him, but I hear his nails scratching at the hardwood floor, his jowls gobbling up his toy.

He hops back on the bed, walking in circles at the foot of it, exhausted and done with the game of fetch.

“What kind of dog is it?”

“Bulldog.”

Chandler chuckles low and scoffs. “Figures you would have a bulldog.”

“What does that mean?”

“They’re so grumpy.”

“Are you implying that I have a grumpy dog because I’m grumpy?”

“Well.” She hesitates. “Aren’t you?”

“No.” Just most of the time.

Chandler doesn’t respond. She laughs, which I guess is a response—but it’s a sweet sound, and happy, so I find I don’t actually mind.

“You’re starting to look alike, aren’t you?”

“Who, me and the dog?”

She hums. “I think people start looking like their pets and taking on their characteristics—that’s all I’m saying.”

“I’ll have you know,” I inform her, “Chewy is a prankster who is never in a bad mood.” Despite his mashed-in face and underbite, he’s massively entertaining and jovial.

“Chewy?” She pauses again. “You have a dog named Chewy? Did you adopt him?”

“Uh, no. Why would you ask that?”

“Is the name Chewy short for Chewbacca? You know, from Star Wars?”

“I know what Star Wars is, thanks. And no, it’s just straight-up Chewy.”

Chandler laughs. “Never in a million years would I guess Tripp Wallace would name a dog Chewy. Maybe something like Killer. Or Spike. Or Rambo. Or…Dog.”

Killer? Spike? Rambo? Wow, she really has a low opinion of me. “Chewy is a doggy dog name that’s just sophisticated enough to be human-like.” My tone is indignant and I pat the comforter so my canine companion crawls up the mattress, nudging my hand with his furry little face for pets.

I pat him lovingly.

“That made no sense whatsoever. Like, none.” Another loud laugh. “Doggy dog name that’s human-like…you’re so weird.”

I don’t take offense to her teasing because Chewy is man’s best friend. “He’s my best bud,” I say out loud, more to the dog than to her. “Aren’t you? Aren’t you, boy?”

Before I start with the baby puppy talk, I clamp my lips shut to prevent more verbal diarrhea from spilling out of my mouth.

Chandler’s silent for a few seconds. “I suppose we should both get some rest—I have unpacking to do tomorrow, plus I have to run to the stadium to get my ID picture taken and fill out some paperwork.”

“And I have to be up at the ass crack of dawn to take Chewy to daycare and hit the gym early,” I add.

“God, you take your dog to daycare. That’s kind of adorable.”

Adorable.

I capitalize on this moment of weakening on her part to say, “So you’re cool if I grab you at six tomorrow?”

Chandler yawns. “Mmkay.”

Too tired to disagree.

She’s tired and fading by the—

“See you tomorrow, grumpy.”

Okay. Maybe not that tired.

My lips part to argue. “I am not grum—”

But the argument is futile because there is no one on the other end. Chandler has already hung up the phone, cutting me off, getting in the last word, leaving me hanging high and dry.

Again.

Twelve

Chandler

What does a girl wear on a date that’s not a date, but more like an attempt at bribery?

What does he want from me?

A man doesn’t just call out of the blue to ask a person for drinks after ignoring you every time he’s in the same room with you—unless he wants something.

But what?

Revenge?

Is he going to attempt to publicly embarrass me?

I will admit, I hadn’t considered the onslaught of publicity it was going to garner when I tossed him on his backside. We were at a private event, in a secure hotel, surrounded by family and friends and…

Reporters.

Duh, Chandler. You should have thought it all the way through.

But I didn’t.

Too late now—every sports media outlet has shown the clip, live with the audio of people gasping, guests of the bride and groom pointing and laughing and clearing the dance floor.

No one knew what happened; some speculated that he had assaulted me. Some guests initially thought he slipped and fell, thought he’d been hurt and perhaps needed an ambulance.

“Don’t move him!” his mother shouted, worried his spine had been fractured, having seen her son in that same position on the football field.

I felt horrible at that moment—until the moment Buzz called him a pussy, loud enough for everyone to hear, setting off a riptide of laughter.

Non-disclosure agreements mean nothing to wedding guests when there are priceless videos and photographs of an athlete’s humiliation to be shared with millions of fans around the world, his privacy be damned.

Hollis and Buzz didn’t even threaten to sue; too many videos had been leaked and gone viral for threats to matter.

The fall heard ’round the world.

And now I’m having drinks with him.

Do I make an effort to look cute or just wear what I have on? It is The Ivy we’re going to, but I do not want to look like I’m trying too hard. Not with him, god no.

Torn, I call my cousin, despite her being on her honeymoon. She told me to call her whenever, said if she was available, she’d take the call. Besides, none of my friends have met or seen Tripp—or heard any of the stories, though a few of them have contacted me about the videos popping up everywhere. But they know nothing about him.

It has to be Hollis.

According to my time zone calculations, it’s evening where she’s at, and she’s most likely just getting ready for dinner, so the timing should be spot-on for a quick chat.

She answers on the third ring. “What’s up, Cobra Kai?”

She’s been calling me that since her wedding.

“Hey cuz, how’s the honeymoon?”

“Fantastic. We just took naps and are getting ready for dinner.”

“By naps she means ‘had sex’,” Buzz shouts from somewhere inside their hotel room.

“Would you be quiet,” she tells her husband, probably swatting at him, too. “It’s my cousin, she needs something.” Hollis clears her throat. “Sorry about that. What’s up?”

“Well…” Let’s see, how do I put this? “Tripp called me last night and—”

“Tripp called you? Why?” It sounds like she’s sitting up straighter, at full attention.

“He wants to have drinks. Tonight.”

Hollis gasps and I hear clapping. “I knew it, I knew it, I knew it!”

Knew what? “What did you know?”

“That he has a thing for you! Duh!”

I can’t help the fact that I’m rolling my eyes heavenward. “He does not—the guy can’t stand me. I humiliated him.”

“Yeah and he liked it. Men love strong women—it just takes some of them longer to admit it to themselves.”

“I assure you, he most certainly did not like it.” I say it a bit too primly and cringe at the sound of my voice.

Hollis doesn’t notice. “If he didn’t like it, why would he call you and ask you to drinks? Huh? No man is going to put himself through even an hour of someone’s company they can’t tolerate for shits and grins—especially Tripp Wallace. Trust me, I would know.”

Hmm, that does sound like a valid argument.

“Fine. I’ll consider it. In the meantime, what should I wear?”

“Did he tell you where to meet him?”

“I’m not meeting him—he’s picking me up.”

Hollis gasps again. “Oh my god.” I hear her snap her fingers. “It makes sense now—Tripp texted Buzz last night to see if he could stop by this morning and borrow the sports car.”

Borrow his brother’s sports car… “I thought he had one on loan from the dealership?”

My cousin stops to think. “No, as far as I know, he only has his truck. This explains why he wanted to borrow the car—he has a hot date.”

The wheels are still turning, but nothing is adding up. “It’s not a hot date! And why would he lie and say the car is from the dealership?”

“Ohhh,” she croons into the phone. “I bet he’s trying to impress you so he doesn’t want to pick you up in his ratty truck. That’s what guys do when they’re wooing a lady.”

“He is not wooing me.”

“Woo-woo!” My cousin makes it sound like a train puffing down the tracks. “I mean, a lot of the time the dealership on Michigan Avenue lends them to the players, kind of like a lease, and they get to swap them out once a year or something ridiculous. But as far as I know, Tripp owns his truck outright.”

That doesn’t answer my question and I highly doubt Tripp Wallace has tried to impress any woman, ever, in his entire grumpy life, let alone me.

So the sports car will have to remain a mystery.

Weird.

“What am I wearing?” I ask, switching gears to circle around and get us back on topic.

“Ugh,” she groans. “It’s too bad you don’t know what he’s wearing—that always makes it so much easier. Like if he’s wearing a polo shirt, you can wear just a nice shirt. Or if he’s wearing a button-down, you could wear a dress.”

“I do know what he’s wearing—his Paul Bunyan outfit.”

“WHAT?”

“The outfit was one of the conditions of me agreeing to go out with him in the first place.”

My cousin cackles. “Chandler Westbrooke, I never knew you had it in you. Look at you, bossing dudes around with psychological warfare after throwing them on the ground. Wow. I’m impressed.”

I wish people would stop saying that. I did not throw him on the ground! I used strategy to execute a well-thought-out karate skill.

“Would you stop? I have to figure out what I’m wearing—not that I care what he thinks. It’s just, I haven’t been out in a long time, and it’s fun to wear makeup.” Cough-cough.

“How about jeans, so he doesn’t feel like a complete asshole? And a cute top.” She thinks. “Got any plaid shirts lying around in your closet?”

Yes.

I do have a plaid, button-down shirt. It’s flannel and more suited for the winter months, black and red like Tripp’s. “Come on, be serious.”

“I am being serious. How cute would the two of you be all matchy-matchy…”

Not cute.

Nauseating.

Plus, he would hate it.

“I’m not wearing a plaid shirt so he feels more comfortable. Everyone will think we’re heading to Plaid Fest.”

That makes Hollis laugh. “Fine. How about a nice shirt then? A bright blue one. Haha. Get it, Babe?”

Babe the Blue Ox.

“Calling you was such a bad idea,” I tell her, walking to my closet and standing inside, staring at the racks of clothes I just managed to hang.

“Sorry, I can’t help it. I’ve been under the influence of Buzz Wallace for the past few weeks and he has the worst sense of humor.”

He doesn’t. He’s charming and funny and always kind when it counts.

I envy her.

“It’s rubbing off on me and not in a good way.”

I disagree. “I wouldn’t say that. You sound happy.”

A blissful sigh. “I am.”

My heart constricts.

When we disconnect the call, after I tell her I love her and to have a wonderful time and travel safe, I stay standing in my closet. Bite my lip and allow my eyes to roam over all the shit in my possession—which isn’t a ton, because I’ve been in school and not focused on dating and have the wardrobe to prove it.

Shit.

I choose a pair of jeans from the shelf and hold them up, then toss them to the bed.

A plain black, long-sleeved t-shirt will have to do. Large gold hoop earrings. Hair down. Makeup minimal.

Wait, no.

I toss the black shirt onto the bed, dissatisfied.

It’s not that I have anything to prove, but the shirt is basic and boring—two of the things he’s said about me.

I waffle, unsure. Maybe I should throw on a nicer blouse—it’s not like I can’t get away with it; women at The Ivy will be wearing Chanel. Or Prada, or whatever it is women wear when they’re working a room.

I have beautiful things.

My parents can easily afford the wardrobe hanging in my closet, the one I’m blinking at as if I have nothing to wear.

Jeans, and…

And.

My fingers rub the sleeve of a silk black blouse—it buttons down the front, with two long satin ribbons hanging down that can be left alone or tied into a bow at my neck.

I fish a black bra out of my bureau drawer then shrug into the blouse. Slide on the jeans then tuck the shirt in before buttoning and zipping the fly.

If I don’t button the shirt to the neck, leaving the top three undone…

The effect is actually pretty…sexy.

Understated but sexy. He’ll get sneak peeks of my boobs if he’s sitting in the right spot and it wouldn’t do me any harm to practice flirting with him.

If I can get through an evening with Tripp Wallace, one of the saltiest men alive, I can get through any first date. Any guy I swipe on will not be as bad as what I’m probably going to be enduring tonight.

I riffle through my jewelry and select silver hoops. Bend and pull out a pair of black, pointy toe pumps off the shoe rack.

Check the delicate silver watch clasped around my wrist: thirty minutes and counting.

The hair, the hair, the hair….

I haven’t worn it down in ages, so I pull it from the elastic hairband and brush it out, plugging in the flat iron simply to smooth it out.

My makeup routine is simple, too: conceal the red spots on my face, brush on some blush and bronzer, swipe on some onyx mascara, finish it off with lipstick.

Hot pink?

No, red.

That will throw the bastard off his game for sure.

Believe it or not, I actually have loads of bright lipsticks. No idea why, considering I barely ever wear makeup. Probably samples, or gifts from my mother in her many, never-ending attempts to make me more of a lady and get me married off, as society women with daughters are wont to do.

Sorry Mother, I’d rather follow in Hollis’s footsteps and take my own path—even if there’s a small pit stop along the way, even if I have to work for the family for however long it takes to find my dream job.

My skin is glowing.

My lips are stained a sultry red and look surprisingly plump.

Thanks to the straightener, my hair is a bit sleeker now, the strands shiny and glossy.

I give myself one more cursory glance in the mirror before flipping off the bathroom light and popping into my closet one last time to grab a black, quilted handbag before the doorbell rings.

I slow my pace so I don’t sprint to the door, purposely taking my sweet time. Tripp can wait.

My eyes widen when I pull the door open, expecting plaid and khaki and possibly a stuffed ox jammed into one of his pockets. Maybe even a stocking cap atop his head to complete the look.

Not even close.

Tripp Wallace is…he’s…Tripp is…

…dressed up, kind of.

Dressed far better than he was for even his brother’s rehearsal dinner, but less dressy than he was at the wedding.

Expensive black button-down shirt, two top buttons left undone. Dark blue jeans. Dress shoes, shined to a polish.

Dear Lord, we match.

“You’re not wearing the Paul Bunyan getup.” My tone isn’t exactly accusatory, but I am disappointed and I’m sure it shows. If my mouth doesn’t say it, my eyebrows will…

We had a deal.

Plus, I would have paid to see him walk into that restaurant dressed like a bumpkin.

His dark eyes narrow. “You were serious about that?”

“Dead serious.” Mostly. My hand is still up on the doorjamb, barring his entry. “Maybe we should forget about this whole night since you reneged on your half of the bargain. I don’t know if I can trust you now.”

Especially considering this is the second time he’s lied—first about the sports car, now about the outfit he promised to wear. This man gives no fucks about anyone but himself.

I shoot my eyes into my brows defiantly. No sense in playing sweet and naïve now that he knows what I’m capable of—and it would serve him right for me to cancel on him.

He had one job—wear the outfit we agreed to—and in turn, I would come out with him for one drink.

I honestly did not think he would bail on the plan.

“But I’m hungry,” he says, as if that’s an entire argument for his case.

“We’re just getting drinks.”

“I mean, we could slip some food past the goalie.”

“I ate before I got dressed.”

That’s his cue to let his eyes rake me up and down, as if noticing for the first time that I have on heels and lipstick. Those eyes take in my hair, stray down to my cherry lips. Trail down to the deep V between my breasts.

I expect him to tell me I look nice. Or pretty.

Something.

After all, it’s the polite thing to do.

But he doesn’t.

Shocking.

Then again, I don’t compliment him either, even though he looks maddeningly handsome in his stark black shirt—which I suspect he already knows.

“I left the car running,” he tells me, looking down at the street where his—where Buzz’s car is parked, a sleek black Beemer with tinted windows and racing wheels.

“This isn’t a seedy neighborhood—no one is going to come steal it.”

He rolls his eyes. “Just lock up and let’s go.”

Wow, he is so bossy. Not even a little sweet talking. No manners. He really wasn’t kidding when he said this wasn’t a date; the man is a boorish caveman with no etiquette.

I watch as he bounds back down my stairs toward his brother’s vehicle and opens the passenger side door. He doesn’t wait next to it, just goes around to the driver’s side and slides in.

God I cannot wait to tell Hollis about this.

It’s no wonder the man is single.

He has no idea how to treat a woman.

I wonder how he’d treat me if he were interested…

I dash back into my new place, flipping off lights but leaving one on in the kitchen and entry hall, then pull the door shut. Let the automatic lock kick in before taking a key and inserting it to glide the deadbolt into place.

I don’t say a peep about this not being his car when I finally lower myself down into the passenger seat and press the button to lower the door. Yes, lower the door, not pull it closed.

Buzz sure is slick.

“Sweet ride,” I tell Tripp, the little liar.

“Thanks.”

“What dealership did you get it from?” I pull down the sun visor and make a show of looking around. “Maybe I’ll ask for the Wallace discount.”

He shifts around in his seat uncomfortably. “Uh…the one downtown.”

“The one off of Ohio Street or the one that’s right off the main drag?” I look down and see a candy wrapper on the floor near my feet. Swipe it up, holding it between two fingers. “They did a horrible job detailing this before letting you drive it.”

He clears his throat. “It’s probably pre-owned.”

Yeah, yeah, yeah, you shithead.

“How fast does it go?”

He grinds the gear shift. It’s loud and fills the car with awkward silence.

“Sorry.” His eyes are glued to the road. “It goes, uh—zero to eighty in…thirty seconds.”

I pull a face. “It takes thirty seconds to get to eighty? That’s terrible.”

“I meant five seconds. Sorry, I’m still learning about cars.”

That much is obvious. Even I know what acceleration rates are decent for a sports car—Tripp has no idea what he’s talking about.

For a few moments, I let the car subject die, giving him a reprieve so I don’t ruin what fragile friendly vibes he’s attempting to give me.

It’s not easy for him to be in this car with me; he lacks the social skills to make small talk—way too blunt for most women, I would assume. And if I had to guess, he instantly regretted offering to pick me up tonight the moment he extended the invitation.

Oh well—not my problem.

“So it’s just this car and your truck?”

“Yeah, I mostly only drive trucks. I don’t know if I’m going to buy this Beemer or not.”

Not.

I tap my fingers on the armrest and watch the city approach, one side street after the next, and he zigzags and zips his way to The Ivy.

At least he knows where he’s going without using the navigation system.

A few minutes later, we’re pulling up to the awninged walkway of The Ivy, two valet attendants already waiting at the curb as if they’re expecting us. A few men linger near the shrubs. Two more across the street.

Paparazzi?

Shit.

I hadn’t considered being photographed tonight while I was getting dressed and feel relief because I dolled up a bit more than I was initially going to.

Again, I pull down the sun visor and flip open the mirror.

“You look fine,” Tripp tells me, wowing me with his praise.

“Gee, thanks.”

He looks…offended? “What’s wrong with the word fine?”

Nothing. Not technically. But if you’re going to flatter someone, there are a million better words with which to do so. Pretty, beautiful, effervescent.

I laugh.

Effervescent.

I can’t for the life of me imagine that word coming out of this man’s mouth.

“What’s so funny?”

Why lie? “I was picturing you being nice to me.”

“Are you implying that I’m not nice to you?”

“No, I’m implying that I can’t imagine you saying anything sweet.”

Tripp looks genuinely confused. “Who wants to be sweet?”

That makes me laugh. “Not you, apparently.”

I click the door so it unlocks and releases, opening straight up instead of out, and am suitably impressed. I’ve never been in a car that does that before; it’s totally fancy.

“I can be sweet when I want to be,” Tripp tells me, doing the same with his driver’s side door and stepping one leg out of the car.

I stifle a fake yawn. “Sure you can.”

“Wanna bet?”

“This isn’t a challenge. And besides, the last time I asked you to do something, you reneged.”

Cameras begin to go off, and I blink. Why are they taking photos of us? Do they do this to everyone who walks in, or is someone else inside that’s famous?

I mean—Tripp plays football, but he’s not famous famous—not like a celebrity on television or in the movies. Does football count? I hadn’t thought about it before, although now that I am, I suppose Buzz was ‘famous’ before he met my cousin. People cared about who he dated and what he wore, and the places he went.

“Who are you guys camping out for?” I ask a guy dressed all in black: black camera, black jeans, black windbreaker. His cheeks are ruddy pink and his hair is windblown, as if he’s been waiting for hours.

“You,” he tells me.

It hadn’t occurred to me that fans would give a shit about Tripp and me having a simple drink at a nice restaurant.

Click, click, click, go the cameras, flashes going off in every which way.

“Come on.” Tripp’s hand goes to the small of my back, and I resist the urge to glance back at it. It feels weird having his hands on me. Our dance at the wedding doesn’t count, because it was forced and awkward and…he was kind of drunk.

Tripp grins for the camera.

I almost trip on my own two feet glancing up at him, at that megawatt smile, those pearly white teeth, that cleft in his chin.

I look up.

Then down at my own body.

Down at the large hand placed at the dip in my waist. How did that get there? Why is it there? What is he doing touching me like this?

I didn’t think he could stand me.

“Keep your head down if you want,” he says in my ear, the low baritone tickling my cerebellum. “That will afford some privacy.”

Privacy? Ha!

“It’s too late,” I smart. “I’ve already engaged the dude in conversation and full eye contact, and he’s taken my picture at least a dozen times.” I glance across the street, pointing. “And that guy, and that guy.” I point to the one up the sidewalk a ways, grateful he’s at least keeping his distance. “And why are you holding me? I can walk just fine, thanks.”

I shrug away from the arm behind my back, at my waist, and shoot him a look.

“Just trying to be helpful.” He doesn’t bother to look chagrined, letting me take the lead, walking a few feet in front of him. “I didn’t think you’d mind having my hands on you.”

“Okay, that’s just weird. Stop it.”

If he’s trying to flirt, it’s not working.

We reach the valet podium, and Tripp gives the young guy a nod. “Take good care of her for me.”

And then, as if by magic, the front door of The Ivy swings open, revealing the hostess stand, the hostess, and a grand waterfall cascading behind her.

“Mr. Wallace,” she greets us. “We’re so happy you could join us this evening.”

“Thanks.” Then, “Mr. Wallace is what my neighbor kid calls me,” he grumbles close to my ear.

Picturing a little boy who likes following around a football legend, I smile as we’re led to the bar—a dark, mahogany-paneled room with bottles lined up behind a wooden bar top, its dim lighting lending a refined atmosphere.

The kind of atmosphere I love; hope Tripp doesn’t ruin it for me.

“Sir, would you like to sit at the bar or one of our high-top tables?”

Tripp glances at me, raising his brows. “Chandler?”

I bite my lip, debating. “Um—one of the tables, please.”

Lord knows Tripp is going to say something foolish, and rude, and embarrassing at some point; best if the bartenders don’t overhear our incessant arguing.

We are not alone; several tables are already occupied, along with six patrons at the bar itself, all of whom turn their heads to see who the new customers are.

I recognize one woman as an actress in a daytime soap opera and give her a cursory nod as I slide into the seat our hostess has pulled out for me.

“Thank you.”

“Can I get you any waters while you wait for your server?”

“Yes please—two.”

She leaves and we’re alone.

Not alone alone—there are eyes watching us from around the room and I already feel as if we’re in a fish bowl. So this is what it’s like living under a microscope…

I got a small dose of it after the media picked up the photographs and videos of Tripp and me after the wedding, and I’m not sure how I feel about it. Wonder how Hollis deals with it day in and day out since dating and marrying Buzz Wallace.

I make a show of looking at the drink menu, scanning it but not actually reading it. I’m a lightweight—a simple glass of wine will do. Any more and my head will be facedown on the table as I giggle hysterically and that simply cannot happen.

Not tonight.

Not with him.

“Know what you’re gonna get?” he asks, setting down his menu and crossing his arms over his chest.

His broad.

Sexy.

Chest.

Briefly, my eyes flit to the buttons on his shirt, straining to pop open, the fabric ill-fitting thanks to his muscled physique. I stare longer than I planned to at the top one, its pearly black sheen winking at me, almost allowing the hairs on his chest to escape.

Don’t try to imagine what he looks like with his shirt off, don’t try to imagine what he looks like with his shirt off…

Too late.

I raise my gaze.

“I’ll just do a glass of white wine.” Despite the fact that my nose gets red when I drink it and I’ll most likely have a headache in the morning.

One and done, I remind myself. One and done.

When our drinks come, we’re left staring at each other, a whole lot of silence lingering in the space between us, Tripp unsure of where to look, me not wanting to stare at his chest.

He clears his throat. “So you just graduated from college, huh?”

I sip from the wine glass that’s just been placed in front of me. “Actually, no—I graduated with my master’s last year, but I’ve been in Europe since.”

“Why?” he asks bluntly, not skirting around the question like most people do, politely.

“I wasn’t ready to start working for my parents immediately after college.”

“Why?”

Oh my god. “Because I don’t want to work for my parents at all, and if you ask why, I’m going to strangle you.”

“It’s a valid question. Why don’t you want to work for your parents?”

“Sports isn’t my thing—it’s not my first, second, or third love. I’m only taking the job because I haven’t been able to find anything in my field. I’ve had interviews, but not many people are hiring right now.”

“What is your degree in?”

I squirm. “It’s not a big deal, just hard to get a job right now, and obviously I don’t have the kind of money for a start-up.”

I would if my parents were supportive and wanted me to become an entrepreneur. But as my bad luck would have it, my dad is dying for me to work for him at the office. Therefore, no seed money for launching my own business.

The look he’s giving me is saying, Well what the hell is it?

“Public relations. I have a business degree for marketing, but I would love to represent the creative types. Like authors or even small businesses.”

“Why not work for your family in their office? They probably have a dozen publicists working for them.”

I hesitate, unsure of how much private family information to tell him. “My first choice is not to work for my family. The last thing I wanted to do was rely on them for a job, which is one of the reasons Hollis doesn’t work for our family. I want to be the same way.” I take another sip of wine. “Plus, the PR office isn’t exactly the spot my father wanted me to fill within the…organization.”

The organization. What an odd thing to say about one’s family.

But Dad wouldn’t allow it, hating the fact that I didn’t pursue a business degree with an emphasis on economics. Or contracts.

Or law.

Something on the money side of the business.

Something impressive.

“What are you actually going to be doing for the Steam?” Tripp wants to know, downing half the vodka and water in his cocktail glass.

“I think I’m primarily going to be assisting my dad—he’s under the impression that I want to learn the business, so he thinks shadowing him and learning from him will be a good place to start.” I don’t add that my father has no faith in my abilities as a competent adult, seeing me as a child and treating me like one, too. “I just need one or two years of saving so I can branch out on my own.”

Tripp nods. “Aren’t you living in Hollis’s place rent-free?”

I shake my head. “No, I’m paying her rent. What do I look like, a mooch?”

“You look like the kind of girl who hasn’t had to work very hard.”

My back stiffens. The wine I just swallowed goes down hot, burning its way down my throat.

How dare he imply that I’m a spoiled brat!

Not that he would be the first—growing up wealthy comes with its fair share of downsides, stereotypes one of them. It’s not my fault I was born into a family that has been successful, but that doesn’t make me any less determined to pave my own way.

If I’m just using this job as a temporary solution to a long-term goal—a stepping stone to my own independence—then so be it. But working for the Westbrooke family and the Steam is not and never has been my end goal.

I smooth a hand down my black silk shirt, cursing its fine fabric and my expensive designer bag. “I guess if we’re judging people based solely on their appearance, then yeah, I suppose you could say I look like a girl who hasn’t had to work very hard.” I pause for theatrical effect. “Then again, you said that at the wedding, just before I knocked you on your ass.”

“Touché.”

After several moments of tense silence, I decide I’ve had enough of this awkward—and often frustrating—conversation and am ready to leave. I still have a lot of unpacking to do before starting my new job on Monday anyway.

“I’d like to go home now,” I tell Tripp.

He raises a dark brow sardonically. “Would you now?”

“Yes.”

He sighs loudly, as if inconvenienced, and bites out, “Fine.” Raises one arm and flags down the server, signaling for the check.

After he pays the tab, we exit The Ivy and are once again met by the paps and their flashing cameras.

We quickly hop in the car after the valet brings it around front and drive back to my place in silence—which is fine by me.

I stare out the passenger side window, lost in thought. This whole evening has been awkward and not just because my gut is telling me something isn’t right. Something feels…weird.

Off.

The drive passes quickly and before I know it, we’re pulling up to the curb in front of my townhouse. I hastily exit the car, eager to distance myself from Tripp, and beeline it for the front steps; my thoughts still wandering.

Do that many photographers spend that much time sitting outside of The Ivy? The whole thing was strange. I hate to say planned, but the more I think about how hard he worked to get me there tonight, the more my Spidey senses tingle.

When everything in my brain clicks into place, I spin around to find Tripp already out of the car, standing on the sidewalk behind me.

My temper flares.

* * *

Tripp

“You…you jackass!” She huffs at me, fuming, the word jackass sounding strange coming from her pretty, proper mouth. “You planned this!”

Planned this?

I mean, yeah, kind of, in a way. But it wasn’t my idea—it was my parents’.

I shoot Chandler a perturbed look. “You think I’m crafty enough to mastermind something like this? The paps showing up and taking photographs of us together? Fans taking videos of us having drinks? I’m flattered.” And impressed she managed to figure it out so quickly—before the photos hit the internet.

Clearly she thinks I’m an idiot, from the look she’s giving me. “Yes, Tripp, I do think you’re crafty enough to have staged this entire evening.” Her arms go up, defeated, and she lets the subject drop—until her eyes narrow. “You can’t stand the fact that a woman is stronger than you.”

“Hey, hey, hey now, you are not stronger than me.” I raise my arm and flex my bicep, all but kissing it for good luck. Same as I do before a game. “Barely any men are. You managing to flip me was a fluke.”

Obviously. What other explanation could there be for it?

“I told you I know karate.”

A scoff slips out of my mouth. “Lots of people claim to know karate.”

Chandler glares harder. “I can’t even with you.”

“You can’t even with me?” I scrunch my face up. “What does that even mean?”

“Have you been living under a rock? It means I can’t handle you right now.” She storms up her front steps. “Stop following me, butthole.”

Whoa. That escalated quickly. “Technically I didn’t do anything wrong. You are blowing this way out of proportion. Whatever you think is happening isn’t happening—so chill out.”

Whoops. Wrong thing to say.

She whips around. “That’s what’s wrong with men today. Everything is a damn game—not everyone wants to waste an entire evening just to get their name in the newspaper.”

I chuckle by accident. “Who reads the newspaper anymore?”

She levels me with a stare. “I could wring your neck. My face is going to be plastered all over the news tomorrow and I’m going to look like a sellout.”

A sellout? “How do you figure that?”

“First I toss you on your ass, now I’m going on a date with you even though I don’t like you as a person? Ha! What the hell kind of woman does that? A weak one. One who didn’t have anything going on tonight and thought maybe you would be pleasant for once.”

Actually—a gold digger does. Someone with no interest in the man as a person, only in their wallet, and I’ve met plenty of women who don’t give a shit about me as a human.

I step closer, propping my foot on her bottom stoop. “First of all, stop saying you tossed me on my ass.”

She snorts. “That was your takeaway from all that? The one thing you got out of my long rant was the ass-tossing part? Jesus.”

“It’s really unattractive when you roll your eyes like that.”

Her chin goes up. “I do not care what you think.”

“Don’t.”

She pulls a face. “Don’t what?”

“It sounds better saying ‘I don’t care’ then it does saying ‘I do not care.’ For the ease of the sentence.”

“I’m so glad I tossed you on your ass.” Chandler is defiant, crossing her arms, hands paused in turning the deadbolt key. “Tossed. Ass.”

She needs to stop driving home the same point over and over.

I put my hands on my hips. “You did not.”

“Oh yeah? Then how did you end up on the ground?” Her foot taps, the sound of her heel making a little click, click, click sound.

“I don’t remember—I blacked out.” I hesitate to say the next words. “It’s not like you could do it again if you wanted to.”

Her cool gaze rakes me from head to toe. “The hell I couldn’t.”

A drop of rain hits my cheek and I glance up at the sky then over at the streetlamps to see a fine mist glistening below the lights.

Is my mind playing tricks on me or is it starting to rain?

I look back up at Chandler, who’s advancing toward me slowly, taking one step at a time, toward my spot at the bottom of her staircase.

“Is that a challenge?”

I exhale. Fuck if she isn’t sexy as hell when she’s all riled up and wanting to wrestle my ass.

“Probably.”

Probably. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She’s down at the bottom of the steps now, so we’re eye to eye. If I leaned forward far enough, our noses would touch.

“You wouldn’t know what to do with yourself if I tossed you twice.”

“You…” I say, not finishing the sentence because I have no idea what to say. I really am the idiot my brother is always telling me I am. Why don’t I listen to him more?

“Me what?”

“You…wouldn’t dare.”

“You don’t know what I would or wouldn’t dare.” Her snicker is quite adorable. “You don’t know anything about me.”

She’s right; I don’t know anything about her. Everything I thought I knew about her from talking to her cousin before the wedding and bachelor party and rehearsal and reception was that Chandler Westbrooke was raised conservatively. Went to private school. Never broke rules.

Quiet.

Sweet.

Studious and smart.

But then she went and dropped me on my ass and left me confused as fuck.

Now she’s standing here, definitely wanting to karate-chop me into oblivion, onto the hard, cold ground.

Again.

Never judge a book by its cover.

People aren’t always what they seem.

“Do it,” I goad—as if I’m on the fifty-yard line at the beginning of a football game, talking shit to an opposing player during the ball snap. “Come on.” I lower my voice. “Do it.”

She steps off the stoop and onto the sidewalk next to me.

We have a stare-down, despite our size difference, her eyes appearing shifty and—

“Jesus Christ!” I shriek when my feet leave the ground, more wits about me than the last time she had a grip on my body, black shirt suddenly soaking on the cool pavement. “What the fuck, Chandler!”

I’m out of breath and the wind is knocked out of me, but this time, she’s bent over me, hair hanging in a cascade alongside her face.

Her smirking, grinning face.

…I think.

It’s hard to tell from this angle.

“You dick,” I say, winded. “Warn a guy first.”

Her hands go to her knees. “What would be the fun in that?”

“You’re only five feet tall—how are you doing this?”

She’s not really five feet tall. I’m just being dramatic.

“My sensei was one of the best.” She does a petite bow, pressing her hands together in a prayer-like pose. Leans in closer. “Are you okay?”

“Other than the fact that it’s raining? Yes, I’m fine.”

She’s bruised my ego enough to last me a lifetime—or put me in the hospital. Diagnosis: butthurt feelings and butthurt ass.

“Most people don’t get hurt from being flipped—it’s all in your head, and besides, you’ve been hit harder by grown men than little old me.”

Sure, she might be small, but she’s mighty, hair beginning to glisten from the mist lightly falling down on us.

Angelic.

Her black silky shirt is starting to cling to her body the way silk tends to do when wet, her boobs falling forward in her bra from the position she’s standing in.

Shit.

The fall must have addled my brain because I find myself watching her lips move when she leans in closer instead of listening to her speak—but maybe she’s doing the same thing too because I swear to god her eyes are trained on the lower half of my face.

She straddles me, hands cupping either side of my head. “Are you okay? I didn’t want you to hit your head on the asphalt.”

“It’s concrete, not asphalt.”

She drops my head. “Yup. Still the same old you.”

What’s that supposed to mean?

Her hands rest on her waist now, but she hasn’t moved from her position above me.

Leans in closer—close enough that I can feel her warm breath.

“What are you doing?” I want to know since we’ve determined I’m fine and my brains are in fact not addled. “Why are you still standing there like that?”

I can’t move unless she does.

Yes you can.

It’s raining harder now, a mix between a mist and a torrent. A steady rhythm of precipitation—nothing that would stop a football game already in progress, but enough to drench us and leave me wiping the water from my eyes.

Do something, Wallace.

Either sit up, or tell her to move, or lift her off yo—

Chandler sits.

On top of me.

“What are you doing?” I ask again, hands lying flat on the wet ground, moving—for now they need a purpose.

“Stop talking,” she tells me. “It just makes me dislike you more.”

Dislike me more? This from the woman who’s seated on me like she’s riding a pony at the county fair? What the hell is even happening right now?

Chandler inclines forward, and before I fucking realize it, her lips and mouth are on mine and she’s kissing me, and my hands are bound for her ass. Waist. Thighs.

Wet rain. Wet mouth. Wet kiss.

I pull her down farther, arms going around her back in an embrace, palms running over her spine. Over her soaking wet silk shirt that’s now probably ruined.

Neither of us seems to care.

We roll so she’s on the bottom and I’m braced over her, Chandler’s fingers raking through my hair.

Briefly, I acknowledge that she is probably the only woman I’ve ever met who wouldn’t complain about kissing someone on the concrete ground in the rain, ruining their expensive shirt. Their hair. Their makeup smearing from precipitation.

My hand is on her thigh, squeezing it gently, kneading it…running my hand up and down the outside of her jeans, even though they’re soaked.

I can’t believe she kissed me.

I can’t believe we’re down on the ground making out and her tongue is actually in my freaking throat.

She tastes amazing, like dessert and wine and curiosity.

We kiss a little longer before she plants one final peck at the corner of my mouth to draw the session to a close and I pull back to look at her. It’s not easy to study her face in the dark, even with the street lamps, which do nothing for visibility—not with the weather—so I draw back more and rise to my knees.

Reach out to grab her hand and lift myself up, off the ground, helping her up, too.

She wipes the hair out of her face. Wipes the water from her forehead, eyebrows, and from beneath her eyes.

Her face isn’t as bad as one would expect, considering we were lying on the ground.

“You don’t look terrible,” I state, for lack of anything more clever to say post-make-out sesh. “It could be worse.”

Chandler runs a hand over her mouth. “Thanks.”

I can’t stuff my hands in my pockets because they’re soaked, but she goes to the stoop and climbs the stairs, presenting me with her back.

I wonder if she’s going to invite me in for like, a hot shower or something. A nightcap? Sex?

Yeah, sex would be good. It’s been ages and I like her well enough after tonight that I’d actually bang her.

I put one foot on the bottom step.

“Thanks for the drinks.” Her voice stops the next foot from advancing.

Thanks for the drinks? Sounds kind of final. Does that mean I don’t get an invitation inside?

“Are you serious? You don’t get to come inside because you bought me a few drinks—I’m not that tipsy.”

Shit, did I say that out loud? Now she’s going to think I’m a douche.

Oh wait…

“Cool. No big deal.” My dismissal is just as nonchalant as hers, my lips and body still buzzing. Or am I just really fucking cold? Hard to tell with the wind picking up and the rain still coming down.

Chandler laughs as she punches in the keypad for her front door, pushing it open and turning to face me when she’s inside.

“See you later.” She lifts a hand to give me a small wave.

The tiniest, barest of waves.

More of a Fuck you, bye now, and before I can retort with something witty, the door shuts and she’s gone.

* * *

Chandler

I kissed him.

Holy shit, I kissed him.

I flipped him, then I took advantage and planted one on him—and the look on his face when I did both was well worth it. His expression when I told him goodbye then shut the door on him was also well worth it.

The man is an egomaniac.

Breathing heavy, I lean against the back of the front door for support, shocked at myself and my own actions.

I kissed him.

I’ve never done anything like that before, manhandled a guy and then put my mouth on his. I’ve always been the type of woman who let the man take the lead—I’ve even had men ask if it was okay for them to kiss me, asking for permission first.

Which, okay—sometimes kills the mood.

My point is, kissing someone first is not in my wheelhouse, let alone kissing someone I’ve used karate on.

Breathing heavy, I stare into my new townhouse, down the entry hall and into the living room.

This is your new life.

Since I’ve been back in Chicago, I’ve been to a bachelorette party, attended a wedding, flipped a man, gone on a non-date with him, flipped him again, made out with him in the rain, then shut the door in his face. Metaphorically speaking, but still. He was trying to come in and I shot him down.

All in a few weeks’ time.

I remove my waterlogged shoes.

Begin unbuttoning my ruined blouse, one button at a time, peeling it off my damp skin and discarding it on the floor to work the fly of my jeans. Those don’t come off as easily, suctioned to my body like a second skin and I have to tug to get them down, over my hips.

Leaving it all in the hall, I make for the shower to wash away the memory of Tripp Wallace’s smile. The frown. The look of utter surprise when I bent forward to kiss him. I’m hoping the warm spray of shower water will erase the feelings I didn’t hope to feel, hoping they’ll wash right down the drain.

Thirteen

Tripp

“Hey Mom, what’s going on?” I can barely read the time on my phone my eyes are so blurry. Even Chewy is too tired to fully commit to waking up for a phone call from Gramma.

I’m glad she didn’t FaceTime.

My bedsheets are a mess from all the tossing and turning I did in the middle of the night.

Couldn’t stop dreaming of a certain someone flat on her back on the wet ground.

“Are you awake?”

Am I awake? Yes.

Am I out of bed? No.

What kind of question is this? Of course I’m up; judging from the damn light shining through the window, the morning is half over and what’s Mom going to do about it if I’m not?

I scowl. “Unfortunately I am.”

It’s one of my rare days off this month; was it necessary for my mother to be the first person of the day hounding me?

“I thought I raised you better than this.” She sniffs. “Your brother was always the one who gave me the most trouble, but that’s only because he was bored at school and needed constant stimulation. I could always count on you to do the right thing…”

She sniffs again.

“Mom, are you crying?”

“…responsible one, and I never had to worry about you. Then you joined that team full of fast men with fast cars and women who use you…”

Huh? What the fuck is she yammering on about?

Fast cars and loose women, apparently.

“Mom. What’s wrong?”

What the hell happened that’s got her all worked up?

“Did Buzz say something?” This has to be about my idiot brother and I wonder what he could have done to piss her off and make her cry.

But Mom isn’t listening to a thing I’m saying, too busy carrying on and weeping into the phone. “…and then your father turns on SportsCenter and that’s all they’re talking about this morning.” Sniff, sniff. “Goddammit, Tripp, I said to take her out for drinks so you could be photographed together, not hump the girl in broad daylight, in the middle of the damn sidewalk!”

Mom rarely curses.

I scratch my bedhead. Hump the girl? Broad daylight? “What are you talking about?”

“Turn on your television!” Her blabbering is now at a screech and I hold the phone away from my ear, fearful that my eardrums are about to be besieged again. “Once again, the story is everywhere. Everywhere! You’re either going to become the most popular athlete or the most hated man in America.”

I’m still confused—and not because I’ve only just woken up. I genuinely have no idea what she’s talking about.

Reaching into my shorts, I scratch at my balls. “Why would I be the most hated man in America? I took Chandler on a date just like we planned. I was polite, we had an okay time, I took her home—end of story.”

Sort of.

I leave out the part where Chandler knocked me on my ass (again) and kissed me senseless in the rain. She put the moves on me, not the other way around.

Shocking to say the least.

Exciting as fuck, coming from little ol’ her.

I yawn, bored. “The only paparazzi around were at the front of the restaurant, just like my publicist arranged, and we spent the rest of the evening alone.”

“Are you blind!” Mom shrieks again. “There is no such thing as alone when you’re in the public eye or did you not take that class in ‘How to be a Celebrity’ school?” Whoa. She’s getting feisty. “I’m telling you right now, if you thought the karate shenanigans from the wedding picture went viral, this one—I won’t be able to show my face at book club again for months.” Sniff-sniff. “They’ve been calling me all morning. First Darla, then Gertrude.”

Fucking Gertrude, she’s always meddling in everyone’s business. Once, she tried setting me up with her niece, Rebecca—a divorcee with four kids, three dogs, two cats, and a bird. She was one of the most basic and boring-looking women I have ever seen in my life (based on the small photobook of pictures Gert rolled out for me).

Man did Gert take it personally when I said all that to her face, shouting about my apparent lack of manners. “It’s not my fault your niece has no eyebrows,” I told her. “And is that a mustache or a shadow? It’s so hard to tell.”

That wasn’t a fun book club meeting.

Plus, at that meeting, Gert ate most of the taco dip, which really pissed me the fuck off. Part of the reason I’m willing to read their stupid, shitty book selection every month is the taco dip tray I know is going to be at the meetings.

Gertrude and I had it out that night, let me tell you.

“Of course Gert is calling you.” I snort. “She can’t mind her own damn business, the old bag. And besides, who even uses the phone to make calls anymore?”

“That is not the point I’m trying to make and do not call our friends old bags!” Mom is clearly in the kitchen now, chopping some kind of vegetable on the cutting board, and I can’t help but wonder what she’s making Dad for dinner. Stew, probably, since she’s already getting it started. “This was not part of the plan.” Chop, chop, chop. “Now what are we going to do to fix this tangle!”

I chuckle, loving that she called it a tangle.

She stops chopping. “This isn’t funny.”

“I made the Chandler problem better.” She likes me now. She kissed me.

Women don’t climb on top of you and kiss you if they don’t like you. Am I right or am I right?

“I took care of it last night.” I yawn, giving Chewy a scratch on the top of his head.

“No, you made it worse! Now everyone is going to think you’re dating! Our point was to make it appear that you got along—we didn’t need you practically mauling each other in the street.”

Mauling each other on the street?

How does she know about that?

“Can you stop saying we like you’re the Queen of England or we’re on some publicity team together? I’m an athlete, not an influencer. I don’t give a shit what people are saying and I’m done running around for the media. It’s total bullshit.”

The doorbell rings, saving me from this inquisition.

“Mom, I have to go. Molly is here to take Chewy to the dog park.”

“Who is Molly?” I can almost hear her eyes narrowing suspiciously.

I roll mine. Mom probably thinks Molly is a hooker I hired to come blow me.

“She lives next door. She’s obsessed with animals, especially dogs.”

“Why aren’t you going to take Chewy to the dog park yourself?”

Now she’s going to nag me about the damn dog? Is there nothing I can do to make this woman happy? Why do I bother trying?

I scoot out of bed so I can throw a t-shirt on with the shorts I wore to bed, stretching. “I don’t know, Mom,” I answer testily. “She texted last night to see if she could hang out with him. I think there’s a boy she likes that goes to the same dog park.” But what difference does it make? If the kid wants to take the damn dog for a walk, why wouldn’t I let her? Why does my mother have to ride my ass about it, like I’m such a lazy dick who doesn’t care for his animals?

Besides, the extra exercise is good for Chewy’s heart, his mind, and his boxy little body.

Plus, having him out of the house lets me off the hook for a few hours so I can get some work done around here without getting interrupted to play fetch, feed him, or take him to pee. Or heavy breathing and slobbering.

“Don’t get all huffy. I was just asking,” Mom says, as if reading my irritated mind.

I sulk through the phone.

“Call me later—we’re not done with this conversation, young man. And check the internet!”

I hate it when she calls me young man and I hate when she tells me what to do. “Okay. Love you.”

“Call me back,” she tells me again, this time more sternly. “Love you.”

Molly is standing on the stoop when I finally hobble to the door, barefoot and sloppy, hair a mess, no coffee running through my veins.

She looks me up and down with teenage disdain before laying eyes on Chewy, who’s tearing toward her from behind me. Molly squats to greet him. “There’s my boy!” the teenager coos, all eyes on the dog. “There’s my handsome boy.”

Chewy lunges at her full force in a not-so-handsome way, plowing into her, but not knocking her off her feet as I expect him to. Luckily. Molly is tiny and I don’t need the kid sprawled out on her ass in my foyer.

“Morning, Moll,” I say, opening the door all the way so she can come inside. Then, without preamble, I turn back into the foyer, so I can grab coffee from the kitchen.

“Rough night?” she asks, trudging along behind me once Chewy calms down and lets her up.

“No,” I grunt. Molly is fifteen; she doesn’t need to know what a grown man does in his free time.

She pads along behind me, not bothering to remove her sneakers. “Who is that girl you were with last night?”

“No one.” I have the coffee maker on automatic brew, so the pot is full and piping hot when I pour some into a mug.

Sip it slowly so it doesn’t scald my mouth, ignoring Molly’s question.

“Didn’t look like no one.” She’s scratching Chewy’s floppy little ears while at the same time stretching her free arm out to snatch his leash down off the hook by the laundry room door. “Looked like you had your tongue down No One’s throat.”

Whatever liquid I had in my mouth goes down the wrong pipe and a coughing fit begins.

What the hell did she just say?

“Tongue down whose throat?” I continue feigning ignorance, dread filling my gut along with the scalding hot coffee, Mom’s frantic words and warnings assailing me at once.

Shit.

Fuck.

Hump the girl in broad daylight…check the internet…SportsCenter…

“You’re not very good at lying, Mr. Wallace.” Molly latches Chewy’s lead to his collar then makes a show of swiping the screen of her phone. Holds it out so I can see. “Your tongue. Her throat.”

Holy.

Christ.

The photo shoved in my face shows Chandler on top of me in front of her townhouse in the rain and we’re kissing, rain illuminated by the streetlights, glistening like glitter.

We look like a romance novel cover.

The kind of book Darla would choose.

This was the picture Mom was trying to tell me about. I ignored her warnings, not having been in the mood to check the news or my phone or the internet for a story I knew would appear in some way, shape, or form.

But this?

The last thing I was expecting to see, especially from the adolescent dog walker.

“Is this your girlfriend?” Molly wants to know, staring me down as only a teenage girl can do, all judgmental like, while winding and unwinding the slack from Chewy’s lead around her hand.

Why hasn’t she left yet?

“No.”

“She’s pretty.”

How the hell can you tell? My tongue is down her throat and you can’t see her face, I want to ask but remember myself in time, remember who my audience is.

I grunt.

“Why are you on the ground with her if she’s not your girlfriend?”

Molly has settled at the end of the counter, hip resting against the cold, marble top, in no rush to get Chewy out the door.

“She’s giving me CPR. I passed out.”

Molly rolls her eyes. “Why won’t you just tell me what you’re doing with her on the ground?”

Wow. Kids really are naïve these days.

Thank god.

“What are you doing, trying to be a lawyer? I thought you wanted to be a vet—stop cross-examining me like I’m on the witness stand.”

Witless stand is more like it.

I’m the idiot who got caught with my hand in the proverbial cookie jar.

“Just answer the question.” The teen has no tolerance for my bullshit and isn’t going to let this matter drop. “I want to know about boys.”

“No, Molly, you do not. Trust me, we’re all bags of shit.” Her eyes go wide at my choice of words and I retract the statement with a tamer, “Er, I mean, we’re all scum.”

Her eyes roll. “Not every guy is a bag of shit.”

Fuck, now she’s swearing. “No cursing.”

“You just did.”

“Yeah but I’m old.”

“Duh.”

I don’t know if I should be offended by that or glad she seems to have dropped the subject.

“Shouldn’t you be leaving? I have shi—stuff to do around here.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m going. Just tell me how you ended up on the ground. It makes no sense.”

I eyeball her skeptically, giving her my most intimidating stare so she’ll fade away like I want her to. “Do your parents know you’re like this?”

“Yes.” She sighs as if I’m the most exasperating person ever. “They made me this way.” Duh. “So how’d you end up down there?”

“I can’t remember.”

Eye roll. “What’s her name?”

“Doesn’t the article tell you?”

Molly shrugs as if the answer is obvious. “I don’t believe everything I read.”

Smart kid—so I throw her a bone. “Her name is Chandler.”

“Like Chandler Bing, from Friends?” Molly nods, recognition lighting up her eyes. “So it’s the girl who flipped you at your brother’s wedding—that was all over the news, too. My dad thought that was hilarious.”

I bet he fucking did, the jackass. “Could you not bring that up?”

“I’m sorry, was it a secret?”

Wow. “You sarcastic little shit.”

“Little?” She stands straighter. “I’m fifteen.”

“Big whoop, we were all fifteen.” No longer in the mood for brew, I dump the contents of my mug into the sink and run the water. “Besides, it was a figure of speech.”

Molly thinks of her next question. “Do you like Chandler?”

“Yeah, she’s alright I guess.”

“No, I meant, do you like her like her?”

“I’m too old to like like someone.”

The neighbor girl studies my face. “What are you, forty?”

“Hey, watch it,” I snap. “I’m only twenty-eight.”

“Could have fooled me—you act like my dad.” She’s scoffing at me, the barb hitting right where it was intended to strike—my overinflated ego, which deflates a few notches thanks to her.

I can’t help feeling a tad insulted by this teenage girl—who should have left with the dog minutes ago. We shouldn’t still be standing in my kitchen arguing about my nonexistent love life like two giggling girlfriends sharing gossip.

I am not going to be the dude to teach her men are assholes.

“I thought you were for sure as old as my dad,” she goes on, oblivious to my ire. “At least. But I suppose they don’t let old guys stay in the NFL—they’d fracture bones because of arthritis and stuff.”

“Just stop.” I shoot Molly a perturbed look. “Shouldn’t you already be halfway to the dog park?”

She leans against the counter. “How did you end up on the ground in the first place? I know she didn’t have to give you CPR because there are no photos of an ambulance.”

“That’s private.”

“Did she use karate on you again?” Molly hits the nail on the head, standing straight up when she realizes it, too. “Oh my god, she did, didn’t she?”

“Pftt,” I scoff, snorting. “What makes you say that?”

“Duh. She’s already done it once and why else would you be on your back in the dark on the wet sidewalk? It’s not like you would voluntarily lie down.”

“Are you sure you want to be a veterinarian? You’d make a good detective.”

“Am I right then? She used karate on you?”

I will neither confirm or deny. Instead, I offer her a bagel. “You want one?”

“Nah. I ate already.” She sniffs, annoyed I’ve changed the subject. “Thanks though.”

“Are there any other questions you want to ask before you go? How tall I am, what my favorite color is, what I’m having for dinner, where I was born?”

I’m being sarcastic, but Molly takes a seat at the kitchen counter.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, I was kidding. There will be no getting comfortable at the counter. I was joking.”

She smiles. “You’re not funny. Like, at all.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Like—not even a little.”

“Thanks. I get it. Now get out.”

She rises from the chair, still holding Chewy’s lead. “I mean, I feel like you think you’re funny? But it’s really hard to tell when you’re making a joke.”

So rude.

The kid needs to get the hell out of the house.

“Don’t look so offended, Mr. Wallace. My mom says some people aren’t meant to be humorous—you are just one of those people.” She pats me on the arm, like my grandma used to do when she was consoling me.

“I can be funny when I want to be,” I pout, sounding defensive. Ridiculously defensive, arguing with the teenage girl from the house next door…

…in my own damn kitchen.

…about women.

“I can be funny when I want to be,” she mimics. “That’s what people who aren’t funny say,” she goads, walking toward the door. “Does Chandler Westbrooke laugh at your jokes?”

“Yes.” Ha!

“I suppose she laughs because she likes you.”

“Oh. Is that the only reason, smartass?”

“Probably.” Eye roll. “I can’t imagine you give her any other reasons.”

What a shithead!

“For your information, Miss Know-It-All, Chandler doesn’t like me. She hates me.” I tell her the same thing I told my mother when she was the one doing the cross-examination. “Trust me.”

Molly shakes her head, disappointed. “You know nothing about women, do you?”

Nope.

Not even a little—but I’m not about to admit that to a fifteen-year-old. Instead, I puff out my chest, posturing to the runt. “Of course I do—I’m a grown-ass man.”

The kid laughs like I’ve just told an actual joke. “Ha—see, now that was funny.”

“What!” I trail along after her. “I do! I know stuff.”

She’s pulling open the front door and stepping out onto the porch. I want to demand that she get her ass back here so I can continue arguing with her, but like I said—she’s a teenager and why the fuck am I bothering? It’s not like I have anything to prove.

Molly works for me—I don’t owe her an explanation or a gossip session. This is my personal business, not fodder. The kid needs to stay in her lane.

“I’ll be back in about an hour, Mr. Wallace.”

I get the feeling she’s been calling me Mr. Wallace instead of Tripp intentionally to make me sound old, and it’s working. Damn her.

“My dad is Mr. Wallace,” I inform her, repeating the lines I used to hear my father say to my buddies when they’d come hang at our house growing up. The friends I had who were close who considered Roger Wallace to be their second father.

“My parents said I’m not supposed to call my elders by their actual name unless I’m invited to.”

Her elders? “You can call me Tripp.”

Molly shrugs, giving Chewy a sharp tug of the leash to get his rear moving. “Whatever you say, sir.”

“Thanks.” To get the last word in, I add, “And for the record, Chandler Wallace doesn’t like me.”

Molly laughs, turning to face me and walking backward with Chewy down the sidewalk in front of my house. “Do you realize you just called her Chandler Wallace, not Chandler Westbrooke?”

“It was an accident!” I shout.

“Was it though?” I can still hear her laughing. “There are no accidents when it comes to love.” She singsongs the last word. “L-O-V-E, L-O-V-E, L-O-V-E, love love love.” Molly practically skips down the road with the dog, merrily singing the tune.

Oh my god.

“I do not love Chandler Westbrooke!” I shout from the porch. “The woman hates me! There is no us!”

Molly turns around once more. “Thou protesteth too much! Go inside, Mr. Wallace. You sound drunk.”

This kid has made me absolutely insane and I have no idea what I’m even saying anymore, on the front stoop shouting at her with bedhead, wearing what I wore to sleep in.

Jesus, could it get any worse than this?

“I’m not protesting, I’m defending my position!” I bellow back, despite the fact that she and the dog are halfway down the sidewalk and energetically strolling away.

She throws a blithe arm up, wiggling her fingers in the air before lobbing an ‘Okay’ hand sign at me.

Shit.

I turn my head and look next door, only to meet the gaze of my other next-door neighbor, Allan Yumang. Incidentally, he and I have never seen eye to eye, especially about the hedgerow growing between our two properties—not once he erected the fence on his side of it, leaving me with the bush and all the responsibilities having a hedge on one’s property entails.

I like bush, but not that kind of bush.

The whole thing irritated me, particularly considering the fence went up while I was away, probably playing in the Super Bowl or something equally as cool while Allan himself was likely just crunching numbers, since he’s lame and an accountant for some fast food chain.

He’s staring into my yard, then over at Molly’s retreating form, apprehensive.

Fuck. Just what I need.

“Morning, Allan.” I wave feebly, feeling like a giant asshole and probably looking like one too. “Nice weather we’re having.”

It’s not nice weather—it’s cold and damp, with more rain in the forecast for tonight, snow sure to follow in the upcoming weeks.

Allan doesn’t respond, continues staring me down—not that he’s ever been one for conversation, living in that giant house all alone, the weirdo.

“She’s my dog walker,” I clarify, even though he didn’t ask.

Allan still doesn’t respond.

“She was being nosey and asking me personal questions,” I loudly tell him, verbal diarrhea rearing its ugly head, and I wish I would just shut the fuck up about it already. “Dang kids these days.”

He purses his lips and nods, moving toward the Honda parked in his driveway, eyeballing Buzz’s pimped-out Beemer parked in mine with disdain. He clearly thinks I’m one of those athletes who blows his money on expensive houses, cars, and jewelry.

“Welp. Good talk,” I tell Allan, slamming the door closed behind me as I re-enter the house, ranting in my head about what an odd dude he is. I mean, who just stands there when someone is talking to them and doesn’t say anything back?

He probably thinks you’re a total creep, I rationalize. After all, he did just see a teenager coming out of your house, and the two of you quarreling publicly in the front yard.

Yeah, but Molly and I were arguing like we’re brother and sister.

Great. He’s going to tell his wife and she’ll probably tell Molly’s parents, and everyone is going to think I’m a dickhead, not just my family, Chandler, and Molly.

And all by nine in the morning…

Fourteen

Chandler

“Join Mom and me for dinner?” Dad has his head stuck in the doorway of my tiny little office—more of a cubicle, really—his black hair peppered with gray, the glasses on his nose reflecting the fluorescent lighting from above.

I’ve been here a week and have survived on the Starbucks they serve in the breakroom and the bagels and donuts brought in by contractors—and the administrative assistant Ericka, who’s one of the funniest people I’ve ever met.

Well. Her and Buzz.

He’s pretty damn hilarious, too.

“I can’t. Hollis and Buzz are back from their honeymoon and she invited me over for dinner to look at their pictures.”

He tips his head. “They just got back today?”

“Yes?”

“And they’re having people over? I would think they’d want to rest and unpack.”

I stand, pushing my desk chair in and powering down my computer. “I don’t think Buzz is the rest-and-unpack type.” I pull my tweed blazer off the hook on the wall and shrug into it. “Besides, they haven’t seen anyone for over a week, so they’re dying to socialize.”

I’m not sure if there will be anyone there besides me, but Hollis mentioned one of the cleaning ladies had dropped off a pan of homemade lasagna, garlic bread, and a giant tossed salad—enough to feed an army—and only a fool would pass up a meal like that.

Especially when operating on a fixed income, like I am.

I haven’t been grocery shopping this week, and my refrigerator and cabinets are looking a bit too bleak. Free food and excellent company?

Yes please.

I’ll have seconds of that!

“Sorry Dad. Maybe some other time.”

I don’t go to my parents’ place often—they’re both very stuffy and formal, and I’m not about living in a gilded cage. That may be great for my mother, but it will never be the life for me. Sitting through dinners with them is almost unbearably stiff.

Considering we’re not living in the 1950s anymore, it’s weird that they run the house as if it were a country club. I want to laugh and talk with my mouth open and snort and have fun!

“Thanks for looking over that new agent contract,” Dad goes on, changing the subject to one he’s comfortable with: work.

“Not a problem.”

“Even though I know that’s not your forte, you should get familiar with the legal mumbo jumbo.”

“Right-o, Daddy-o.”

His lips purse.

I roll my eyes behind his back as he walks me to the elevator bank. Like the gentleman he was raised to be, Dad pushes the down button for me and waits for the car to arrive.

“Have a good time tonight,” he says. “If we don’t see you at the house this weekend, have a good weekend.”

It sounds odd hearing your parent tell you to have a good weekend as if you’re a regular employee and not their daughter.

“Thanks Dad.” I laugh, grateful for the elevator’s arrival, and sigh against the wall when I get in and the door closes, thankful to be alone. Thankful to be done for the day.

Okay, I admit it: this job is painful.

It’s not horrible—there are worse things in the world than being your dad’s gopher and being bored at work, especially in this economy—but the atmosphere is stuffy and cold, which makes the workplace suck.

Typical Westbrooke vibe.

I don’t bother heading home to change my outfit for Hollis’s house; it’s Friday, so this morning I decided to dress casually, ended up wearing jeans and a sweater—perfect for lounging around on my cousin’s giant, comfortable couch.

There are half a dozen cars in the drive when I arrive, stomach already growling, my manners niggling at me—should I have stopped and gotten something to bring along? A bottle of wine perhaps? Salad dressing? Dinner rolls?

Shoot, I don’t know, but it suddenly feels rude showing up without food to share. Hollis and Buzz have been gone all week and she most likely hasn’t been to the store.

Relax—they have people for that.

Not that Hollis has become lazy, but Buzz has a housekeeper who thinks it’s her new mission in life to keep him and his new wife fed. Every week she keeps their fridge stocked, house clean, and bellies full.

I shake off the guilt at arriving empty-handed and lift my hand to the door to knock. When it’s pulled open, it’s not my cousin’s face that greets me or even her new husband’s, but the one face I didn’t think I’d be seeing again any time soon.

Tripp.

“What are you doing here?” he rudely questions, filling the doorway, wearing gray sweatpants and a Blues hoodie. His feet are bare, but he’s wearing a stocking cap as if it’s twenty degrees outside and he’d catch his death without it.

I square my shoulders. “I was just going to ask you the same thing.”

There.

That should shut him up.

“It’s a family dinner,” he tells me, opening the door farther so I can enter.

“Good thing I’m family,” I smart back, stepping inside with a toss of my hair, mumbling “Ass” under my breath.

I don’t wait for him to catch up but stop short when I arrive at the kitchen, a vaguely familiar older couple seated at the counter staring at me, along with another young woman who can only be the other Wallace.

True. Their sister.

We’ve met, but only briefly, amidst the chaos and confusion and excitement of the wedding parties and preparation, surface small talk and banter, though nothing deep.

His sister.

His parents.

My stomach churns.

I haven’t seen my cousin since the wedding, and I’ve only met his mother and father once. All they actually know about me is that I know karate and can lift their son.

Oh god, what if they hate me? What if I’m only that girl from the tabloids—the one he was photographed sucking face on the sidewalk, in the rain?

“Chandler dear,” Mrs. Wallace says, rising from the barstool and coming at me with outstretched arms. “How lovely to see you!”

“Dial it down, Ma,” Tripp mutters, still behind me, no doubt shooting her one of his famous agitated looks above my head.

“Hi there.” Nervously, I tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear and give everyone a wimpy little wave, accompanied by a wobbly smile. “Am I interrupting a family thing? I hate to intrude.”

There must have been some mistake, or a miscommunication between myself and Hollis—I thought friends would be here, not just a gathering of Buzz’s family.

Which definitely makes me feel like an interloper.

They all look so comfortable, lounging around in their casual clothes, my cousin and her new husband tan and glowing from their week in the sun. Relaxed. Happy. His arm is around her shoulders and he’s kissing her temple, their lips then meeting for a quick peck.

That’s what love looks like.

Easy.

Comfortable.

“Chandler!” Hollis exclaims, breaking away from the hubby to enfold me in a hug. “I missed you!” She takes my hand and drags me around the kitchen counter, where a feast is spread out. Food in giant tin chafing dishes, steaming hot and ready to eat. “Look at all this! I’m starving and you’re right on time—we were just about to eat and watch the Bolts play the Wildcats.”

My eyes stray to Tripp, who’s flopped onto the living room couch.

“What about him? Does he have a game this weekend?”

“No, it’s a bye week.” Hollis is already busy handing me a plate and utensils and digging into the piping hot lasagna to explain what that means. Luckily, I already know the term since I was raised in a family where they live and breathe sports.

In sports that play every single week during their season, each team gets one entire week off and doesn’t have a single game.

This is Tripp’s week off.

I thought he had off during Buzz’s wedding, but I must have been mistaken. Perhaps they did a good enough job planning the entire thing so he could attend, what with their agents and managers and publicists scheduling everything—they must have all coordinated so the brothers could be together.

When my plate is full—bearing garlic bread and salad, too—I am ushered to the massive table off the kitchen where a few other things are set out, tiny cheesecakes and brownie bites.

“You’re going to have to roll me out of here when we’re done,” I tease, eying a strawberry dessert. “Where did these come from?”

“I made those, dear,” Mrs. Wallace tells me, taking the chair across from me, motioning for her husband to sit down next to her. True sits next to him, Buzz on the other side of his mother, and Hollis on one side of me, leaving only one space for the remaining Wallace.

By my side.

How convenient. They couldn’t have made their strategy any more obvious.

When Tripp straddles the bench I’m on to sit his ass down, he bumps my back with his plate, nudges my knee with his thigh, and hits my arm with his elbow—as if he is an elephant in a delicate tea shop that cannot stop breaking things.

The man is about as subtle as a runaway dump truck plowing through a dining room wall.

And he has his eye on my meal.

“Are you going to eat that?” His hand is halfway between us, fingers taking on a claw shape—aka: grabby hands. Steering toward my carbs.

“Do not start that again,” I grumble, too hungry to tolerate his antics so early on in the evening. “You have a plate of food—stop bothering me.”

“I thought we were friends” comes his low reply, his teeth tearing into the garlic bread in his hand. “Friends share.”

“Just because I kissed you does not make us friends.”

“Oh yeah?” Chew, chew, swallow. “That’s weird, I thought that’s exactly what it made us, since we’re family and all.”

Ew, gross. “First of all, we are not family. Second of all—”

“Big brother, would you like to tell the rest of the class what’s so funny?” True Wallace is staring at us both, fork poised below her mouth, dark eyebrows raised as she watches her brother pouting over his dinner plate.

I clear my throat and smile, doing my best to be polite, despite the nerves in my stomach. I could kill him for adding to my anxiety but decide to go with honesty since the Wallace clan seems to be one that appreciates brutal truths and hard facts.

I’ve never heard Buzz or Tripp be anything but factual and blunt.

“Your brother has his hands all over my food.”

Next to me, the man himself shrugs. “The last time I stole her bread, she threatened to stab me with her butter knife.”

No big deal.

So casually just putting that out there for them to judge me.

Internally, I groan and want the floor to swallow me whole.

“Is there a reason you’re touching her plate, son? Haven’t you got enough food on your own—are we greedy now?” Mr. Wallace sets his utensils down, intent on lecturing his grown, firstborn offspring.

“Dad, you know I have to eat nine thousand calories a day to stay in shape. If Buzz is going to insist on feeding us rabbit food, I have to resort to subterfuge.”

Rabbit food.

Subterfuge.

I almost laugh out loud.

“Tripp Robert Wallace.” Their mother’s tone means business; she is clearly embarrassed at her oldest son’s attempts to take food off a guest’s plate at the dinner table.

Chew, chew. “Robert is Trace’s middle name.”

Buzz snorts. “No it’s not.”

“Well it’s not mine.”

“It’s not?” Mr. Wallace’s brows furrow, but then he shrugs and continues eating.

True laughs.

“For one second, can this entire evening not be about you?” Mrs. Wallace directs her question at Tripp. “Your brother just returned from his honeymoon with his bride—”

“You mean the honeymoon I wasn’t invited to?” Tripp blurts out, glaring at his brother.

“Get married and go on your own damn honeymoon,” Buzz counters, fist-bumping my cousin. The pair of them gesture as if their knuckles explode like dynamite.

“Yes dear and we want to hear all about it.” Their mother pats her newly wedded son on the top of his hand, giving a pointed look to Tripp. “That is why we are here.” Behave.

Tripp grunts, digging into his lasagna, arguing forgotten as he puts the first mouthful onto his tongue. Moans.

“Stop,” True commands. “If I have to listen to you eat, I will punch you.”

“True Wallace!”

“What, Mom! He’s loud! We can all hear him.” Tripp’s sister purses her lips and says, “Chandler, ever since we were kids, he’s always been a loud chewer. You don’t want to be around when he eats cereal or soup, you will lit-er-rally want to murder him.”

“True!” Mrs. Wallace exclaims again, horrified at her daughter’s aggressive banter.

“What? You know he slurps the milk on purpose to piss us off.”

Tripp sucks the lasagna noodles into his mouth.

“Oh my god, I swear…” His sister glares.

“Kids!” In an attempt to reestablish order, their mother bangs her fist on the table, then giggles, embarrassed. “I’m so sorry, Chandler. It’s not normally like this.”

“It’s always like this,” their dad pipes up between bites. “Usually worse, but this one has been in the Maldives so he hasn’t been around to make trouble, while this one”—Mr. Wallace points his knife at Tripp—“makes headlines.”

I shrink down in my seat.

“Roger, don’t embarrass poor Chandler!”

“Yeah, don’t embarrass poor Chandler,” Tripp repeats, nudging me under the table with his massive leg.

I swat at it where no one can see.

He swats back and I feel their sister’s eyes boring into me.

It’s at this point I know she knows we’re fooling around, playfully hitting each other under the table. True knows we’re screwing around, though I have no idea how I came to be screwing around with Tripp with our hands beneath the table—a man I clearly do not like but seem to be flirting with right in front of his family.

I blush.

“This is a family dinner, not a round of grab-ass.” True punctuates her statement with an eye roll, though her lips are smiling around the lettuce leaves jammed into her mouth.

Mrs. Wallace blanches. “Please swallow your food before you begin speaking.”

“Hashtag always momming so hard.” Buzz laughs.

Tripp skewers his brother with contempt. “What did I tell you about saying the word hashtag out loud? It is not a thing.”

“You’re not a thing.”

“You’re not.”

“Shut up.”

“You shut up.”

They do this back and forth, like petulant children, for all of ten seconds before Roger Wallace finally slams his fist on the table.

The room is silent.

Then.

My cousin parts her lips with a grin. “Who wants to see some pictures?”

All us women ooh and ahh at their gorgeous photos—pictures of their incredible meals, breakfasts, lunches, and dinners. Pictures of the beach, the water, the pool. Themselves dressed up for dinner. Dressed down for wakeboarding. Buzz with a dolphin at the aquatic center, Hollis with a Mai Tai and a tropical flower in her windblown hair.

They’re sunburnt and carefree.

“…and I got one of those pedicures where the fish eat the dead skin off the bottom of your feet,” Buzz is telling his mom—loudly—from across the table.

Tripp’s body stiffens.

“You did what?”

“I said, I got one of those pedicures where the fish eat—”

“I heard what you said!” he bellows. “That’s what I was gonna do!”

I look back and forth between the two of them, confused. When was Tripp going to have fish eat the dead skin off his feet? Um…that makes no sense.

“It wasn’t your honeymoon!”

“But you didn’t even want to do it until I said I wanted to do it!”

“So! It was a good idea.” Buzz casually takes a drink of the water at his place setting. “It was awesome.”

“I hate you.”

I frown. Lean over to ask, “Are you seriously mad right now that he got a pedicure and you didn’t? Because you can go get one tonight if you want. Most places are still open.”

He crosses his bulky arms. “Not the kind with the fish.”

“But…why are you upset?”

“Because. That’s what I wanted to do.”

“But you didn’t go on the honeymoon.”

He rolls his eyes at me like I’m some kind of imbecile.

Their sister laughs. “Tripp tried inviting himself on their honeymoon, but Buzz wouldn’t allow it.”

“I mean, that’s understandable.”

He frowns, shooting me narrowed side-eye. “Whose side are you on?”

There are sides? “Um, no one’s?”

He turns his body away from me.

“Oh my god.” True laughs. “Could you be any more immature?”

He one hundred percent could—but their mother doesn’t allow it.

She shoots the entire table a warning look, crossing her arms and resting them on the table. “So, you went and had fish pedicures—what else did you go do?”

“And don’t say banged,” True adds nonchalantly, earning a gasp from Mrs. Wallace.

“Really, True? Can none of you behave for five minutes? Is it so much to ask? You’re all giving me a heart attack. My blood pressure is skyrocketing.” She feels for her pulse dramatically. “Roger, say something.”

He looks up from using his butter knife to push meat sauce across the plate and onto his fork. “Be nice to your mother.”

Mrs. Wallace frowns.

“We swam with stingrays,” my cousin says with a smile. “Buzz screamed like a girl when one rubbed up against his leg. Scared the daylights out of everyone in our group.”

Their sister makes a face. “You screamed like a girl swimming with giant pancakes, yet you let tiny fish eat the dead skin off your feet? You really are a complete dunce.”

“It was so loud.” Hollis chuckles at the memory.

Buzz looks affronted. “I’m sorry—have you ever swum with stingrays? They give you no warning, just rub their bodies up on you out of nowhere. And hello, that jungle guy Steve Irwin got stabbed in the heart by one and died—I could have died, that’s all I’m saying, and no one even cared.”

Hollis pats his cheek. “I cared, baby.”

“Did you at least get videos?” True asks.

“No, we couldn’t take our phones in the water, but we do have a picture of him kissing its fin.” She stabs some lettuce and pops it in her mouth. “He looks like he’s sucking on a Sour Patch Kid.”

Tripp snorts.

“What else?” Mrs. Wallace wants to know. “Tell us everything.”

“Not everything, wink-wink.” Buzz laughs. “If you catch my drift.”

“Mom said we’re not supposed to talk about sex at the table,” Tripp reminds him.

“I wasn’t going to, idiot. I was joking.”

“I swear to god, if I could find your leg under the table, I’d kick it,” Tripp tells his brother.

They scowl at each other.

Wow.

Just…wow.

I thought they all got along?

Our family isn’t like this—at all. We’re quiet and polite and suffocatingly…

Blah.

This exchange between them all is so entertaining I don’t realize I’m stuffing garlic bread into my mouth and giggling to myself until Tripp turns back toward me, eyes wide.

“Laugh it up, clown,” he says, looking me up and down, the doughy bread in my hand suspended mid-scarf.

I can’t get any words out, my mouth otherwise occupied with carby deliciousness, so I shrug. And giggle again.

“So, Chandler.” Mrs. Wallace turns her attention to me for the first time this evening. “How long have you been a black belt?”

Oh shit. That was a random question—fair, but random.

I take a drink from my water glass to wash down the bread lingering in my throat. Wipe my hands on the napkin placed in my lap.

“Since I was in high school, actually. I started karate when I was four.”

Everyone’s brows go up except my cousin’s.

Mrs. Wallace turns toward her. “Hollis, dear, do you know karate?”

She shakes her head. “Unfortunately not. My parents put me in ballet and tap dancing lessons—and one ill-fated baton twirling class when my dream was to be a twirler in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.”

“Do you still know how to twirl?” Buzz sounds interested.

“I do.”

“You gonna show me?”

Hollis nods.

“Babe, that is so sexy,” her husband says.

To my right, True makes a gagging sound. “Gross. Stop. No one wants to picture your wife wearing lingerie and twirling a baton for you.”

“Why would you say that?” Tripp groans. “I wasn’t thinking about her being in lingerie until you said it, asshole.”

“Don’t call your sister an asshole,” Roger chastises. “Especially at the dinner table. Have some damn class.”

I’ve gleaned—after only a short time with the Wallace family—that any effort on Roger’s part to discipline the kids earns him gold stars with Mrs. Wallace, because after his statement, she puts her hand on top of his and they share a…look. Like, the look.

They’re totally going to have sex later.

Dear lord.

This family really is crazy.

It goes on like this for at least another forty-five minutes: arguing, talking, laughing. More arguing. More storytelling. Argue, argue, story. Laughing. Arguing.

And so on and so forth, until,

“Dipshit, how are you getting home?”

I glance up from the piece of cheesecake in front of me with interest. Buzz is pointedly staring at his brother and Tripp is scratching the back of his scalp.

“I was going to Uber.”

What are they talking about?

“Is that how you got here to pick up my car?”

Ah—now it makes sense. I saw the black BMW sports car Tripp had borrowed parked in the driveway out front, which means he must have driven it here, but I didn’t notice the pickup truck I rode in after the wedding rehearsal.

“Yes.”

“And you plan on Ubering home? Instead of having someone drive you?” Buzz’s gaze quickly shoots to me and if I hadn’t been watching him speak, I would have missed the gesture completely.

“Yes. That was the plan.”

“That’s dumb—any one of us can drive you home.”

“Oh no dear, we’re not leaving until the morning,” their mother hastily tells the table, fake dismay upon her brow. She looks at her daughter. Then looks at me.

Then looks at True.

Then sighs as if her heart is heavy and there is little hope.

“Mom. It’s fine.” Tripp reaches over to grab a tart, jamming it into his mouth in one bite and chewing. He licks his fingers then reaches for another dessert.

“Unless…” Mrs. Wallace again. “Chandler, dear, where do you live?”

“Mom—no.” Tripp finally gives her the courtesy of his attention. “I can take a cab. It’s not a big deal.”

“Chandler doesn’t mind, do you, Chandler?”

Everyone in the room is watching me, and the moist cheesecake in my mouth suddenly goes dry—impossible to chew and even more impossible to swallow.

“Do I mind taking him home?” I dab at my mouth with the napkin. “Of course I don’t mind.”

Tripp knocks me with his knee beneath the table where no one can see.

“That’s a great idea! Since you’re both going the same direction.” Hollis grins widely, the matter having been settled.

“We’re not even close to being in the same direction,” Tripp grumbles. “I don’t want her driving twenty minutes out of the way because I was dumb enough to not arrange a ride.”

He has a valid point. However, glancing around at the suspiciously innocent faces of the Wallace clan, a nagging feeling creeps up, and I can’t help but wondering…

Is this a setup?

“I can give you some gas money for the inconvenience,” Buzz tells me, reaching around to his back pocket and pulling out his wallet. He pulls out a twenty-dollar bill and throws it on the table. “This should cover it.”

I bite back a laugh knowing that beside me, Tripp is fuming.

Instead of a retort, he leans forward and snaps up the cash, shoving it in his pants. “Thanks.”

“That’s for Chandler!” Buzz shouts.

“Give me a break—you threw that down to make me feel like a twelve-year-old who needs a ride home from the movies from his babysitter.”

Buzz leans back in his chair and purses his lips to acknowledge the barb. He tips his head. “Fair enough, fair enough.” Pauses. “Give me back my money.”

“No.”

“Give it back, Tripp.”

“Boys!” their mom says, sensing yet another argument brewing. She rises, pushing in her chair, and feigns a yawn, despite the fact that it’s barely even seven o’clock. “Well, I’d like to take a shower and put my pajamas on.” She begins collecting plates from the table. “Buzz, sweetie, why don’t you see your brother off while Dad and I clean up.”

“Well, I guess we’re done with dinner,” Buzz smarts, earning himself yet another sour look from his mother. “Come on, Tripp, let me walk you to the door.”

What is happening right now?

How did I get railroaded into driving this man-child home when there are five other capable adults present, all of whom like him way more than I do and haven’t been splashed across the news as a result of being around him?

I cannot believe no one mentioned it. Not once.

Shocking, really, since Buzz loves throwing embarrassing facts into his brother’s face to humiliate him, and vice versa.

They live to torture each other—I can’t imagine what it was like with them growing up, or what it was like raising them. They’re absolute monsters—and True isn’t that much better!

She hugs me goodbye, as does everyone who isn’t being corralled out the door in an effort to push Tripp and me together, and don’t think for one second I don’t realize Mrs. Wallace is playing matchmaker, as messed up as it seems.

They actually think I’m a good match for their son? Seriously? The woman who karate-tossed him? The woman he was photographed making out with, on the ground, in the rain, on the sidewalk?

After the group of them send us off, waving from the porch like a squad of eager teenage girls spying on their friend, we climb into my car wordlessly, stoically sitting in silence a few moments before buckling up.

I have no words.

This whole evening has left me speechless.

But then.

A giggle escapes my throat and that giggle turns into a laugh, which makes Tripp laugh, and soon, we’re both laughing and tears are streaming out of my eyes and he can’t breathe and I can’t even see the START button on my car’s dashboard to push it.

“Th-that w-was…” I stutter. “Beyond.”

“Ya think?”

Fifteen

Tripp

We’re not even to the exit gates in my brother’s subdivision when my phone pings and he’s sending me a message.

Buzz: How’s it going? Have you proposed to Chandler yet?

Me: Buzz off.

Buzz: Ha ha, very funny. But for real, how are the two of you kids hitting it off?

Me: Is Mom railroading her into driving me home a setup???

Buzz: We just thought you’d benefit from being thrown together.

Me: How many times do I have to tell you people—CHANDLER DOES NOT LIKE ME.

Buzz: Well duh, not many people do. But the fact that she knocks you off your feet—literally—is saying a lot.

Buzz: Are you home yet?

Me: No and I’d prefer not to be texting while she’s driving. It’s rude.

Buzz: Since when do you care about that? You must LIKE HER.

Buzz: Ask her on a date.

Me: Mind your own business for once in your life.

I glance over at Chandler, whose eyes are illuminated by the oncoming traffic—they appear brighter, highlighted, and naturally pretty. She’s dressed down, a bit more casual than normal; it’s a look that suits her.

Buzz: We voted and the family thinks you need to ask her on a date.

Me: Stop, or I’m blocking all of you and changing my phone number.

My fingers must be moving at a rapid pace because Chandler clears her throat and glances over curiously.

“Whoever that is must be making you mad. I can hear you furiously texting all the way from here.”

I close the main screen and cram the phone in my back pocket. “Sorry, that was Buzz. He never shuts up or stops bossing me around.”

“I thought you were the oldest.”

“That’s never mattered. He loves annoying me.” And I’m not the exception—he loves needling our sister, too, whenever True is around and in town. “Next left.”

She slows the car down and puts on the turn signal.

“Not for nothing. I wish I had siblings to annoy the crap out of me. Being an only child sucks.” Chandler hits the turn signal for the right we have to make at the traffic light. “I mean—it was great growing up with Hollis and her sister Fiona. We were really close and it was sort of the same? But our family is nothing like yours. Our parents aren’t any fun whatsoever.”

Yeah, I’ve met Hollis’s dad a few times at the ESPYs, which is like the Oscars for sports, and obviously at the wedding I bumped into him at the dessert bar. Arrogant, stuffy, and humorless are just a few words to describe him and I wonder if Chandler’s father is the same way.

Nothing like Roger Wallace, that’s for damn sure.

Good old Roger let us get away with way too much—as long as our grades were good and we loved the sports we were playing and we were having a great time. That’s what he cared about. He didn’t push us because he wanted us to be famous or enter the pros—he pushed us because we had dreams. Without the encouragement and discipline he instilled in us, those dreams would have never been realized.

Still, Dad was easy enough to bamboozle—somehow we all managed to get away with murder where he was concerned.

Mom? Not so much.

Chandler doesn’t initiate useless chitchat on the way back to my place, but the silence is far from uncomfortable—not like the first time we rode together, in my truck, from the wedding rehearsal to the rehearsal dinner. The night she jumped from my vehicle and practically tripped over her own two feet to get inside the building before I did.

I find myself leaning forward in her little white Jeep to flip through her satellite radio playlist—the stations she has favorited—and am surprised to see lots of the same stations I listen to. Comedy, comedy, talk radio, comedy, the news, and several music selections.

“Second right.”

I choose one and sit back, resting my head against the headrest, humming to the classic rock song playing out of her speakers.

“Fourth house on the right.”

Chandler goes slow past the other houses in the neighborhood; they’re not the most modest homes, but none of them are as showy and huge as they are in Buzz’s neighborhood. And I have a hundred dollars burning a hole in my pocket that says the house Chandler grew up in is probably more than triple the size of any of these.

She locates my driveway and pulls in, crawling to a stop and putting the car in park, eyes roaming the yard.

Unbuckling the seatbelt, I grab the leftovers from dinner tonight—the ones Mom put in containers for me—from her back seat and pull at the door handle.

One foot hits the cement driveway, but I find myself turning my head to glance over my shoulder and ask, “Want to come in?”

Immediately I want to facepalm myself. Why the hell would I ask her to come in? And for what? So we can awkwardly stand in silence?

Say no, say no, say no.

“Sure, I guess I could, since I have nothing else going on.”

Sure, you guess? Since you have nothing else going on? A backhanded statement if I’ve ever heard one. I grunt as I make my way to the garage door, punch in the code and wait for it to rise, duck underneath to get inside, Chandler nipping at my heels.

Just as I’m turning the doorknob to the right, Chewy hopping up and down on the other side, the one voice I did not want to hear calls out, into the dark.

“Hey Mr. Wallace!”

I halt with my hand on the door, paralyzed, then spin on my heel. “Uh. Hey Molly—what’s up?”

My next-door neighbor is waltzing into the garage, brazen as you please, holding a plate of what appears to be chocolate chip cookies, shit-eating grin splashed across her bratty face.

“I just saw a car pull up and thought you’d be hungry.”

Liar.

She saw an unfamiliar Jeep and decided to be nosey and come on over, uninvited.

“Uh, thanks—but we just ate.” I pat my stomach. “We were just at my brother’s for dinner and we’re stuffed.”

At the mention of a ‘we’, Molly’s eyes go to Chandler, who’s smiling back at her graciously, most likely waiting for an introduction since that would be the polite thing for me to do. Introduce them.

But I don’t.

Molly takes it upon herself, sticking out the hand that’s not holding the plate of cookies. “Hi, I’m Molly. You must be Chandler—no offense, but I’ve seen you on the news.” She pumps Chandler’s outstretched palm vigorously. “I’m Mr. Wallace’s house sitter and official dog walker.”

“House sitter?” Since when? “Dog walker is more like it, though I don’t know about official—Molly is not my house sitter.”

The teenager shrugs. “Tomato tomahto.”

“You’re not.” I beg to differ, but she isn’t having it, determined to stick her nose into my business.

“Eh. Agree to disagree.” She flounces her nose in the air, flipping her hair.

“Stop doing that.”

She ignores me completely.

Molly scoots around us both and pushes through my laundry room door, setting the plate of cookies on the washing machine and bending to greet Chewy before I can think twice about it. “There’s my pretty boy! Want to go for a quick walk? Yes you do! Yes you do!” The leash is fastened to the dog before I can object, Chewy the beast already zipping past us from whence Molly came.

That damn kid!

“One of these days I’m going to strangle her,” I grumble, picking up the discarded cookies, plucking one off the plate and popping it into my mouth, whole. I chew, complaining through the crumbs. “Honest to god, she’s been coming over constantly, like she’s my mother.”

Chandler laughs. “Did it occur to you that she may have a crush on you?”

I laugh at that, flipping lights on as we walk from room to room and enter the kitchen. “Uh, no—the kid does not have a crush on me. She acts like I’m her dad or her older brother. And she’s really bossy.” Plus, I’m pretty sure she knows the code to get in the house, even though she hasn’t said anything about it.

To busy myself—because I haven’t had an actual woman in my house other than Hollis, my mother, and my friends’ girlfriends and wives (on the very rare occasions when I entertain, which is never)—I grab two wine glasses from the bar and snag a bottle of red from the rack.

Pry the cork out, relieved it’s an easy task, and pour us both a small glass.

Hand her one and raise mine. “Here’s to surviving a night with my family.”

Chandler laughs again. “I had fun. Who wouldn’t? Y’all should have a reality television show.”

Y’all.

God I love Southern accents.

Too bad she’s not actually Southern…

“A reality TV show? Do you have any idea what a monster my brother would be if he had a camera in his face and an audience? He’d be unbearable to live with.”

Jesus, I cannot even imagine what Buzz would be like if he had cameras on him, filming his every move. He’s already a showboater—I don’t want to know how he would behave with more motivation to be…funny.

Once, when we were in middle school, he entered the talent show and did stand-up comedy, which meant he basically made fun of me the entire three minutes he was up on stage.

“Sometimes I feel ugly,” he said, kicking at an imaginary rock. “Then I look over at my brother and I’m suddenly over it.”

The crowd roared.

“I always wanted my mom to trade in my brother, hoping I had one out there who was identical. I think I’d get very emotional when we finally met, don’t you? I’d be beside myself.”

My parents thought it was hilarious and for weeks they talked about how brave he was, going up in front of all those people. Buzz likes to entertain the family during the holidays—Christmas is a big one, standing by the tree, giving his “pre-present opening” speech, which is mostly jokes at my expense.

Dick.

“I think he means well,” Chandler is saying, taking small sips of her wine. Licks her lips. “He’s such a nice guy—and so funny. I can see why Hollis fell in love with him so fast.”

I grunt.

Sometimes I feel I’ve spent most of my life going through the motions of being happy and carefree instead of actually doing it.

Just kidding; I don’t—not even a little.

My brother shows emotions, but at least I don’t put on a show for the sake of other people.

Shit, where did that thought come from?

Did I just therapy myself?

“This wine is good.” Chandler is turning the glass, staring at the legs of red dripping down the inside like cherry juice. “Where did you get it?”

Not at some fancy vineyard. “The grocery store.” Aisle twelve.

She hums. “I like it.” Smacks her lips, licking—and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say she already has a little buzz going, even from the few sips she’s taken.

I chug half my glass then pour a little more.

“I’ll take a bit more, too.” Chandler extends her arm and holds hers out, getting comfortable on the barstool, stealing a chocolate out of a bowl the cleaning lady put out.

Incidentally, something I forgot to mention is that Buzz and I have the same woman come weekly to tidy shit around our houses, and if I’m being honest, she spoils us rotten. Sometimes she makes me food, too, and leaves it in the fridge, especially in the middle of the football season when I’m dragging ass and can barely remember to feed myself.

Which is most days during the season.

Tonight there’s a smaller lasagna in my fridge—one I didn’t notice before. A tiny, square pan that screams, Mr. Bitterman, single, party of one.

Except tonight I have company.

Except that we’ve already eaten dinner and dessert.

I push the plate of Molly’s cookies to the side—out of sight, out of mind—despite wanting another one. Then again, better not; the kid is probably trying to poison me so she has more access to my dog.

The silence between Chandler and me lingers, but it isn’t strained. It’s comfortable to the point I feel my tense shoulders drop, my mouth curving up. Unlike most women I meet, she isn’t trying to force the conversation, the moment, or my hand. Not that she’s the type to hit on a man—quite the opposite, unless of course you count her climbing on top of me on the street and kissing me senseless.

I wonder what it would be like to kiss her again, kiss those wine-soaked lips.

“Thanks for the ride home,” I finally say, leaning against the counter, elbows braced on the cold stone, glass in my hands.

“Um, that was a setup.”

“Yeah, I know. That’s what my family does—railroads you into things you didn’t plan on doing.” With people you had no intention of being stuck with. With a woman you didn’t realize you might slowly grow to like.

Funny how that works.

“So you knew that was what was happening?”

Is she serious? “I hate to be the one to tell you this, but my mother and brother are the king and queen of playing matchmaker.”

Chandler looks genuinely baffled by this information. “You don’t actually think…they couldn’t possibly…”

I let out a pfft and roll my eyes. “Please—the whole world saw you kissing me on the ground. Of course my mother is going to think you want me.”

Now she looks affronted. “Excuse me? I do not want you.” Her spine straightens. “In fact, what the whole world saw was you on top, kissing me—so there.”

Point to Chandler.

“What they saw was two people making out in the rain.”

Point to me.

She chuckles into her glass. “After they saw me toss you on your ass.”

Point to Chandler.

“The world doesn’t know you did it twice.”

Point to me.

“The world also doesn’t know I kissed you first, because you’re too set on celibacy to do it yourself.”

Did she just imply that I live like a monk? How the hell would she even know I’m not banging chicks every night of the week?

I could be if I wanted to!

…if I wanted to.

Which I don’t.

But I could!

I push off the counter to my full height, sputtering. “What did you just say to me?”

Chandler snorts into her glass. “You heard me.”

“You have some nerve.”

She laughs. “Hey, calm down—I’m teasing. Don’t you know how to take a joke?”

No. Not now. Not now that I know what that smart mouth feels like against mine…hot and wet and hot.

More intoxicating than the wine in my glass.

I set it down, stone tinging against the fragile crystal. Advance toward her, intent on—

“Whoa baby, you could cut this sexual tension with a knife.” Molly and Chewy are entering the kitchen and she bends to unsnap the leash from his collar, letting him race to his water bowl for hydration.

Fucking Molly, sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong.

I grimace at her. “Aren’t you a little young to know what sexual tension is?”

“I’m fifteen.”

“Exactly. You’re still playing with Barbie dolls.”

Molly flips her long blonde ponytail and skewers me with a look only a teenager could manage. “Oh my god, you are so out of touch with reality.”

Chandler laughs.

“You know what you should do?” Molly is glancing back and forth between the pair of us.

“No, but I bet you’re going to tell us.”

The neighbor girl laughs as Chandler filches another chocolate from the candy bowl and peels back the wrapper.

“You should go out.”

My throat makes a sound. “We’ve been out.”

“Please, that was a publicity stunt and we all know it.”

Chandler laughs again, not helping the situation. Molly is worse than my brother, seizing the opportunity, holding us both hostage in my house. I won’t get the kid to leave until she’s said her piece.

“Anyway,” she goes on, voice laden with authority, “you should go on a date—a real one. Not one for the cameras.” The teenager gives me a look that lets me know she knows exactly what I’m up to. “Somewhere fun, where they won’t be following you around.”

Chandler is smiling, all cute and kind and placating. “Oh yeah? Like where?”

“I don’t know… Hmm, the pumpkin patch maybe? One that’s out of the city?”

I cross my arms. “I’m not going to a damn pumpkin patch.”

“You could take Chewy!” Molly enthuses. “Aww, it would be so cute to get pictures of him picking out a pumpkin.”

Okay fine, that would be cute.

I glance down at Chewy, suddenly imagining the little fella prancing in and out of jolly pumpkins while I snap pictures of him on my phone.

I could even get him a little costume and—

“You’re totally thinking about it, aren’t you?” Molly laughs. “Come on, Chandler, don’t you want to?”

I glance away from the dog and up at Chandler, who’s blushing from her cheeks to her hairline, rosy pink and quite…sweet.

Sweet.

Since when am I attracted to women who are sweet?

Since never.

Since…

I found out she wasn’t such an angel after all.

Not boring, not ordinary, not vomit-inducingly kind.

The perfect combination of sweet and salty.

“It’s fine, Molly.” Chandler bows her head, embarrassed. “We appreciate the suggestion, but no woman wants to have a man forced to take her out.” She pauses. “That’s a good lesson for you to learn—we want them to ask us out willingly.”

Is she implying that if Molly weren’t standing here berating us, she’d go on another date with me?

For a brief moment, we’re the only two in the kitchen. “You don’t want to go to the pumpkin farm with us?”

Chewy wags his tail in her direction.

Chandler peeks down at him. “I mean…are you asking?”

My shoulders shrug. “I could do a pumpkin farm.”

Molly squeaks. “Like on an actual date? A real one?”

I nod.

I mean—what’s the harm.

“You should say it out loud so it’s official.”

“Molly, I swear to go—”

She puts her hand in the air, cutting me off. “You need to lay off the pissed-off act. You’re making this way harder than it has to be.” Her lips purse. “Tripp, do you want to take Chandler on a date?”

“I guess.” (Insert metaphorical feet shuffling here.)

Molly cups her ear as if she couldn’t hear my answer. “I’m sorry, can you do better than that?”

“Yes,” I bellow, feeling like a fool. “I want to take her on a date.”

This is worse than having my mother call me on the weekend, waking me up to tell me I’m on the front cover of the morning paper, engaged in PDA.

Satisfied, Molly shifts her attention. “And Chandler, do you take this man to be your lawfully dated date?”

A bubble of laughter comes out of Chandler’s mouth and she puts her head on the counter, shoulders shaking.

She’s fucking laughing! At my expense!

They both are, dammit!

I shoot Molly a stern glare. “Stop making this sound like a goddamn wedding ceremony! It’s weird.”

Now I’m the one who’s blushing and embarrassed.

Freaking teenage girls.

Unfortunately, Molly is nonplussed and quite enjoying the moment. “Dude. You are way too easy to rile up. If you’re not careful, you’re going to give yourself a stroke.”

No shit.

Not like she’s the first person to tell me that, either.

“Well, Chandler? Do you accept his invitation?”

Good lord with this girl.

I make a mental note to call her mom; she really needs to stop coming over like this to disrupt my quiet and peaceful life. Since when did her dog-walking responsibilities evolve into scheming and meddling in my personal life? She’s worse than my brother—I should introduce them.

“I think a date to the pumpkin patch would be fun.” Chandler rises from the stool at the counter, leaving her wine glass half full. “On that note, I should really be going.”

“Mr. Wallace will walk you to your car,” Molly informs her, overstepping her bounds in a way only she can.

“Thanks, Molly,” I grind out. “I was going to walk her to her car anyway.” Jesus, does she think I have no manners? “Maybe you should get home—it’s a school night.”

“We have off tomorrow.”

I cannot murder-face this kid hard enough, and for once, the glare works.

“Okay, okay, I’m going, I’m going.” She tosses up her hands in surrender. “But I’ll be back for a full report—you’re not off the hook, Mr. Wallace.”

I follow Chandler out to her car, the cold night air throwing up steam with every breath we take.

She turns, keys dangling in her hands. “You know you don’t actually have to take me to the pumpkin patch, Mr. Wallace.”

I scoff. “And disappoint Chewy? Little guy has his heart set on it” is the only thing I can say that will save face. God forbid she knows I’m looking forward to going. “Besides, if we don’t go, Molly will find out.”

Chandler cocks her head in thought. “I was never like that at fifteen. That kid has a set of lady balls like I’ve never seen.” Pause. “She should enroll in karate or taekwondo or some type of martial art. She’d be great at it.”

“God, the world does not need another you running around, flipping unsuspecting dudes on their asses.”

Her laugh is quiet. “It’s always a good thing to empower our young women so they can take care of themselves.”

I gaze toward Molly’s house, then back down at Chandler, the steam from our breath rising then mingling in the cool, night air.

“What day works for you?” I open her car door and brace myself on the end of it, leaning my hip.

She shrugs. “You’re the one who’s busy. Can you steal away during the week? I know weekends you play.”

“I could do Saturday if I’m not busted to shit.” Which I could be, but probably not. The odds of me getting injured are high, but rare—which makes no sense, I know. What I mean is, there’s a high probability that I’ll get my ass handed to me at some point…but since it hasn’t happened yet, I’m not worried.

Chandler nods in agreement. “Yeah, I could do Saturday. Late morning?”

“Sure. We could…” My voice trails off and I’m embarrassed by my next suggestion. “Get PSL beforehand.”

PSL: Pumpkin Spice Latte

The most basic beverage in existence and I am the first person in line at the coffee shop the day they release it. Don’t fucking tell a soul.

Chandler blinks up at me, surprised. Smiles, biting down on her bottom lip. When she tips her chin up to look into my eyes, I’m not sure if she wants me to kiss her or not, but her mouth is right there and—

“Kiss her!” comes a voice from the next house over. “What’s taking you so long, sheesh!”

We turn, startled, and see Molly hanging halfway out a second-story window, the creep.

“That’s it.” An actual laugh escapes my mouth. “I’m calling my realtor in the morning and putting the house up for sale. I’ll give the damn thing away if I have to—that kid is a menace.” I stab a finger in Molly’s general direction.

“Do it!” said menace yells, loud enough to wake the entire neighborhood. Or maybe I’m just hypersensitive; I hate being told what to do, especially by minors. “Come on, Mr. Wallace, give her a kiss!”

Chandler sputters out a laugh. “Just ignore her, she’ll leave you alone.”

Not soon enough. “I wish she would go away.”

That makes Chandler laugh again, harder this time. “It’s cute. She’s appointed herself as your overseer.”

“More like evil overlord.” I take a deep breath in, about to enter uncharted territory. It’s been years since I’ve gotten closer to a woman with the intent of kissing them; being drunk in a bar doesn’t count and neither do all the times strange women have kissed me.

This feels weird.

It feels too romantic with the cold weather and the slight wine buzz and the good mood.

Foreign.

On one hand, I have the neighbor girl dictating my next move, telling me what to do from her bedroom window. On the other, I’d planned to kiss Chandler anyway. Why not, right? We’re both adults and she’s pretty and funny and kind.

The kind of girl my mother would love to see me end up with—not that I’ve ever given that much thought. Or maybe I’m just lying to myself. Family is the most important thing to me and why the hell am I thinking about this shit right now!?

My eyes dart over to Molly’s window. It’s still lit up, but she’s no longer in it.

The coast is clear.

If Chandler senses my intention, she doesn’t comment, but she does still have her chin tilted in my direction, eyes watchful, lips pouty.

“Thanks for bringing me home.”

I count to three.

One.

Two.

Three.

Push off from leaning against her car door and slide a hand over her hip, dipping my head toward hers.

Our mouths meet in a chaste kiss.

We smile, automatically going in for another as if by magnetic force, only one thought playing like a loop inside my head.

Do not fall in love with this girl, Wallace.

Do.

Not.

Fall.

Sixteen

Chandler

Tripp Wallace is wearing a sweater.

That’s right—that man is clothed in an honest to god, bona fide sweater. Hard to imagine, but here he is, a walking, talking wet dream.

Drool may or may not be coming out the side of my mouth. He looks so incredibly good—so handsome and masculine.

And it’s not just any old sweater; it’s one of those chunky fall kinds that look spun from oatmeal, birch, fireside chats, and walks in the snow.

What’s worse? He’s dressed the dog up in a costume, the little pooch trotting along happily after being hoisted down from the back seat of Tripp’s truck wearing a candy corn outfit.

Stop it right now…

God has a funny sense of humor, sending me a man who wants nothing to do with dating, relationships, or the warm and fuzzy trappings that come along with it. Like snuggling and romantic dates, and…and…

Is the pumpkin patch a romantic date?

Debatable, especially when said date is tromping through the field wearing steel-toed work boots, seemingly on a mission to get in and out.

I kneel down, fingers grazing the side of an enormous, bright orange gourd.

“What about this one?” I poke at it.

Tripp glances over his shoulder, his hand gripping Candy Corn Chewy’s long leash, scratching the stubble beneath his own chin, five o’clock shadow only adding to his metrosexual vibes.

“It’s too lumpy,” he decides, taking a few steps in my direction.

Too lumpy. Too round, too flat. Too thin.

This man is ridiculous.

“What are you looking for exactly?”

“Not too big and not too small. I don’t want to pay a fortune for something that’s going to be dead within a week,” he says seriously. “I need one that is smooth with plenty of room for sculpting the face.”

Oh, he’s sculpting now instead of carving?

Around his feet, Chewy sniffs at the leaves, happily grabbing hold of a vine with his teeth and snarling as if he’s winning a wrestling match.

He quickly loses interest and drops it, dozens upon dozens of available vines within reach.

“Chewy.” Tripp makes a kissing sound. “Come here.”

He bends, commanding the pup to sit, and arranges a few pumpkins into a fall vignette. Takes the cell out of his back pocket, cleaning the camera lens off with the hem of his sweater, then snaps a few photographs. “Such a handsome boy!” he coos to his pet, giving him a scratch behind the ears.

My panties get wet.

Tripp would make such a great dad.

I clear my throat, turning away and moving to yet another plump pumpkin in the patch.

It’s not too big, not too small, and has the perfect surface for, um—sculpting. Ha! Let’s see what Captain Picky thinks about this one.

“I think I found one.” I hoist it off the ground and hold it out, my weak arms wobbling slightly from zero workouts. “What do you think?”

Tripp stands, rising from his haunches, and brushes his hands on his faded jeans.

“That could work.” He studies it. “Yeah—I like that one. Let’s throw it in the wagon.” Tripp gives the side of the red trolly a slap, making that kissing sound again. “Come on Chewy, in the wagon you go.”

I add the pumpkin, he adds the pup, and we walk.

“Hey, that’s a good one.” Tripp points to the ground as we pass an oblong pumpkin, a bit tall, but wide enough for a decent carving. “Do you like it?”

I do.

I do!

In the wagon it goes, dog still stuffed inside, panting and grinning his merry way through the field, occasionally barking when the tractor drives by with people to let them know he’s there.

Wanting pets and praise.

Since we have the cart, we can’t get back on the hay wagon. The main barn a good quarter mile walk away, we make toward the road, my rain boots kicking up dirt and rocks, dust settling on the toe.

It feels good to be outside in the crisp weather, traipsing along beside him as he pulls the wagon through the bumpy field. Domestic, even. As if we’ve done this before—year after year.

I glance down at his hand, his large, masculine hand, wrapped around the metal handle, knuckles speckled with dark hair. Dry, cracked hands. Big. Strong.

When I look up, he’s watching me and not the road, one brow raised.

“Like what you see?”

Oh god—gross. “Who says that?” I roll my eyes and ignore him, walking faster, flipping my hair and unnecessarily sashaying my hips.

Behind me he bellows out a laugh and I’m sorry to miss seeing it, hell-bent on avoiding him while my face is flushed. Why can’t anything with him be easy?

Why can’t I read his mind to know exactly what he’s thinking? Does he like me, does he not? Is he attracted to me? Is he only here because he felt obligated?

Tripp Wallace doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to—no one makes him do anything…

I walk taller, still in front of him.

“God you’re cute when you’re mad.”

He’s laughing again and this time I do turn around; I turn around and catch the wrinkles around his eyes—the laugh lines. The bright, white smile. The dimple in his chin.

Ugh, it’s too much.

My ovaries clench.

It takes us another half hour to weigh, pay, and get through the people wanting to meet Tripp, or pet Chewy, his candy corn costume a massive hit with the crowds.

Another ten minutes while Tripp lifts the dog’s body behind one of those wooden cutouts so it looks like Chewy’s face is on Dracula’s body at the beginning of the corn maze—before we actually make our way out and settle in the truck.

My body groans into the warm, leather seat. “Thank you. This was fun.”

“Was?” He glances over at me then into the back seat at the dog. “Aren’t you coming back to the house to carve these?”

“I didn’t realize you wanted me to.” My plan was to take the thing home and set it on my stoop, untouched and uncarved. Lame, but whatever—who wants to carve a pumpkin by themselves?

Not I.

One side of Tripp’s mouth upturns into the sexiest half-grin. “Chewy back there thinks it would be remiss of me if I bought you a pumpkin and didn’t help you carve it. This one here is heavy.”

Oh lord—speaking for the dog like that is a little weird, but maybe he just has a hard time coming right out and telling me he wants me to come over?

“Okay. Yeah, that would be fun.”

“I think I have hot chocolate somewhere,” he says with a straight face, watching the road intently.

Uh. Okay. Where is this all coming from? He is the last man on earth I would expect this semi-romantic, romantic, fall date planning from. I mean—considering he was basically blackmailed/coerced into bringing me here by a calculating teenage girl.

Tripp Wallace… adorable?

No.

It cannot possibly be.

* * *

Don’t do it, Chandler.

Do. Not. Fall for him.

Don’t.

I glance over at him as he rummages through the kitchen cabinets, retrieving baking pans and spoons and a carving kit. Knife. Bowl. Another knife. Another bowl.

As if he does the choreography to this activity on the regular, bopping around the room fetching supplies that will help us with the jack-o’-lanterns.

Oh boy.

Ohhhhh shit.

It’s happening…

“Will you excuse me? I have to use the bathroom.” I pause. “Um…where’s the bathroom?”

He points past the laundry room.

That’s right. “Gotcha.”

No sooner than I’m closing the door to the slate gray painted powder room do I frantically text my cousin, praying to see those three little conversation bubbles at the bottom of the screen.

Me: Houston, we have a problem.

I briefly set the phone down on the edge of the sink so I can pull my leggings down and sit on the toilet to pee, multitasking at its finest before I have to wipe, wash, and head back into the kitchen.

My phone pings, thank god!

Hollis: Tell me this problem you speak of—is this about clothes?

Me: No. This is way more complicated. I think…I like your brother.

Hollis: Uh. You like Lucien?

Oops, shit, that’s right. I always forget Hollis has a brother—my cousin, Lucien—whom I barely speak to. It’s not that he’s not a nice person, we just never see each other, and he’s a few years older and was always following their dad around like a shadow.

Me: Oops. I mean your BIL—brother-in-law. Tripp.

Hollis: Tripp? You like Tripp? Why is that a problem?

Hollis: Ohhhhh, you mean you LIKE him like him.

Me: When you say LIKE him like him, you make it sound like I’m fourteen.

Hollis: But falling into like with someone is so much fun and isn’t it FUN to feel young again…? **SIGH**

Me: Maybe, but this is TRIPP we’re talking about. The man is impossible—I should seek COUNSELING to get my head on straight. I mean. He’s the least likely man to fall in love with someone.

Hollis: I’ll admit, he does seem rough around the edges and hard to talk to.

Me: Hence the problem.

Hollis: Do you want me to ask Buzz to ask Tripp if he likes you back?

Is she insane!?

Me: HOLLIS, I JUST TOLD YOU TO STOP MAKING IT SOUND LIKE WE ARE IN MIDDLE SCHOOL.

Hollis: And I’m telling you it’s MORE FUN THIS WAY.

Me: If you say anything, I swear I will murder you in your sleep.

Hollis: Blah, blah, blah.

Me: Why are you like this?

She changes the subject.

Hollis: So be honest: have you slept with him yet?

Me: NO! We were at the pumpkin patch today and we’re at his house carving them. I mean—I’m carving mine and he’s suddenly turned into Michelangelo and thinks he’s sculpting his, but that’s a whole other story I can’t get into right now.

Hollis: Pumpkin carving sex.

Me: Are you listening to yourself???

Hollis: Pumpkin carving sex.

Me: HOLLIS, TRIPP AND I ARE NOT DATING!

She needs to stop. I don’t have time for this.

Pumping hand soap into my palm over the sink, I wash my hands and watch the three dots of texting bubbles appear, disappear, and reappear in the chat, heart racing.

Hollis: SO WHAT?? Since when do you have to be dating someone to sleep with them? That doesn’t make you anything but human—he likes you or you would not be in his house.

Hollis: Wait—where are you texting me from? Is he standing there?

Me: No, I’m stuck in the bathroom, hence the urgency.

Hollis: Stop overthinking this. Put your big girl panties on, get back out there, and let nature take its course. INTER-course. HA!!!!

Wiping my hands, I flick off the light switch and walk back to the kitchen, surprised to see two gutted pumpkins on the large center island, tops set off to the side, piles of slimy guts and seeds on two cookie sheets.

Did I disappear that long?

“Thought I was gonna have to send in a search party,” he teases, surprising me again with a laugh. “What happened? Did you fall in?”

My cheeks heat up, the telltale signs of a blush. I go for honesty instead of an excuse. “Hollis texted me and I wanted to finish the convo before I came back out.”

Okay—mostly honest.

I spy two glasses of wine nearby, one for me and one for him—this time it’s white, in goblets shaped like crystal skulls.

The man is a contradiction around every corner.

Blows cold, then hot. Pretends to be uncaring, then shocks me with little gestures, like pumpkin carving and holiday-themed glassware.

“Where did you get these wine glasses?” I hold one up, inspecting the festive vessel.

“My mom got them on sale at the end of the season last year. I have a whole set.” He lifts his wine and takes a sip, puckering his lips slightly to suck slowly—like he’s at a tasting. Sets it down and grabs an orange carving utensil. “Williams Sonoma or someplace fancy—Mom is into this shit.”

Apparently he is too, or he wouldn’t have gotten these out, not when regular wine glasses would have done the job. Or a regular drinking glass, for that matter.

Not that Tripp is going to admit it.

“What should we put on this one?” He taps the carver against his chin, eying the pumpkin as if contemplating his life’s work. As if it’s a piece of marble.

“A face or a quote?”

He considers the question. “We could do a face on one and a quote on the other?”

We.

The word fills my belly with a warmth having nothing to do with the alcohol I’ve begun swigging to calm my tangled nerves, but which is actually giving me the courage to step closer.

Tripp is larger than life—bigger than any guy I’ve dated in the past. Those were boys still in college, mostly. Not men. Fumbling, foolish fraternity boys who didn’t know a thing about life and less about what to do in bed.

I was always too mature for guys my age, having grown up surrounded by adults with unrealistically high expectations of me, and I suppose, in a way, I projected that onto the guys I dated.

Always brief. Short-lived.

Tripp’s size takes over the space between the counter and the island, tall and broad, especially while wearing that sweater.

“Shit.” He suddenly sets down the carver. “You know what I need?”

“What?”

“An apron.” He disappears into the pantry adjacent to the kitchen then sticks his head out. “Do you want one too?”

Lord. Can I handle him in an apron? “Um, sure.”

Tripp is pulling one over his neck when he walks back out, a basic black canvas getup he’s tying around his waist. Has an identical one for me.

Standing in front of me, mere inches away, he slides the thin straps over my head, pulls it down and sizes it. Creates a fold in front so it’s not too long, then slides his arms behind my back, loops it around once, and ties it in a bow at my belly button.

“Well then. Aren’t you fucking adorable.” He leans forward, kissing me on the tip of the nose.

What the what has gotten into him? What the hell is in this wine?

I gaze down into the glass at the golden liquid, expecting to see flecks of moon dust—or a witch’s brew? Anything to explain away this odd, playful behavior.

It’s too much.

A few more minutes of this and I may end up tackling him to the ground, no karate necessary.

Standing side by side, tools and pumpkins in front of us, I stand and stare quizzically at my subject, Tripp going about sculpting a goblin’s face while I’m in charge of the quote.

Nothing comes to mind, brain working in overtime.

Maybe I should just google something? I open the internet app on my phone and search “spooky quotes,” scrolling the feed and finding nothing that interests me.

“What are you looking for?” Tripp asks, glancing over, knife pausing over his goblin.

“Themed quotes.”

He scrunches up his face. “That’s lame—why not a sarcastic one, like ‘Carpe my seeds’?”

Seize my seeds? Gross.

I feign a gag. “I didn’t realize you were such a pervert.”

“Really?” He turns toward me, rolling his eyes. “Have you met me at all?”

That makes me laugh. “I still feel like I know nothing about you.” And here we’ve spent how much time together? How is it possible I still haven’t gleaned what he’s actually about?

Guess there’s really no good way to know, other than to ask. “Have you always been into the holidays like this?” I continue looking for a saying to put on the pumpkin.

“Yeah, I guess. Our mom always makes a big deal about it. We do matching pajamas and shit every year.” Tripp smiles. “Do you know how hard it is to find Christmas pajamas for someone my size?” He laughs. “Last year I had to cut the feet out of the onesie so I could put it on—ended up cutting off too much. Couldn’t bend over because it would go up my ass.”

“I would pay to see that.”

“Oh, you can—I have a picture. Hold on.” He wipes his hands off on the front of his apron, pulls the cell out of his back pocket, and begins scrolling through his gallery. “Here.”

Bright blue fleece onesie, the fabric cut up to his knees so it looks more like Bermuda shorts. It’s covered in snowmen and snowflakes, zippered down the front with a hood.

In his arms is a sullen-looking Chewy, who dons a dog version of the very same outfit. They both look grumpy and unamused, plump Christmas tree glowing in the background with piles of presents underneath.

“Aw, cute.”

Tripp frowns. “I am not cute. I’m manly.”

Yeah, yeah, yeah. “In that getup? You’re cute.”

I tilt my head, still standing here idly, having done zero carving on this orange pumpkin on the counter in front of me. At the rate I’m going, it’s never going to be ready to display on the front porch!

At least he scooped out the middle to give me a head start.

“By the time I have my goblin teeth carved, you’re still going to be staring at that thing.” Tripp laughs. “Just put something stupid on it.”

“But I don’t want it to be stupid—I want it to be cute.”

“Carve a T plus C,” he says, not looking at me.

T plus C? What does that mean?

T plus…

“Tripp plus Chandler?” That cannot be what he means. That’s almost…romantic, and surely that’s not his intention. We’re not dating!

“Sure, why not?” His tongue is stuck out the tiniest bit as he concentrates on his task.

“Uh, because? That sound relationshippy.”

“So?”

Is he for real right now? This is only our first date and it wasn’t even his idea—it was the idea of a conniving fifteen-year-old girl, one I’m expecting to pop out from behind the living room drapes at any moment.

“It sounds like we’re, you know—in a relationship.”

“So?”

I prop a hand on my hip. “Would you stop saying that?”

“It’s a pumpkin, Chandler. It’s not a marriage proposal.”

“I know that, Tripp.” My tone sounds slightly insolent, almost condescending, but we’re entering strange waters here. It almost feels like we’re about to have “the talk”.

You know the one. The What is this we’re doing? talk, only having it was not my intention. Like—at all.

“What if I just carve the word CHEWY on it?” I suggest, uncomfortable with his.

“That works too.” Tripp’s wide shoulders shrug. I can’t tell if he’s disappointed or not, because he won’t look at me. Just grumbles out a “Go for it” and continues working.

Hmph.

I carve his dog’s name on the pumpkin—it takes me all of the next hour, my wine glass magically refilling itself, grapey and delicious—then take a quick break to check the seeds we threw into the oven to bake.

They look nice and crisp sprinkled with salt, butter, and a bit of olive oil, and smell fantastic too.

I use a spatula from a nearby drawer to push them around the pan so they bake evenly. Steal one and blow on it before popping it in my mouth.

It’s warm and crunchy.

Yum.

“No fair!” Tripp catches me snacking out of the corner of his eye. “I want some!”

Fair enough.

I offer him one, but instead of taking it, he opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue.

A nervous giggle escapes me and I almost groan, hating how nervous it makes me appear, how young I must sound, too. Even though I’m technically only four years younger, somehow in this moment the age gap between us makes him feel worlds away. This man is a professional football player—he deals with screaming fans and multimillion-dollar contracts and agents and the media. He’s already seen and done things I couldn’t dream of accomplishing.

He has a real career. With real responsibilities.

I work for my dumb parents.

It makes me feel like a child. What have I even done? I’ve accomplished nothing but graduating twice. Earning degrees, but so what?

I giggle again, trying to focus on that pink, waiting tongue sticking out of his mouth, careful not to touch it when I gingerly set the baked pumpkin seed on top.

He closes his mouth before I can remove my fingers.

Oh god.

Oh lord.

Warm, wet lips graze the tips before he begins slowly chewing. A groan.

“Good stuff.” Simple words and yet—his eyes are like fire, sparks crackling when he looks at me.

Stop being so scared, Chandler. You can toss this man on his ass—you’ve already done it twice.

“Did you like that?” The words leave my mouth before I’ve thought them all the way through, sounding sexy and raspy and way out of my level of expertise.

My level? Ground zero.

Hello, what are you doing? The man wants to eat you alive!

If I thought I was surprised by my own choice of words, that’s nothing compared to the look of surprise on Tripp’s own face, eyes wide with disbelief.

It emboldens me.

Throwing back my shoulders, I tilt my chin up. “Want another taste?”

“Are we still talking about pumpkin seeds?” he asks, so hesitantly it almost makes me laugh.

Seems I’m not the only insecure one here—who would have thought? Not me, not in a million years, but here we are.

“Do you want to still be talking about pumpkin seeds?” The question sounds cockier than I feel. Where is this bravado coming from? Jeez, Chandler—don’t write any checks your ass can’t cash!

“No.”

I bend, using the hot pad to remove the cookie sheet from the oven, turn it off, and close the oven door. Leaning against the counter, I watch Tripp watching me, knowing the expression on my face is one of satisfaction.

He’s not sure what to do with me.

Is he…intimidated by me?

Little me?

Huh.

Your move, Chandler. Big, bad Tripp Wallace is suddenly as timid as a mouse.

I look at his lips. Down at Chewy, snoozing comfortably nearby. Up into his eyes.

They’re watching me cautiously, as if he’s waiting for me to reject him. As if he wishes I’d put him out of his misery so he could laugh it off and continue with the monumental task of the carving.

I put one hand to his chest, where his heart is beating, and slide it up, over his shoulder. Tripp is solid and warm, a fortress that wants breaching.

Breaching?

Stop it right now, ew.

His breath catches when my fingers nick the bottom of his earlobe and I’d wager that they’re an erogenous zone. Make a mental note of it, just in case.

“You’re so handsome,” I tell him, knowing he’s heard it dozens of times and doesn’t need his ego inflated. He can barely fit his head through the door as it is, but for some reason, he needs to hear it from me.

For some reason, I think maybe he sees me…differently than the others?

My palm grazes the stubble on his neck on its way toward the smooth skin of his cheek. Tripp tilts his head a little, leaning in toward it. Nuzzling, his lips find the pulse in my wrist and kiss it.

I shiver.

Reach up on my tiptoes to close the space. Rest my mouth on his, marveling at how soft and warm it is. How full and sexy it feels being this close to him.

Tripp’s arms go around me, hands bracing my backside, sliding down to my ass—not grabbing it but gripping, holding me up so I don’t falter given our height difference. I’m not wearing heels and can barely reach his lips.

After a while, he squats to give me better access to his face, back against the counter, legs spread, pulling me over.

“Much better,” I whisper, fingers combing through his dark hair and lavishing kisses along his jawline.

His hands have a firm hold on my hips, flirting with the hemline of my top. Tugging it. Toying with it. A deliberate dodge and weave, not quite committing to going up and under.

In response, my breasts begin to ache, so close to the largest set of palms they’ve ever been privy to, curiosity almost unbearable.

My boobs are as needy as I am; arching my back, I press into Tripp, rubbing against him like a cat in heat. The only thing missing is my purr.

Touch them, touch them, touch them!

Our mouths fuse once more. More tongue. Wetter, better. I could eat him up he tastes so good, boobs pressing forward. Nipples throbbing from the make-out session.

So different than that first, innocent kiss in the street.

Er. On the sidewalk?

Tripp’s hand is between our bodies, working the button on my jeans. Zipper. Jerks it down as I spread my legs to give him better access, because suddenly, I’m begging for it and want it bad.

Real bad.

Badder than I’ve ever wanted anything. Badder. Gooder.

Wait…did that even make sense?

From the floor, Chewy whines, awake now and wanting our full attention.

“Stop watching us,” Tripp tells him.

Chewy watches us.

“He’s creeping me out,” Tripp tells me. “Chewy, look away.”

Chewy seems to look harder.

“I feel like he’s judging me.” His hands are still down near my crotch, inches away from going down my pants, the sexual frustration boiling up inside me ready to bubble and burst. “Chewy, I love you man, but fuck!”

I bite down on my bottom lip to stop myself from laughing. “Bedroom?”

That seems drastic, and only asking for trouble, but if it’s going to get his fingers down where it matters most, I don’t give a shit if I’m jumping in bed with him too soon.

Too many months of living like a nun have me feeling a certain kind of way, and no peeping Tom of a dog is going to harsh my groove.

Tripp hoists me up, tosses me over his shoulder as if I weigh practically nothing, and makes toward the stairs. Takes them two at a time, damn near giving me a heart attack, my eyes squeezing shut—I shouldn’t have looked down.

The stone on the foyer floor looms and one misstep would send me plummeting to the bottom to my death—

Tripp shoves his bedroom door open then kicks it closed with the toe of his boot, the low sounds of Chewy whining through the crack immediately ensuing.

Fine. Better listening to him bellyache than feeling his beady, puppy dog leer creeping on us.

I expect Tripp to toss me on the bed—actually, I look forward to him tossing me on the bed, but he doesn’t. Removing me from his shoulder, he cradles me before setting me on the edge of it then takes my face in his hands. Kisses me on the tip of my nose.

Gets down on his knees, face level with the crotch of my pants, fingers reaching for the waistband and working them down off my hips.

He is at the perfect height on his knees to insert his face directly into my—

“Oh god,” I gasp when he has the jeans all the way off, spreading my legs and keeping them open with the breadth of his shoulders.

Hand sliding under my ass, he hitches me closer to the end of the mattress, hiking my knees on either side of his head.

Oh god.

Oh god, yes.

Yes, yes, “Yes.” I hiss when his warm breath hits my sheer panties, heating them without touching them, driving me insane. Use your mouth, use your mouth, use your mouth.

When I was younger, I never liked when a guy would go down on me. I was too in my head, too lost in my own thoughts to enjoy it. I worried about how my vagina looked, how it smelled. Did I shave it well enough? Should I have waxed? Is he the kind of guy who doesn’t mind hair down there? Should I have drank more pineapple juice?

I can’t remember a time when I was able to come from oral, but I know I will remember this night for the rest of my life, regardless.

Tripp licks.

Licks again, getting me wetter than I already was.

“Goddamn you smell good.”

Pulls the thin fabric to the side and moans, licking again, this time up the hot center of me.

I tip my head back—only for a moment—before righting it again to watch. There’s something intoxicating about having a man between your thighs, a powerful something that makes a woman bold.

I am in control.

He is on his knees worshipping.

I do this to him.

Tripp sucks, dragging the pleasure out of me. Licks. Sucks until I moan again, nostrils flaring, wanting him inside me.

Is it too soon to beg?

Is it too soon for sex?

“Fuck.” I moan out the curse—the first and only time he’s ever heard me use profanity—so shocked he lifts his head to stare.

“Fuck what?”

Fuck…

“Me.”

Tripp’s entire body seems to hesitate, frozen, before he remembers where we’re at and what we’re doing, and he stands, tearing off his sweater and pulling it over his head.

Fingers go to the fly of his jeans.

Crap, shouldn’t I be naked too? It’s only fair.

Off comes my shirt as Tripp yanks open the top drawer of his nightstand and rummages around frantically. “Fuck! Where the fuck is it?”

Oh—right. He’s looking for a condom.

I worry my bottom lip, the endorphins in my body naturally beginning to decline.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” He pulls open the second drawer down, then the third, tossing books and magazines and a few remote controls onto the floor in his search. “All we need is one—where is it!”

I don’t dare laugh.

Instead, I scoot to the center of the bed, propping myself on my elbow to watch the spectacle, his hard-on raging—still shockingly stiff.

His entire upper body is shockingly hard. Firm. Muscular.

Drool-worthy.

Hard in that untouchable way and I wonder how he’ll feel when he’s braced above me. Will it be warm and gentle, or will it be like touching stone?

“Victory!” he finally shouts after what feels like an eternity, startling me out of my thoughts, one arm thrown above his head holding a condom, the other shoving his pants down. They’re kicked off in a frenzy, pooling at his ankles.

He trips toward the bed, falling onto the mattress with an “Oof! Shit!” Crawling toward me, he laughs. “Can we forget this last thirty seconds happened? Not my finest moment.”

No, definitely not his finest moment…

Seventeen

Tripp

You’re about to fuck a girl who can kick your own ass and this is how you show up to the party?

Rookie moves.

The whole thing couldn’t have been any more awkward.

I should hand in my man card now and call it quits. First the fumbling, then I fucking trip on my own damn pants on my way back to the bed?

Smooth.

Real smooth.

If I wasn’t rock hard, I’d know enough to be humiliated.

It’s a good thing then that I have sex on the brain—and amazing stamina—to keep my dick hard, otherwise one of us would be jerking me off right about now to get the blood flowing.

I toss the condom on the mattress next to Chandler and go to work relieving her of her panties.

She’s bare, pretty and pink, and I can’t help wanting to put my mouth on her one more time before I fuck her.

When I part her thighs, they tremble.

When I bend and put my entire mouth on her pussy, her ass comes off the bed a few inches, hands clenching the bedspread.

I suck as I did before, fingers parting her to find her sweet little clit, giving that a suck, too. Fucking delicious.

“Oh god.” Head thrashing on the pillow. “Do we have to do this? C-can’t you j-just… I want to f-feel you inside me.”

“And not get to listen to that sexy little stutter? I don’t think so.”

I devour her until she’s pushing at my shoulders, begging. Begging me to fuck her and goddamn do I want to, the throbbing cock between my legs growing unbearable.

I grind my hips on the mattress, but that only makes it worse.

“P-please T-Tripp.” Her plea is a tortured moan, giving me a glimpse of the sounds she’ll make when I’m buried inside.

I kiss her pussy goodbye, use her inner thigh to wipe her from my chin, and climb over her body, bracketing her head with a hand on either side. Lean in to kiss her mouth, tongue mating with hers, each of us a groaning, horny mess.

I feel like a fucking teenager and I love it.

Fumbling with one hand, I snatch the condom, tearing it open with my teeth like a bad advertisement, spitting out the wrapper and going to work unrolling it on my dick.

Chandler wriggles beneath me, impatient. “If I have to wait one more second, I will scream!” she threatens with narrowed eyes, and for someone usually so sweet and adoring, the sex monster inside her is rearing its ugly head.

Sex monster—loving that metaphor. I’ll have to say it out loud when I get the chance, but now is not the time.

Chandler spreads her legs wider, anticipating my arrival; I take the invitation and push my hips forward like a heat-seeking missile, sliding home.

Chandler gasps.

She’s tight—blissfully so—and also unprepared for the size of my dick.

Slowly I ease in. Inch by inch.

It’s agony; all I want to do is plow forward and bury myself to the hilt. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust.

But her pussy feels so fucking good, so fucking tight, so fucking tight I swear my eyes roll to the back of my goddamn skull it’s so goddamn good and I’m repeating myself.

“Fuck.” My head dips, sweat beading on my brow. Patience.

Patience.

“Just do it, I’ll be fine. I’m not a virgin.”

I lift my head. “Are you laughing at me?”

She is. Her eyes say it all, glistening and glassy. Arousal mixed with humor, the little sex monster. “Do it,” she mouths, no words coming out. “Do. It.”

She lifts her hips, thrusting up, forcing me to bang her back.

“You little shit, I’m trying to be gentle.”

“It’s wetter than a Slip N Slide down there—I’m pretty sure you’ll have no problems getting it all the way in if you try hard enough.”

Really? Was that comparison necessary?

“Tripp, would you please just—”

I push all the way inside.

There’s a collective groan.

God, is this what it feels like dying and going to heaven? Fuck she feels good—so fucking tight and wet and wanting.

Her fingers rake down my back, drifting to my ass, pulling me deeper with a breathy little gasp. With every thrust, her breath hitches, a sound so sexy it causes my balls to tighten earlier than is respectable.

Too early.

Shit.

No.

Do not come yet you piece of shit!

Do. Not.

The sweat on my brow gathers; I focus on the perspiration to take the attention off the pressure in my nuts—the pressure telling me I’m going to blow my load sooner rather than later.

Please dear god, let her come, please dear god, let her come…

Words I really never thought I would think or pray while banging someone in my bed. Why now? Why her?

Goddamn she feels incredible and not because I haven’t been laid in who knows how long.

Shit. How long has it been?

I rack my brain. Count sheep. Run football drills.

Anything to redirect the tingling sensation building in these tight, good-for-nothing balls.

“Yes, yes—right there, don’t stop.”

A good sign. Words I’m familiar with. Words associated with a climax and usually followed by,

“Uh…uh…I’m gonna…”

You’re gonna what?

Say it, Chandler! Say you’re going to come so I can let loose this breath I’m holding, entirely too close to passing out from lack of blood and oxygen to my brain. Every cell in my body has collected in my cock, leaving zero left for a fully-functioning brain.

I’m a useless bag of crap.

“Yes…oh god…oh god that feels so…so…” Her head thrashes, hands pulling, fingers digging into my butt cheeks, nails scratching. She spreads her legs wider so I can hammer into her harder. “Harder!”

Shit, don’t make me, don’t say it; I don’t know if I can, I don’t know if I can, I don’t know…

“God Tripp, yes, yes—I’m gonna come I can feel it, oh god that feels so good, oh god.” Her words are a song, lyrics for my own release—I won’t disappoint her if I come too. It will be better, better, better.

What’s my name?

How did I get here?

Why does this feel so fucking good…

When we come, it’s in tandem—CRISIS AVERTED—my hands cradling the back of her head, lips kissing the side of her neck, sweat soaking the pillow case I’m sure.

Who cares.

Who even fucking cares about the pillow case?

Chandler’s small hands stroke my backside, then up my spine, slowly up and down, not yet ready to shove me off so she can breathe easy—nor am I in any rush to go. Climb off. Roll over. Be separated. The whole thing is beyond me right now; couldn’t even spell my name if I tried.

I plant another kiss to the corner of her mouth—one of her favorite spots—then in the center of her lips, before finally moving off her and flopping to the side, pulling her over with my arm.

There is a god and he’s watching out for me.

* * *

“I can’t believe we slept together on our first date.” Chandler is groaning beside me, arm slung over her brow and avoiding all eye contact. She didn’t seem embarrassed before, but now she’s abashed and flushing. “I am the worst! No self-control whatsoever!”

“First date?” What the hell is she talking about? “This is like, our fifth date, babe. Relax.”

Babe.

I wait for irritation at the endearment to settle in the pit of my stomach, but nothing comes. Strange, since I cannot stand hearing couples babe and honey and sweetie the shit out of each other.

And here I lie, fucking doing it to someone I’m not in a relationship with yet.

Yet?

Whoa, slow down, pal. She’s probably not interested—are you?

Chandler looks confused. “Fifth? No it’s not. This is our first.”

She’s so cute. “No—fifth or something.” I think, squinting up at the ceiling before I begin counting off our dates. “The rehearsal, the rehearsal dinner, wedding, The Ivy, my brother’s house, and tonight. So, what is that? Six? Yeah, we’re good.”

“We have not gone on six dates! None of that counts.” She laughs. “Have you lost your mind?”

Yeah, probably. But so what? “If it’s going to make you feel better about banging me so soon, then just rationalize it as six dates. No big deal.” I boop her on the nose. “God you’re adorable.”

Especially when she’s worked herself into a snit.

I think I could get used to that; no need to be perky and adoring all the time. I’ll take the prickly moods, too.

“Oh jeez, you must have a concussion—no sane man would say a thing like that.”

“You don’t want me to call you adorable?” I’m confused—don’t women want to be complimented and shit after they’ve been banged?

Chandler is not your average female; Chandler can kick your ass five ways from Sunday.

“No, I do, I just…don’t want you to feel like you have to? You just…” She shrugs and glances over the pillow at me. “Don’t seem like the type.”

No, I most certainly don’t—but that’s what makes her different. I want to be the type to say nice shit and do nice things. Sure, it’s unfamiliar territory and might take a while until I get used to it, but it’s worth fucking trying.

“It didn’t feel weird saying it, so I guess that’s saying something.”

She nods. Giggles. “What now? Do I put my clothes on and leave? How does this usually work?”

“Usually work?” I’m lying down but still manage to cock my head, confused.

“Yeah, you know—after you sleep with someone, do you kick them out right away, or can I at least use the bathroom real quick?”

Jesus—she’s actually being serious right now.

And there’s that recognizable pit forming in my stomach, but this one isn’t from dread. It’s a ball of guilt.

“You don’t have to go anywhere if you don’t want to. In fact, if you want to spend the night, I can find you a spare toothbrush.”

Chandler blinks, doe-eyed and adorable.

Yeah—adorable.

“Okay.”

I nod. “Okay then.”

Now there’s nothing to do but find that toothbrush, let the dog out to piss, fuck her a few more times, and get a good night’s rest.

Having a girlfriend may be the best play I’ve made all year. I just have to see if she’s down for that.

Huh.

Color me surprised.

Eighteen

Chandler

“Whoa, whoa, whoa—back up.”

“To which part?”

I’m in my cubicle at the office, peeking around the corner to make sure no one is nearby, before whispering back into the phone’s receiver at my cousin, who called for a post-date update.

“The part where we carved pumpkins or the part where we had sex?”

“No one gives a shit about the pumpkins, Chandler!” she hisses through the line like a complete savage. “Get to the good part—I have a meeting in fifteen minutes.”

“You’ve been a real monster since you got married,” I tell her with a laugh, twirling in my desk chair toward the laptop in front of me. “Are you not getting laid enough?”

“The opposite, actually.” She yawns. “I’m sleep-deprived from constantly getting poked in the ass crack by my husband’s hard dick.” Hollis pauses. “Sorry, was that too much information?”

My cousin yawns again, not at all helping the situation.

“I’m sorry,” she tells me for the second time. “What were you saying? You banged all night or no?”

I only hesitate a moment. There’s no point in lying; she’ll most likely find out the truth anyway if Tripp is the kind of man who tells his brother his personal business.

“Yes?” Pause.

“Not to be weird or anything, but how was it? Tripp doesn’t strike me as the sensitive type—he seems like more of a love ’em and leave ’em cold on the other side of the bed type.”

“Do you want me to tell you if he’s a cuddler first or how the sex was, because those are two entirely different things.”

“Could you not be so literal? We’re on a time crunch here.”

I can almost see her checking the gold watch circling her wrist; I know it’s there, because the expensive designer timepiece was a high school graduation gift from her parents, and I was at the party where she received it.

“Okay, yes—the sex was amazing. And yes, he’s a giver. I mean, he went down on me twice and I barely touched his dick at all.” Jeez, I can’t believe I just told her that. Now I feel like a selfish asshole.

“Oh nice! Love that! We call that a pillow princess, you know. Some guys would rather get you off than have you pleasure them or whatever.”

“How the hell do you know that?”

“Eh, some guy on a dating app wrote it in his bio and I had to do an internet search to figure out what it was.”

“I don’t think Tripp is looking for a pillow princess, I just think he was trying to get me off.”

Hollis sighs. “Yeah, you’re probably right—they all want their dicks sucked eventually.”

I gape, craning my neck to peer over my cubicle partition.

The coast is clear, so I hiss, “Are you alone right now? Jeez. Anyone could hear you.” Despite what little I know about her job in publishing, she’s still a grunt and I know she doesn’t have a cushy office either.

When did she get like this? The Hollis I know and grew up with was independent, but always poised and somewhat well-behaved. Certainly wouldn’t have used the word dick in a sentence—not during the work day!

How stuffy and prudish does that make me sound? I almost facepalm myself, spinning once in my chair.

“You sound different,” my cousin allows.

I feel different. “How can you tell?”

“I can hear it in your voice.” She pauses on the other end of the line. “You must really like him, huh? Tripp. Of all people, oy.”

That makes me laugh and she ain’t joking. “Yeah, of all the people, I have to go and start liking the one guy most unlikely to fall in love with me.”

The universe has a funny sense of humor.

She changes the subject. “What are you doing today? How has it been working with your dad?”

I pick up a pen and tap it on the desktop idly, then sit back in the chair, tipping it so I can stare at the ceiling. “It’s boring—fine. Dad is way more chill than Uncle Thomas, that’s for sure—no offense.”

“Dad wears buttoned-up collared shirts to play tennis in the backyard.” She snorts. “The man hasn’t laughed in thirty years.”

I lower my voice to say, “I’m still looking for something in public relations—I’d love to do PR for, say, an author or something. Or marketing for a start-up, promotions and parties, but man, no one is hiring right now—at least, not unless I’m willing to be an intern and work for free.”

Hollis hums in agreement. “Lots of budget cuts. The economy is in the shitter.” I can hear someone enter her workspace, the conversation muffled before she returns to our chat. “I’m sorry you’re having a hard time. Is there anything you want me to do? Put feelers out here? I’m sure someone here owes me a favor. Or maybe my dad would be willing—”

“I don’t want someone handing me another job. I want to find one on my own. I hate the whole nepotism thing. I just wish I had more money saved up so I could start my own little company.”

“Chandler.” Hollis sighs. “I know you have money set aside from Grandma.”

“I’m talking about my money—the money I earned.”

“Why are you so difficult? What difference does it make where it came from if it’s helping you fund your dream? You’re going to be stuck at that boring job forever! Our dads aren’t going to want to see you go, Chan. They want the business to stay in the family.”

Translation: They’re never going to pay you enough that you can save and strike out on your own, and they’re not going to promote you into the marketing department.

Experience ensures that I’m going to quit and my father knows it.

Asshole.

Granted, he’s not as big a douche as my uncle—Hollis’s dad—but they’re cut from the same cloth and that cloth is a napkin.

“Alright. Well if you change your mind…” Her voice trails off. “When are you going to see Tripp again?” she asks. Then, “God, I cannot believe it—you and Tripp. That’s insane to me.”

“Why?”

Her hum lets me know she’s mulling it over. “I wouldn’t call the two of you opposites, but he’s so…I don’t know. He’s crabby a lot. I think there’s a lot of pressure on him to be manly and badass and he lets that pressure affect his mood wayyy too much.”

“Macho complex.” I nod in agreement. “I can see that.”

“I wouldn’t call you sweet, exactly. Nice? He’s not used to a woman like you.”

“What kind of woman is he used to then?” I already know the answer to this and what she’s about to say.

“The kind that hangs around at the stadium after the game. Or in the parking lot. Or at the clubs where they have parties—he doesn’t go out much, so those are the only women in front of him.” Hollis thinks for a few seconds. “I doubt he’s ever been on a dating app or let himself be set up on a blind date.”

I laugh at the idea of him on Tinder. “God, can you imagine the things he would say if he was on an app? Or what his bio would say?”

“I would pay to see what his bio would say.” Hollis clears her throat. “Tripp, 28. Former college athlete. Horrible flirt, terrible boyfriend. Seeks warm body, not one for small talk. Hates smiling and laughing. Must love dogs.”

“Whoa. You know him well.”

“Too well. Tripp is basically Buzz, but grouchier.”

That makes me feel better. “So he has potential?”

“Yes, but you can’t fall in love with the idea of someone’s potential, Chandler—you’ll only end up heartbroken.”

I let that sentence repeat itself on a loop over and over in my head long after our phone call has ended.

You can’t fall in love with the idea of someone’s potential.

That’s not what I’m doing, is it?

Nineteen

Tripp

“Hey, Mr. Wallace. Rough day?”

I drop the bag of groceries I’m holding at the sound of Molly’s voice, startled, and curse as my crisp apples roll across the hardwood floor.

“Jesus Christ, kid, you can’t just scare the shit out of a person like that!” My heart races at a hundred miles an hour, so fast I can feel the pulse in my throat. “What the hell are you doing here? How’d you get in?”

The teenager shrugs, stirring a bowl at my kitchen counter, two cookie sheets laid out, along with your basic baking ingredients: butter, flour, sugar, chocolate chips.

“I know the code to the garage.”

Oh. Duh.

“Just because you know the damn code doesn’t mean you get to come and go as you please.” I don’t remember needing her to walk the dog. I only had practice today, having no game tonight.

No Monday night football for this guy means I get to watch the game from the comfort of my couch like everyone else in America.

“My parents are fighting because my mom went shopping and blew her monthly budget and I didn’t want to listen to them argue, so I figured I’d come here and bake cookies.” She cracks an egg over the metal mixing bowl. “Chewy and I went for a walk already.”

“You can’t come here every time your parents fight.” I refuse to become a refuge for wayward teens; I am not one of her teenybopper girlfriends. Shit, next thing I know, she’ll be inviting all of them over and the house will become infested by hormones and I’ll—

“Nah, it’s not like that. They’re probably having make-up sex right now and I don’t want to hear that either.” She shudders. “Gross.”

Jesus Christ, could this get any worse?

“How was your date this weekend? I didn’t see Chandler’s car leave until Sunday morning.” I try not to notice the kid wiggling her eyebrows in my direction, but it’s impossible—she has bushy, unkempt brows that could use a waxing.

“My date is none of your business.”

“Um, hello! I’m the mastermind behind the date—if it weren’t for me, there wouldn’t have been one.” She stirs her batter by hand, folding flour into the egg concoction or however cookies are made.

“How do you know I wouldn’t have asked her out? You don’t know everything.” I bend down to scoop up the apples, at least the ones Chewy hasn’t stolen and run off with. He’s on his dog bed in the corner, happily gnawing away at a Granny Smith like the cat who ate the canary.

Five more minutes and I’m ending your little snack fest, bud. I don’t need him shitting on the living room rug.

He obviously can’t read my mind and goes on ignoring me, chewing as if his life depends on it. As if he knows the apple is going to be taken away at any moment.

Because it is.

Molly lifts the wooden spoon out of her batter and points it at me. “I know you wouldn’t have asked her out because that would have made you feel vulnerable and you hate that.”

Um, what?

“Oh please, that is so not true.”

The intruding neighbor girl lets out a scoff to rival mine. “Are you serious? Have you looked in the mirror lately? You’re like, the poster child for toxic masculinity.”

“What did you do, eat a dictionary for breakfast?”

“You know I’m right.” She begins spooning small blobs of dough onto the cookie sheets. “You think you have to project this image of manliness, which you hate doing, so instead you act like an asshole.”

“I know what it means,” I tell her with an air of authority I don’t confidently feel. “And that’s not what that means.”

I don’t think…

Anyway, who the fuck is she to tell me I have toxic masculinity?

Molly stops production to pull her cell out of the back pocket of her jeans and tap out a few words. Nods knowingly, then reads out loud. “Defined as: male gender role that stigmatizes and limits emotions boys and men may comfortably express while elevating other emotions such as anger.”

She stuffs the phone back into her pocket.

“That means, because you’re big, and strong, and work in a male-dominated industry where strength and toughness are expected, you can’t display emotions like…” Molly hums. “Sadness or love. This is why you don’t act lovey-dovey even when you want to.” She points to Chewy. “You’re like that with the dog, but not with other people. I hate to say this, but if you aren’t able to tell Chandler how you feel, she won’t stick around long.”

“What do you mean ‘tell her how I feel’?” And how the hell would she know? She’s a teenager, for fuck’s sake.

“I know women like her—she’s young and independent, which means she’s not going to settle for some meathead who can’t express his feelings.”

Meathead? “Are we still talking about me?”

“Yes. You’re the meathead. You’re the total definition of one—all looks and no substance.”

My mouth drops open.

Closes and opens, closes and opens—like a guppy floundering in the water.

I have no clue how to respond.

“Don’t psychoanalyze me, okay?” It won’t work.

“Take my advice or don’t take it—it’s all the same to me. It’s just going to suck when Chandler stops coming around. She’s a cool chick.” Molly ignores me to slide the cookie sheets into the oven and stares at them a few seconds through the tiny window. “These are going to be good.”

I’m still too shook to respond, standing like an idiot in my own kitchen, a spectator in my own damn life.

I scoff. “I know how to tell someone what’s on my mind,” I announce with more bravado than I can deliver on.

Molly puts her hands on her hips. “Oh really? What’s the general mood about Chandler exactly?”

“I…” The guppy returns. “She…”

I. Uh. Der.

The neighbor girl nods, victorious. “Just like I said. You can’t even say the words.”

“You know what? The last thing I need is to come home and find you in my kitchen, and then have you give me relationship advice.” It’s like taking advice from a matchmaker who’s single. This kid is barely out of middle school and can’t even drive a damn car.

She’s fiddling with her phone again and I’m convinced she’s searching for more relationship shit. “Knock it off, would you?”

Molly rolls her eyes, exhausted by me. “I’m setting a timer for the cookies, chill.”

Chill.

I can do that. Sure. Easy.

Closing the gap between myself and Chewy, I pry the gnawed apple from his mouth and pull a face; it’s mangled and slimy, and I toss it in the trash. Wash my hands to busy myself, back turned toward the interloping teen.

She’s tapping her foot, insolent little shit.

“Now what?” Wiping my hands on a dish towel, I face her. “What?”

“What’s the one thing Chandler wants?”

Pfft, that’s easy. “To make it on her own and become a publicist.” My body relaxes because I got an answer right.

“So, how can you help her with that?”

“With what? Like, finding her a job?”

“Yeah—you must know people. You’re famous.”

I stand a bit taller; she’s right, I am famous, and yeah, I do know people. I rack my brain, searching for names of people in the spotlight who might be hiring PR representation. Or perhaps someone with a wife who needs event planning. Marketing. Shit, the possibilities are endless.

“You don’t think that’s overstepping a bit?”

“It proves you care.” Molly shrugs. “That’s like, better than flowers.” She gives me a once-over, starting at my feet. “On second thought, you should always still get a woman flowers and gifts and stuff.”

I find myself nodding.

Could Molly be right? Will Chandler see my using connections as a way of showing I care? She works for her parents, so in a way she’s cool accepting nepotism, right? And she did admit that no places worth working for are hiring—her dream jobs have no vacancies.

“You’re overthinking it,” the teenager snaps, checking the cookies through the little square window of the oven.

“That’s what I do—overthink shit.” I pause, shaking my head. “And why the hell am I discussing any of this with you? You’re barely in high school.”

“I have my temporary license.”

“As if that proves how mature you are,” I practically sneer.

“Whatever, I’m not the one with girl problems.”

“I don’t have girl problems!” Why am I yelling?

“Not yet you don’t. She still thinks you’re great.”

“So what’s got to change exactly?” I still don’t get it and, god in heaven, I’m asking a teenager to explain it for me.

“First of all, you’re kind of an assbag.”

“Assbag?” Wow. That’s an insult I haven’t heard hurled in my direction, especially not from a child—so I add it to my memory bank. Suitably impressed, I approve. “Fair enough. Go on.”

“That’s how you are, and she seems to like it—no idea why—but unless you show a different side to yourself, that angry act is going to get tired super soon.”

Super soon. “Is that teenage girl speak for ‘real fast’?”

“Duh.”

I’m honestly going to strangle this kid.

“Like—you’re gonna have to dig down deep and pull out some emotions.”

“I pull out emotions.”

“Pissed off is not an emotion. It’s a byproduct of fear. Or in your case, probably anxiety—maybe you’re frustrated with yourself? Jealous of your brother and sister? Embarrassed you can’t express yourself, embarrassed when you do? I don’t know, pick your poison.”

Is this kid for real?

My eyes narrow. “Are you by any chance going into psychology when you get to college?”

One of her shoulders rises and falls in a shrug. “Nah, I’m going to major in finance.”

“Stop it, you are not. You really have knack for this,” I admit, as much as I hate to do so. Molly is the sort who has an ego about these things; I can tell.

“Are you giving me an actual compliment, Mr. Wallace?” Molly appears stunned—and happy, practically glowing.

Why is it so hard for her to believe I’d say something nice? I’m not a monster. “Hey! What did I tell you about the Mr. Wallace nonsense?”

Another shrug. “I’m being polite to my elders.”

“Har har.” I level her with a stare. “So you really think I need to be like…nice?”

This earns me a laugh from the teenager, who’s now taken to pacing back and forth in front of the oven, most likely so the cookies don’t burn.

“You can’t even say the word without cringing. Look at you—you look constipated.”

“Fine. You’re right—I can’t force myself to be something I’m not.”

“Why are you like that? I mean, it’s not like your parents are dicks.”

The mouth on this kid!

“How would you know my parents weren’t dicks to me growing up?”

“Um, hello—I’ve seen them coming and going. The last time your folks were here, I helped your mom bring in the blanket the book club had made you. You know, the one with the book covers on it.” Her sly little grin is telling; she’s making fun of me without actually making fun of me.

“Who needs help bringing in a blanket? What you’re trying to say is, you saw her and used the opportunity to snake-in-the-grass your way inside to pester her for details, you nosey shit.”

Molly yawns. “Whatever. My point is, they seem supportive.”

That’s because they were.

Are.

If I had a game tonight—Monday night football—chances are, they’d have driven the two-hour drive from their place north of here and watched the game at the stadium with the rest of the families. The WAGS, the wives and girlfriends and friends of the players. My parents make most of my games, and most of Buzz’s, and I don’t know about True because she’s not an athlete.

Come to think of it, I don’t know much about what my sister has been up to lately. The last time I saw her was last weekend for lasagna after Buzz returned from his honeymoon, but it’s not like we spoke privately or anything—I was too rushed to leave.

Shit. Molly is right. I am an assbag.

Not taking time to talk to my little sister?

What a fucker.

Shame fills my gut and I feel my face flush.

“Aww, look at you,” the little terror coos. “You’re feeling the feels, aren’t you?”

The feels?

Yes, but not about Chandler. I still can’t put a label on what’s going on there. We’ve known each other five minutes; all I know is that she’s different in a good kind of way. Kind, sweet—but can kick my ass (obviously). Knows what she wants. Determined.

Tight as fuck.

If you aren’t able to tell Chandler how you feel, she won’t stick around long…

Is that true?

And am I willing to risk it?

Twenty

Chandler

“Dear Ms. Westbrooke, thank you for your time contacting Fire Fox Media about the publicist and promotions position. We were impressed by your portfolio, but unfortunately we are not hiring at the moment. If you’d like to apply for a summer internship, I have copied the link in the signature line of this email! We hope you’ll consider it—you seem like a great fit for Fire Fox! Keep checking back, and best regards!”

Another rejection.

Awesome.

I delete the email, which is a glorified fill-in-the-blank form letter, and sigh. The half-eaten bagel on my desk was stale before I took my first bite, but I’m starving and don’t have the energy to hit the breakroom. God forbid I run into someone who wants to make small talk; I’m not in the mood for that.

No one here talks to me unless they’re kissing my ass, thinking it will give them an advantage.

I rip into the carb with my canine teeth and chew miserably.

Lazy times call for lazy measures.

“Hey buttercup!” Dad sticks his head into my cubicle, perky and alert, always on. Never off.

Also, he’s never called me buttercup before, so when I lift my head to gaze at him, my expression is quizzical.

“Hey Dad.”

“How’s my girl settling in?”

“Fine?” I mean—I see the man every day; has he somehow forgotten about our meeting yesterday afternoon, where he asked what my goals are for the week?

Find a new job, find a new job, find a new job.

“Is that what you’re having for breakfast? Why don’t you let Rhonda scrounge something up for you? Some fruit, maybe.”

Rhonda is Dad’s secretary, but more of a personal assistant who fetches his dry cleaning, takes my parents’ dogs to the groomer, and buys anniversary and birthday gifts. Plus office and clerical.

Who knows.

“Thank you, but no. I’m good. This bagel is fine.”

Tastes like sandpaper, but I will live.

“Any plans for dinner tonight?”

No, but no way am I going to Mom and Dad’s house—again—so I can sit around their ridiculously large dining room table and listen to them go on and on about how excited they are that I’ve joined the Westbrooke Stadium family, which only makes me feel more guilty that I don’t want to stay.

I am not a lifer.

It is not my passion.

“Um. I have some unpacking to do, so I’m going to order a pizza and organize my bookshelves. Hollis left a few at the townhouse and I’m dying to fill them up.”

That’s not a lie.

After Dad leaves, I stare blankly at the computer monitor in front of me, a screen full of numbers and statistics I know nothing about. Baseball has never been my forte, nor my true calling, despite it being drilled into me from the time I was a child.

As an only child, I was raised to believe I’d work for the family—they sent me to college with the understanding that my marketing degree was in some way going to benefit Westbrooke Industries, benefit one of their vast holdings in one way, shape, or form.

But Dad and Uncle Thomas were not willing to put me in the marketing or publicity department, no matter what arguments I used to get my foot in that door. They want me on the business side, not the PR side, the decision final.

Uncle Thomas is such a dick. Not some of the time—all of the time.

I’m so jealous of Hollis wheedling her way out of the family clutches and I hate myself for falling into them.

It’s temporary.

This latest rejection letter is one of many and the thought that I’m running out of options depresses me. Taking another bite of this shitty bagel, my mood sours.

Grumpy.

Guess Tripp and I aren’t so opposite after all.

I’m halfway through the doughy bread ring when my phone chimes for the first time this morning. Desperate for a diversion, I snap it up quickly, eyes hungry for the words blinking back at me.

Tripp: Hey, wyd?

My heart rate quickens from the random text; I haven’t heard from him since Sunday when I left his place, three entire days passing since we had mind-blowing sex.

He wants to know what I’m doing.

Me: Uh…working? You?

Tripp: Done early.

Me: Oh, that’s nice.

What is his point? It’s late morning on Wednesday and I don’t know anything about the football schedule, but I would assume he’s been running drills all morning and visiting the team’s physical trainer before his game this weekend.

I wait for another message, watching that tiny screen for the three conversation dots to appear in the bottom of the chat box.

Tripp: I’m hungry, how about you?

The bagel seems to crumble in my grip, growing ashy in my mouth. I want to spit it into the trash, knowing Tripp’s texts are leading to an invitation.

Me: I grabbed a bagel on my way to work but forgot the cream chee

Delete.

That sounds stupid; he doesn’t care what I’m eating or not eating.

Me: I’m always hungry.

Tripp: You want to grab lunch at Café Louis near Washington Park? I can meet you halfway.

YES! Yes, yes, yes!

Mentally, I fist-pump, having zero people to celebrate this midday date with. The list of girlfriends I’m going to text is short. Actually, I’ve only confided in Hollis, since she knows him best and is now related to him. My other girlfriends wouldn’t understand—plus, I don’t want to prematurely say anything because if things don’t progress, the constant “How is Tripp doing” messages would drive me up the wall.

Me: Lunch would be great! How does 11:00 sound? That way we beat the rush.

Tripp: Exactly what I was thinking.

Tripp: Want me to come grab you?

Me: No, no, meeting you is fine. I’ll just hitch a cab and then you could bring me back?

Tripp: Awesome.

Tripp: It’s a date.

* * *

“Uh, is that a disguise?”

I find Tripp hovering near the entrance of the café, donning a baseball cap, sunglasses, and a hoodie. These three things do nothing for his anonymity; rather, they cause him to stand out instead of blend in.

“Sort of.” His big shoulders shrug and, color me surprised, he leans down and kisses me in the corner of my mouth as a greeting.

I blush from my toes up to the roots of my hair, ignoring the butterflies in my stomach and try to sound normal when I say, “Well you look sketchy as frick. You should take that hood down at least, you weirdo.”

“I want to be left alone.”

So adorably clueless. “Um, you stand out like a sore thumb. That sweatshirt is bright blue and has the Blues logo on it.”

Tripp looks down at me. “You look cute.”

Do I? Eh.

What I look is professional, in a high-waisted black faux leather pencil skirt, tucked-in black silk blouse (with little red dots on it), and red heels on my feet.

“Thank you.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ears. “I wasn’t expecting to go anywhere for lunch, otherwise I would have—”

“No, I like this. You look hot.”

Hot.

I do?

Not so sure about that, but I’ll take his word for it.

“You must have a thing for the secretarial look,” I say as we wait for the hostess to seat us. When she approached before, Tripp silently stuck two fingers in the air and didn’t say a word.

“Is that how you always dress for work?” he asks, putting his hand to the small of my back, guiding me behind the hostess as we weave through the crowded café, the occasional patron glancing up to stare at Tripp as we walk past.

Men and women.

The men want to ask for his autograph, the women want to hit on him. Fuck him. Take him home in the middle of the afternoon.

I can see it in their eyes, and it’s nothing new to me, having grown up around athletes. Tripp seems immune to it, hand now skimming from my shoulder down the side of my silk-covered arm.

When we’re seated, menus in hand, he takes down the hoodie and removes his sunglasses, intense brown eyes boring holes as he studies my face.

“How have you been?” He wants to know, unapologetic and making no excuses for not having reached out since Saturday. Technically it was Sunday when I left, but still. Same thing.

“Good. Still unpacking.” A server comes by to fill our water glasses, and I thank him. “Work, obviously.” I take a sip of the water. “How about you?”

Tripp sighs, sitting back in his chair, crossing his big, bulky arms. “Molly the meddler won’t leave me alone.”

I raise my brows. “What has she done now?”

“She broke into the house and was baking chocolate chip cookies on Monday.”

“What?! She broke in? How?” The questions come rapid fire. I cannot believe that kid broke into his house!

“Well, I mean—she has the code for the house, so technically she didn’t break in? But I didn’t know she was going to be there and she scared the shit out of me.”

Oh, well that makes more sense than what I came up with—a back window, perhaps? Prying it open with a crowbar? Squeezing through the doggie door in the laundry room?

No, using the code and letting herself in unannounced sounds more like Molly.

I chuckle, picking up the menu and scanning it. Everything sounds good, and I settle on breakfast for lunch. Eggs benedict on avocado toast.

Nom.

Tripp orders a cheeseburger and fries with extra lettuce, extra tomato, and extra pickles with a side of Cajun mayo.

“Why did she break in? She must have had a reason.” A cute little basket of small cornbread muffins appears and I unfold the napkin in the basket to steal one away. Hot from the oven! Mmm.

I pop it in my mouth as Tripp explains.

“Her parents were arguing and she didn’t want to stick around for the fighting and the make-up sex.”

I consider this information. “Everyone’s parents argue from time to time. I’m guessing it was just an excuse for her to hang out at your place. You should probably give her some boundaries before it gets out of hand.”

I get it that Molly is young, but she can’t just show up willy-nilly, especially at the house of a man who lives alone. Jeepers. No.

“Good idea. Maybe you can help me think of some.”

I warm to the suggestion, the insinuation that he wants me around.

“Sure, I can do that.”

We eat the muffins in silence. Then,

“My parents will be coming down this weekend for the game on Saturday.”

I glance up, butter knife in hand. “Oh?”

Tripp shifts uncomfortably in his chair, squeezing the brim of his blue baseball cap, shaping it. Tips his head from side to side, cracking his neck.

“Yeah. Um…” He fidgets, tearing at the corner of his napkin to keep his hands busy. “Want to come?”

Do I want to come? “To the game? With your parents?” I emphasize that last word, choking on the cornbread in my throat, reaching for the water glass and chugging half of it down.

That feels huge. He wants me at the game and sitting with his parents? His parents.

Like, his mother and father, the ones who gave birth to him.

Calm down, you’ve met them both.

“Yeah. I think I can manage a family box if you want?”

If I want… What does that mean? I get to decide where we all sit? Me, the girl he’s taken out twice and had sex with on the first date?

“Whatever works. I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

He shakes his head. “Not an inconvenience, I just have to let my manager know so he can let will call know.” Tripp pauses. “Come to think of it, my mom’s going to want to talk your ear off, so maybe regular seats won’t work. Then Dad can eat without getting pissed he has to pay eight bucks for a beer.”

I can tell he’s not done talking, so I wait him out, pretending to be focused on everything except his awkward fumbling.

“I…” Tripp clears his throat. “Want you there. I mean—I would like it if you came.”

Whoa.

That admission had to have been hard for him; he’s revealed so little about himself, his past relationships, and what he wants for his future.

“I’d like it, too.” I watch as he eats another muffin, then another, reaching for the basket and sticking my finger into the linen cloth. It’s empty. “Hey, you ate all the muffins.”

“I told you I was hungry.”

The mood is ruined when I glare at him, breaking the spell. “Why do you eat like a human garbage disposal? Do you even taste the food going down?”

“Honestly? Not really.”

“Then save some for me!”

He looks abashed, shoulders sagging a little. “You’re right—I should be more sensitive and should have asked if you wanted another one before I plowed them down.”

The admission gives me pause, stopping my outrage in its tracks.

“Huh?”

“I mean…that’s what Molly said.”

“Molly told you to be more sensitive?” I want to laugh, but he’s dead serious.

“The words were that I had to be nicer, but like—same thing? Sharing is caring and clearly that’s something I need to work on. Sorry.” He leans forward and plants a kiss on my gaping mouth.

I’m so confused.

“Is Molly your relationship coach?”

“It does appear that way.”

We both laugh. The idea of a fifteen-year-old schooling him on how to behave with a grown woman is both absurd and also entirely appropriate.

“What else did she tell you?” Curious minds want to know.

Tripp hesitates before giving his head a little shake. “That’s confidential.”

Food comes and goes and we pass on dessert, taking coffee to go for an afternoon pick-me-up.

“You know what a good afternoon pick-me-up is?” he asks, opening the passenger side to his truck and giving me a hand as he boosts me up.

“What?”

“Sex in the back of a truck.”

The door slams shut and I blink out the front window. Is he serious? Does he seriously want to have sex in the back seat of his truck? I glance behind me—dark tinted windows. Plenty of space on the bench seat.

How convenient.

Unfortunately, we’re parked on a busy street, tourists passing by and a meter that needs to be fed.

I point this out.

“So? We’ll go up to Ohio Street where it’s dead.” His arm rests on the back of my seat, and when he shoots me a little wink, I’m a goner.

“Okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Find a spot, pull over, and fuck me on the side of the road.”

Tripp’s eyes are as wide as flying saucers. “Don’t fuck with me right now—my dick just went from semi wood to rock hard.”

“I’m not fucking with you,” I announce boldly with a lift of my chin, causing his irises to dilate and his nostrils to flare.

“Goddamn, it sounds so hot when you swear.”

There he goes again, calling me hot.

Making me shiver and tingle.

Tripp excites me; he’s the opposite of boring, and I think…he gets me.

I don’t bore him at all the way I’ve bored other men in the past, so maybe this was meant to be in a weird, messed-up way. Warm and fuzzy he is not. Blunt and straightforward? There has never been a man more so.

I love not having to guess what’s on his mind and I’m determined to be the same way.

We’re quiet all the way to a more residential area, anticipation making Tripp’s knuckles grip the wheel tighter, his jaw clenching. I watch his profile, fascinated by the way I can almost see his heart beating out of his chest. He’s excited.

Nervous, too?

Hard to say.

I resist the urge to wring my hands, shifting in my seat, the seatbelt becoming a straitjacket, keeping me from what I really want to be doing: climbing into the back to get busy.

This is so unlike me, but it feels like me.

Gosh, this whole year has been a year of firsts: first real job, first time living alone, first time flipping a person in public and not at the karate studio, first time having sex in a vehicle.

“Oo, there’s a spot!” We’re on an offshoot of a road off a road, where brownstone houses line the street and a church sits on the other side. Lots of trees. Plenty of shade.

He’s skeptical. “Uh—in front of the church?”

Good point. “Okay, keep driving.”

He drives slowly up the narrow road, lined with cars and parking meters, searching for a spot. We happen upon a park—but not the kind where children play. It’s more of a grassy knoll, surrounded by a fence and trees and benches, and it’s completely devoid of people. No dogs, no kids, no one sitting on a bench to read. Across the street are row houses, mixed with older apartment buildings—not the kind with doormen.

The street is all but deserted.

And. He easily finds a place to park.

I want to puke, stomach going absolutely wild, one butterfly turning to two, then four, then—

“We can just head back to your office if you change your mind.” He’s giving me an out I have no intention of taking, despite my nervous belly.

“The train is already in motion,” I tease, unbuckling my seatbelt and turning to face him. “Unless you’re scared?”

Did those words come out of my mouth? Since when do I challenge huge, hulking guys to bang me in public spots and accuse them of being scared if they don’t?

Rude, Chandler.

Back it up.

“I’m sorry, that’s not what I—”

The truck gets slammed into park, his seatbelt flying from his shoulder, metal buckle hitting the driver’s side door he shoves open in an instant.

“Back seat.”

Roger that.

I follow in hot pursuit but climb over the center console instead of exiting and coming in through the extended cab door, shoes on the floor in front of me, discarded so I don’t soil the seats.

This is so exciting!

I didn’t start dating until I was in college, so I was older by the time I’d lost my virginity; none of those experiences, though new, were as exhilarating as what’s happening with Tripp right now.

The best part is? I have a feeling this is new to him, too.

His body is monolithic, taking up most of the back seat, his thick thighs spread, offering me little choice but to climb onto his lap. Straddle him. Our mouths fuse, naturally—no hesitation, already seeking their rhythm.

Confident that no one can see us—not with the overcast sky, mature shade trees lining the sidewalk, and the truck’s dark-tinted windows—my fingers roam the buttons of my shirt, plucking each one free, one at a time.

My head hits the ceiling. “Ouch!”

Tripp chuckles before his mouth latches onto the skin of my collarbone and he groans, hands caging my waist. “Fuck you smell good.”

Thank heavens for that—I didn’t wear deodorant this morning.

Or like, any morning? Ha ha.

He doesn’t seem to give a shit; I could probably be covered in crap and the man’s hands would still be all over my body—roaming my upper torso, eyes heavy-lidded from lust.

“So fucking pretty,” he mutters while his fingers find the clasp of my bra, the lacy one I threw on last minute that didn’t seem practical but which I’m grateful for.

Vanity has its rewards.

He appreciates my efforts with the palms of his hands, then lips, tongue and teeth nipping at my nipples. I could stay like this forever, letting him lavish my body with kisses…

My hips slowly begin doing the only thing they can do in a situation like this: they grind. Round and round on the hard erection straining at the front of his jeans.

God that must be uncomfortable. No room for it to roam.

I sit back, still kneeling over him, creating a gap between our bodies so my fingers can work the fly of his pants. Zipper. Ease it down, moving off him momentarily so he can maneuver them down his hips and free that glorious dick.

I hike my skirt up. Pull my thong aside, then climb back on.

Bury my face in the crook of his neck as I inch down over him, easing on little by little by little, breathing heavy the whole way.

It’s a strange effect, our position inconvenient and scrunched, the cab of the truck now sweltering from our body heat, windows fogging up. The space is cramped. Awkward.

So good.

I move up and down over him, doing all the work while his hands brace my hips, helping them travel.

I am determined to come.

I want him to come, too—desperately.

It’s work. It’s tiring. It’s hot and sweaty and our movements are limited but we do it, my lips pressed to the side of his damp neck while I rotate my pelvis to the point of no return.

Tripp slaps my ass and it feels like a five-star review as his body jerks.

What are the odds that we come at the same time, twice?

Panting, I flop onto him, resting against this chest.

“Do you happen to, um, have a rag or something?” Not to be gross and disgusting, but I can already feel, uh, everything dripping out my, um…you know…and I could die.

How am I supposed to clean this up?

“Shit, we didn’t wear a condom.” He pauses. “You can use my shirt.”

“I am not using your shirt!” As much as I want to clean up this mess, I’m not doing it with his clothes. Or mine. “Paper towels?”

Tripp shakes his head. No paper towels. No wet wipes. No tissues.

Not a single Starbucks or McDonald’s napkin in the glovebox like most normal humans have.

I glance around the cab, desperate for something to wipe this mess up with.

Okay fine—I would settle for a gym sock. “Gym sock?”

Tripp perks up. “Yeah, I do have a gym sock. It’s in the duffle on the floor.” He bends forward to unzip it, rooting around and recovering a white sports sock. Shoves it toward me.

“Thanks.”

I cannot let him watch me stuff this sock in my thong as a panty liner!

A knock interrupts, scaring the shit out of me and causing me to scream, then cover my breasts by crossing my arms.

There’s a police officer at the door, and I let out a horrified gasp as he stands with his back to the truck, rapping on the window with his knuckle over his shoulder, no longer peering inside.

Oh my god oh my god OHMYGOD.

Oh my god.

No.

This is not happening.

Jesus take the wheel and get me the hell out of here.

I fumble for something to cover my face with—his hoodie perhaps? Crawl under the seat maybe?

I want a sinkhole to swallow me now, cowering in the back seat as Tripp tries yanking up.

“Sir,” the officer outside is saying, “I’m going to need you both to step outside.”

Both of us?!

I shield my face with a hand as I die inside, Tripp beginning a long string of curses I don’t dare repeat, clearing his throat and reaching for his ball cap. He lowers the brim to cover his forehead. Unfortunately, there is no disguising this man—plus, there’s no doubt the cop has run the plates and already knew exactly who he was before approaching the vehicle.

Shit, shit, shit.

Tripp cracks the back door open. “Is that really necessary?”

“Sir.” The cop shifts on his heels. “It’s the middle of the day and you’re engaging in a sexual act in a residential area. I’m going to need you both to step outside.” He continues to be matter-of-fact and blunt, straight-faced and serious, hat shielding his eyes and his agitated expression.

He’s just doing his job, and here Tripp is, arguing with him.

“You don’t recognize me?” Tripp has the balls to ask the cop through the gap in the door, the cop who’s watching every move we’re making so we don’t do something shady. “I play for the Blues.”

Oh my god!

“Good for you.” The cop’s expression is blank. “I ran your plates and they’re clean, but I’m going to need some form of identification from yourself and your companion.”

Your companion.

As if I’m a…a…

Paid escort.

“If you ran my plates and know who I am, why do you need to see my identification?”

This police officer isn’t playing around, leveling Tripp with a blank stare, raising his brows and clenching his jaw.

“I need to see valid identification with your face on it, sir.”

I smack my date on the arm, muttering, “Stop arguing, jeez.”

“Okay, but why does he need us outside? We were just fucking, Jesus.”

Fumbling with my top, I glance at the back window then out the front, scanning the street for photographers, dreading the moment I have to step outside onto the sidewalk.

“Um, officer?” I spy my purse in the front seat, the one with my wallet and ID in it. “My bag is on the floor—can I grab it?”

Yes.

When we’re both curbside, we’re separated, Tripp in front of the vehicle, me in the back, the officer making his way over to speak to me.

“Ms. Westbrooke, how do you know this person?”

“Um…we’re dating.” I think? I mean, are we actually dating dating, or do I tell the cop we’ve only been on a few dates and so far it’s nothing serious? Shoot.

“How long have you known Mr. Wallace?”

“A few weeks? Since my cousin’s wedding—she married his brother, Buzz Wallace. Um, Trace is his actual name, Buzz is his nickname,” I babble nervously, stopping before I blurt out that I currently have a sports sock stuffed between my legs to prevent cum from dripping down the inside of my thighs.

“And where were you prior to arriving at this location?”

“We were having lunch at Café Louis near Washington Park.”

A nod. “Just so we’re very clear—this was consensual?”

Ah, now I get it. He’s asking to make sure I wasn’t banged against my will.

“Yes.”

“Ma’am, I’m going to need you to say it in your own words.”

Lord, if my cheeks were any hotter I would swear it was the middle of a summer heatwave.

“Yes sir, it was consensual.” How on earth I manage that sentence with a straight face is entirely beyond me, my gaze still scanning the perimeter. “Sorry if I seem distracted—he plays football and if a paparazzi gets our picture and splashes it across the internet, I will literally die a thousand deaths.”

“That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?” the cop asks, hands on his hips, countenance remaining stalwart. “This is considered a misdemeanor and I could issue a ticket to both of you. However, considering you seem like a nice couple, I’m going to let you off with a warning.”

My body sags with relief; pretty sure tickets are considered public records, making it damn easy for any meddling media to dig and make that information public. A public relations and personal nightmare for both of us.

“You cannot be engaging in this behavior in a residential area,” the officer continues, pointing down the block. “There’s a school a few blocks away—if your boyfriend is famous, he should know better than this.”

I nod, embarrassed, wondering if this is the exact spiel he’s about to give Tripp, down to the guilt trip about the school on the next block. How the heck were we supposed to know?!

“Yes sir.” I pause. “Um, can I get back in the truck now?”

“Once I speak to Mr. Wallace, you’ll both be free to go, but I’ll have to ask you to wait right here, please.”

He bows his head and saunters at a leisurely pace to the front of the truck, to the spot where Tripp leans casually against the hood, arm resting, watchful eyes boring into me.

They exchange words, a few of Tripp’s a bit too loud.

“Yes we’re actually dating.”

“She is not a hooker if that’s what you’re implying.”

Then, “Listen, officer, we had lunch and thought it would be fun to bang one out before she has to return to work. That is all, end of story.”

“Yes, I realize this is a terrible spot to have parked.”

I lean into their conversation and catch the cop say, “When I walk away, I’m going to need you to get back in your truck and leave, and then I’ll pull out.”

Tripp nods.

“You know,” the officer goes on, “I always thought when I met a famous ballplayer, it would be under different circumstances.” He’s shaking his head. “Guess I’ve seen it all.”

* * *

Tripp: I can’t stop thinking about that sock between your legs.

Me: That’s all you have to say? I’m still traumatized from this afternoon. Trauma-TIZED.

Tripp: You didn’t find any of that exciting?

Me: Um NO. Not even a little bit. Did YOU?

Tripp: Yes. My life has been pretty goddamn boring up until the last few weeks.

Me: The only thing that could have made today any worse would be finding out that cop sold his vest-cam footage to the tabloids. Can you imagine how much that would go for?

Tripp: Lol. Plenty I imagine.

Tripp: Hey, how’s that gym sock?

Me: **gags** The sock was sweaty and gross!!!

Tripp: I’m never washing it.

Me: Are you saying…you want THE SOCK BACK???

Tripp: Yes.

Me: That is SO. GROSS. Why did you have to tell me that? **gags again but this time into a brown paper bag**

Me: Too late, I threw it in the trash.

Tripp: You threw my sock away!??? Why the hell would you do that—it was a perfectly good sock!

Me: It was covered in come!

Tripp: **cum

Me: Oh my god, stop it right now.

Tripp: I was going to wear those to my next game! They’re my good luck socks now. Are you still at work? I’m coming over to dig through your trash.

Me: Don’t you dare!

Tripp: Too late, I’m already in my car on my way over.

Me: You are not…

Tripp: Prove I’m not.

Me: Wait. It’s the middle of the afternoon—shouldn’t you be at practice?

Tripp: Yes, but I stuffed my phone down the front of my pants so I could flirt with you. Don’t tell anyone.

Tripp: In fact, I should have you sign an NDA so you don’t sell my flirting to the tabloids.

Me: You mean if the police officer hasn’t done it first.

Tripp: Please, do you think we’re the first people he’s busted fucking on the side of the road? Betcha it happens a few times a week, but like, usually with prostitutes.

Me: Yes, I felt SO embarrassed.

Tripp: You don’t actually think he thought you were a hooker, do you?

Me: Maybe just a little…

Tripp: Chandler. Babe. He had your driver’s license and everyone in the city of Chicago knows who the Westbrooke family is.

Me: Somehow that doesn’t make me feel better! **cries**

Tripp: You’re cute when you think you’re getting arrested. You should have seen your face when he asked if the sex was consensual.

Me: We can’t all just casually lean against the vehicle like we’re waiting for a tow truck, TRIPP.

Tripp: LOL that is not how I looked.

Me: Yeah—ya did. Just chilling, no big deal. Don’t think I didn’t catch you nodding at the man jogging with his dog.

Tripp: I’M FRIENDLY—what did you expect me to do?

Me: NO, YOU ARE NOT. You are actually not at all friendly.

Tripp: LOL

Me: Circling back around to the non-disclosure—honestly, I would sign one if you wanted me to.

Tripp: I don’t want you to, I was only kidding.

Me: But real quick, say something juicy just so I can take a screenshot and use it as blackmail material.

Tripp: Something juicy.

Me: Wow. You’re a comedian now, too!

Tripp: I can be funny when I want to be. My brother usually always has to hog the attention.

Me: Aww, you poor, poor baby.

Tripp: It’s about time someone felt sorry for me.

Me: I DO NOT FEEL SORRY FOR YOU.

Tripp: Um, why are you yelling?

Tripp: Hey, I ended up grabbing you and my family a box for Saturday—you’re still coming right?

Me: Yup. I’m ironing my Blues jersey as we speak.

Tripp: Oh yeah? Whose number is on the back?

Me: I don’t know, I think number 12? It says Butler.

Tripp: You’re dead to me, goodbye.

Me: Not even a kiss on the cheek before you go?

Tripp: I said good day, sir!

Twenty-One

Chandler

I wasn’t lying when I told Tripp my Blues jersey has the name Butler on the back—but that’s only because I had to borrow it from my friend Jennifer, who I went to college with and who lives in the city, too.

They’re expensive!

I wasn’t raised to be a football fan growing up. I was raised to be loyal to the Chicago Steam, the family dynasty and all that bull crap.

The jersey is for a woman (not a man), fitted and cute with the jeans I threw on and tucked into boots. I’m not sure how much makeup to put on, or how to style my hair, considering I’m watching the game with Mr. and Mrs. Wallace.

I’m so nervous I can barely eat, waiting curbside for the cab to pick me up and take me to the stadium so I can meet them there.

Ticket in purse.

Warm winter coat.

Stadium-approved purse.

Check, check, check.

I hit the lights of the townhouse before heading out and locking up, taking the steps jauntily with more enthusiasm than I feel.

Having plans with Tripp is one thing; having them with his parents is another entirely.

Mrs. Wallace is always full of questions; what if she asks me something I don’t know how to answer? Or what if I say something stupid and she repeats it to her son? What if she reads more into things than what they actually are and gets her hopes up?

I am not daughter-in-law number two!

I am also not on time.

The crowd roars from inside the stadium, echoing in the night, filling me with that familiar adrenaline rush I used to feel when I was younger and felt less pressure to fit in with my parents, cousins, aunts, and uncles. When games were just games to me and not a money-making machine.

Games were about hot dogs and popcorn and the occasional soda I was only allowed to have when we sat in the stands—usually with my nanny.

I stand in line at security while they riffle through my tiny purse then hop into a different line to gain entry. Weave my way to the suite level, quelling my nerves by placing a hand on my stomach.

When I reach the room we’re watching the game in, Genevieve Wallace greets me with a welcome so enthusiastic it startles me, her cheerful and loud “There she is!” causing heads to turn from the crowded hallway.

“Hi! Sorry I’m late—the traffic was terrible.” I hang my jacket in the small coat closet, remove my scarf and mittens. “I’m so sorry,” I apologize again.

“We’re so glad you came!” She ignores my apologies and rushes over to hug me. “Aren’t we so glad she’s here, Roger?” Tripp’s mom smacks her husband on the arm until he shifts his gaze from the playing field below to me.

“Uh, sure.” It takes him a few seconds to register that it’s me, lost in his game day daze. “Oh, hey Chandler.” Mr. Wallace blinks. “For a second there I thought you were Hollis.”

“We just love her so much.” Mrs. Wallace has her arm around me, gushing about my cousin. “I love having another girl in the family—not that we don’t adore our True, but it’s so fun having an even number. Imagine if we outnumbered the boys and had control over the TV on Sundays.” She cackles out a laugh, as if that’s the sneakiest thing she could think of inflicting on the men in her life.

“Are you hungry?”

I am. “Starving!”

“Let’s get you some food,” she enthuses, eager to please, ushering me to the kitchenette that comes with each suite. The spread is mouthwatering: platters of carved meat, cheeses, fruit, dips and chips, hot dogs and buns, salads, and desserts.

I’m blissfully loading chips onto a plate and salsa into a small bowl, adding guac, pretzels, and queso while Genevieve fills two plastic cups with wine from a nearby bottle.

I add pasta salad and two cookies, eyes bigger than my stomach. But a girl’s got to eat and this one hasn’t had a meal all day.

Once I’m done, instead of sitting at one of the little tables set up in the room, we make our way to the three rows of stadium seats.

Giant, panoramic glass separates us from the harsh, cold fall weather, but the view is incredible.

Gorgeous.

The Chicago Blues football field stretches out below us, surrounded by row upon row of seating, lights, and people. Screaming fans, dressed for winter.

Lord I’m glad I’m not sitting in the stands; I’d be freezing my ass off.

When Mrs. Wallace and I plunk down in our seats, she hands me a plastic cup of wine.

“Here honey, you might need this for your nerves. You’re going to want alcohol in your system for the first hit he takes.” She tips her cup forward and drinks. “This is my second, though I’m still anxious as all get-out.”

My eyes go down to the field; it’s a fantastic view, but we’re so far up the men look like ants, impossible to distinguish from this vantage point.

Luckily, there’s a flat-screen television monitor in each corner of the room broadcasting the game, and within seconds, I spot Tripp Wallace on the sidelines, hands stuck inside a hand warmer.

Tight blue pants. Wide, padded shoulders. Helmet tipped back so an assistant can squirt water into his mouth from a bottle.

Holy hell he looks good.

Like a man’s man, only…mine? Maybe?

As I continue eating, Mrs. Wallace chats away beside me, and I keep one eye on her, one on the game below. She’s telling me more about Buzz and Hollis’s honeymoon, the new grill she and her husband bought for BBQing on game days that are out of town, and the dog they’re thinking of getting.

She tells me about what Tripp was like as a teenager.

“Oh that boy has always taken everything so seriously. I don’t know where that comes from—Roger and I can certainly take a joke. Trace and his sister can too, so I don’t know why our oldest is so serious.” She sips her wine, and I take a dainty sip of mine. “And of course the girl thing…I think he was sixteen by the time he discovered what those were.”

“Did he date?”

“No—those poor high school girls couldn’t even get him to take them to the dance, not for lack of calling. Oy if our phone wasn’t ringing off the hook.”

Roger Wallace sits in the row ahead of us, glued to the game, but glances back every so often.

“There was one time a young woman named Cara stopped by the house—we lived in town near enough to the school so kids would pop in from time to time, mostly boys.” Sip, sip of wine. “Well Cara comes to the door, and Tripp happens to be home, and she has made him a lovely cake in the school’s colors—red and black—and hands it to him when he comes to the door.”

“What did he say?”

“He said, ‘What’s this for?’ And Cara replied, ‘I wanted to wish you luck in your game this weekend.’ Then he handed it back to her and said, ‘I don’t need luck.’ And came back inside the house.”

“He just left her standing outside?”

Sip sip. “Yes, on the porch in the cold. Shut the door on her. As a mother, I didn’t know what on earth to do—go back out and apologize for my rude son? Take the cake? Lecture him about being kind? It was all very horrifying.”

That sounds exactly like the Tripp I know and the number one reason I laid him out on the ground at the wedding.

For him, talking to a woman like a normal human being is foreign, but he has to learn he can’t just blurt out whatever comes to mind. I can’t imagine how shitty poor Cara must have felt getting rejected by a teenage Tripp Wallace.

What a little asshole he must have been. Cocky, arrogant, and full of himself.

Gee, not much has changed.

I chuckle to myself—I’d never say that out loud to his mother!

“I bet he was cute, huh?”

“So handsome. I’ll have to show you some pictures next time you’re at the house.” Mrs. Wallace slyly glances over. “Not to make any assumptions, of course, but Roger and I can’t believe our babies are finally settling down.”

“Tripp hasn’t brought any women around?”

“No—lord heavens no! I think he’s dated one or two. Or his publicist set the dates up. We’re not really sure because his personal life is not something he talks about. But we’ve been able to pry a thing or two out of him about you.” She nudges me with the point of her elbow. Wink-wink, sip.

Genevieve lets out a loud, contented sigh, smiling down at the illuminated stadium filled with thousands of fans.

I contently eat the nachos on my plate, picking through the chips and plowing them through the dip hungrily.

“I’m happy you kids worked everything out,” she’s telling me as I bite into a tortilla filled with guac and chew, a smile on my face. “I was so worried you would block him after that whole social media debacle. Did I mention that boy can be so stubborn?”

Stubborn? That’s putting it mildly, but I’m not sure what she’s talking about. “Which debacle?”

I stop chewing.

There have already been a few involving Tripp and me, starting on day one. Although, now that I’m getting to know him better and he’s softening up, welcoming me into his life (case in point: this evening with his parents, while I watch him play a sport that he loves), those first few dates are a distant memory.

Perhaps not so fuzzy because of the arguing, but they still leave me warm on the inside.

Mrs. Wallace waves a breezy hand to and fro in the air in front of her, poo-pooing the conversation, dismissing the severity of it. “I just hate to use the term publicity stunt. Makes the whole thing sound so cold and businesslike—but can you imagine if he hadn’t taken my advice and taken you out on that first date? You wouldn’t be here with us tonight!”

I need her to backtrack and stop rambling so I can figure out just what the heck she’s talking about.

Whoa, whoa, whoa—back it up. “Publicity stunt? What do you mean?”

The chip goes stale in my mouth as the hair on my neck stands up, prickling.

“What’s another word for publicity stunt? I’m so rusty when it comes to this public relations business—Tripp and Buzz both have people for that.” Another cup of wine appears in her hand by way of the caterer, and she drinks before rattling on. “The Ivy dear. Remember?”

I shift uncomfortably in my seat. “Yes?”

“We knew being seen with you there would be good for his reputation after those pictures of you at the wedding surfaced on the internets and the Twitter.” She pats me on the arm.

Is she implying that Tripp took me to The Ivy so we would be seen together, getting along?

The suspicions I had that night with him resurface and the conversation about him masterminding the evening comes rushing back tenfold.

“You think I’m crafty enough to mastermind something like this? The paps showing up and taking photographs of us together? Fans taking videos of us eating? I’m flattered.”

I stared at him like he was an idiot. “Yes, Tripp, I do think you’re crafty enough to have staged this entire evening.” My arms went up, defeated, and I let the subject drop with narrowed eyes. “You can’t stand the fact that a woman is stronger than you.”

My independence and empowerment had nothing to do with that evening and everything to do with his reputation as a player.

But why?

The tortilla chip I popped on my tongue a moment ago tastes like chalk in my mouth, stale and dry, unwilling to go down.

My jaw clenches, fingers itching to text him and chew his ass out, but then the crowd outside goes wild and I remember where I am, who I’m with, and that he won’t be available for hours.

Cocky bastard.

Liar.

I sit, stewing.

“It’s such a relief knowing you grew up in the industry and aren’t a stranger to making tough business decisions and keeping the personal out of it.”

“Business decisions,” I repeat blankly, wanting to say, This is personal—for me. Everything about it is personal. How can you sit there and pretend it’s only about business? And now my feelings are hurt, confidence deflating, anger brewing.

Why is his mother telling me all this? Sure, she’s drunkish, but she must know Tripp and I wouldn’t have had an actual discussion about this. She has to know that if I mention this to him (which I will), it’s going to end in a huge fight.

He must have told her about that night if she knew about it beforehand—from the way it sounds, it was her idea.

She feels guilty, Chandler. Getting this confession off her chest will make her feel better even if it’s making you feel like shit.

Then my mind wonders: is she gossiping because my family is in sports, too, and she’s trying to relate to me? Or is she trying to warn me about how cutthroat it can be?

I know she likes me; how can she sit there and tell me this so casually? My face feels bright red, so it’s probably no secret that I’m stewing.

I barely hear another word she says, going through the motions of watching the game. Standing to cheer when the room and crowd go wild. Booing when they boo. Taking whatever beverages are handed to me and slowly sipping from whatever cup I’m given.

I hug everyone and make my goodbyes with forty-five minutes left in the game, explaining that I’ve developed a headache and want to beat traffic so I can rush home and get to bed.

The ride home is a blur, my brain clogged with arguments and rationalizations and words and horrible, self-destructive thoughts.

I have to stop seeing him—he’s a liar!

Calm down. He only did what he thought he had to do—he likes you.

Does he? Or is he just bored?

Does Tripp Wallace seem like the kind of guy who does anything because he’s bored?

Bored? Seriously, Chandler, the man is a professional athlete. He is so busy he can’t be bothered to walk his own dog, and he doesn’t have the balls to kick the teenager out of his house.

But it started with a lie.

He changed the subject when I brought it up, which means he was hiding it—which means he knew it was wrong. Does that make him selfish? Does that make him too weak to stand up to his mother? Is the media and public perception more important than his personal relationships?

You are way overthinking this, Chandler.

Get home, get inside, take a hot shower, forget about it.

Two hours later, I can’t get it out of my head.

Tripp must be home by now, the game having ended shortly after I walked in the door of my townhouse—factoring in time for him to shower, change, listen to the coaching staff tell them what they did wrong. What they did right. Giving instructions on what they’re going to work on in practice.

Shooting the shit with his teammates.

Whatever it is professional athletes do in the locker room after a game.

Standing at my bathroom sink, I splash cold water on my face, occasionally looking up to stare at my own reflection—eyes tired, mouth downturned. I have a lot on my mind, and it shows.

First I’m mad, then I’m disappointed.

Then…

The tears come.

I cry, washing my tears down the drain along with my makeup, face splotchy, debating my options.

1. Let it go and pretend nothing happened. Pretend I had an amazing time with his parents watching the game—as I had been, until his mother dropped a truth bomb on the entire evening.

2. Call Hollis and ask her what she would do, although I have a feeling she’ll try to talk me out of being mad, considering she wants to be cousins AND sisters-in-law.

3. Text Tripp and give him a piece of my mind, tell him to piss off, tell him I never want to see him again.

Which would be a lie.

But a girl has to have some standards and if I let him deceive me like this, where does it end?

He wasn’t going to say anything!

Maybe I should call Hollis.

I look down at my phone, with its zero text notifications and zero social media notifications, and frown.

Two hours past.

Nothing from Tripp.

Figures—he has other things on his mind that do not include me. Perhaps his parents are staying at his house tonight and he rushed home to meet them.

That would make sense.

Still, it would be nice to hear from him, considering he invited me to the game as his guest.

I scrub my face, getting angrier by the second, mad crying, scowling in the mirror—it’s a face only Tripp would love.

Love.

Ha!

He doesn’t even respect you enough to call.

Jerk.

He is a jerk! Has been from day one and why the hell did I think he was going to suddenly begin making an effort because—

My doorbell rings, stopping my tirade, causing the linen makeup removal rag in my hand to stop scrubbing.

Who the heck is at my door at midnight?

Cautiously, as if an intruder lies in wait around my bedroom wall, I ease up to the front door, going up on my tippy toes to see through the peephole.

It’s Tripp, back turned to me, facing the street, hands stuffed in the pockets of workout pants.

I unlock the deadbolt and chain, cracking the door a few inches.

“What are you doing here?” My words come out sounding salty and bitter, when in reality, the sight of him makes my stupid heart pitter-patter and ache. My feelings are hurt, dammit!

If my attitude surprises him, he doesn’t show it. “I came to see you, silly.”

Silly?

Okay, what is going on here?

“Uh…can I come in?” He looks puzzled, like the next words out of his mouth are going to be, Why am I still standing on your porch?

I look him over good and hard before opening the door wide enough for him to gain entry, skeptically pursing my lips. “Fine.”

Tripp removes his jacket, hanging it on the hook in my tiny little foyer.

“I haven’t been here since I moved you in.” He looks around, glancing into the kitchen as he walks by, removing his shoes before stepping on the carpeting in the living room.

My hands go to my hips. The nerve of him, waltzing in and pretending nothing is wrong when I’m fit to be tied!

“Nope, you haven’t.” Because I’m an idiot and have only gone to his house instead of making him come to me.

Tripp slowly sweeps his gaze back to me, getting his first look at my face.

“What’s wrong, Chandler?”

My chin goes up resentfully. “What do you mean?”

“Your face is all red.”

I sniff. “It was cold outside tonight.”

“You were inside.” His eyes narrow as he studies me closer. “Tell me what’s wrong and stop bullshitting.” Tripp’s arms cross as if daring me to say Nothing as women often do.

That stubborn tilt of my chin goes a bit higher. “You want to know what’s wrong? Fine, I’ll tell you—have a seat.”

“No thanks, I’ll stand.” His legs part in a defensive pose. “I take it you didn’t have a good time tonight? What the hell happened, Chandler?”

My name on his lips makes me squirm.

Just say it, Chandler. Tell him what’s bothering you. Have the guts to say it.

“I was having a good time. And then—I wasn’t.”

“Okayyy.” He draws the word out, waiting.

“Let me see if I remember all this right—I don’t want to screw up the details.” I clear my throat dramatically, winding up for a recitation. “What was it your mom said? ‘I just hate to use the term publicity stunt—but can you imagine if he hadn’t taken my advice and taken you out on that first date? You wouldn’t be here with us tonight!’”

My voice is higher than usual as I repeat what his mother said, noting with satisfaction his face slightly blanching as my words sink in.

“Then I said, ‘Publicity stunt? What do you mean?’ And your mom said, ‘The Ivy dear, don’t you remember?’” I give him my most piercing, deadliest look, plopping down on my couch. “Gee Tripp, whatever did she mean by that?” I tap my chin theatrically, snapping my fingers. “I know! She meant you had been setting me up!”

“Chandler—that’s not at all what that was about.”

This is the perfect time for me to laugh in his face, so I do. “Ha ha, good one. It’s too late—the jig is up. Your mother busted you.” Feeling sassy, I toss my hair. “It’s probably not a great idea for her to drink alcohol when she’s with your dates. It only serves as truth serum.”

“You have yourself all worked up over nothing.”

“It’s not nothing!” I shoot up off the couch. “Ugh! I should have listened to my gut that day. I accused you of planning everything that night and then let the subject drop. You avoided the question, and I let you, so who’s the idiot here? Me.” I stick a finger in my chest, wound up tight.

“Whoa. Just calm do—”

“Don’t you ‘whoa’ me, mister. Your mother literally said, and I quote, ‘We knew being seen with you there would be good for his reputation after those pictures of you at the wedding surfaced on the internets and the Twitter.’ Those aren’t words a woman forgets, Tripp. Those are words that hurt and they’re going to be burned in my brain forever.”

“I did not come over here to fight,” he responds, bulky arms still crossed.

“Why did you come over here, then?” I’m about to make it worse and worse, in no mood to back down, no stopping the train now that it’s in motion.

“I wanted to see you—why the hell do you think I dragged my ass here after busting it for the past three hours? To amuse myself when I could be sleeping? I’m fucking tired, Chandler. I don’t want to argue about this.”

Too bad. Too late.

I’m pissed.

“You’re not even going to defend yourself?” I challenge, getting up in his personal space.

“Against what? What would be the point? You already have your mind made up.”

Oh. So he’s one of those.

The kind of guy who runs when the pressure is on, who clams up when it’s suddenly time to get serious. The kind of guy who doesn’t want to discuss anything.

Great.

Just great.

Good to know.

“My mind isn’t already made up. I want to know what you have to say about it.”

“Honestly, I have no idea why you’re mad. You brought it up that day in front of your townhouse after leaving The Ivy, then you let it go so I figured you weren’t bothered by it. I thought we were having fun.”

Fun.

Fun?

The word triggers me further and I feel myself spiraling out of control, completely irrational but in full force.

“Oh. Now I’m just fun to you.”

“That’s not what I meant.” He squints at me.

I take a deep breath. Then another, then another.

Calm. Rational. Do not be that girl.

“Listen, Tripp. Yes, perhaps I’m overreacting—but you have to admit that you should have told me the truth when you had the chance. I want to be able to trust you.”

“You don’t trust me?”

“I didn’t say I don’t trust you—I said I want to be able to trust you. Lying out of the gate isn’t a great way to start, and I was…I felt…betrayed when your mom spilled the beans tonight. Really embarrassed. I thought we were on the right track.”

“We are.” His jaw clenches.

“Is that all you have to say? Is there more?”

“I don’t know what else you want.”

“Is your ego so huge you can’t tell me how you feel about me? You can’t tell me the reason you lied? Or why you kept calling me and messaging me?”

“If it’s not obvious, then I can’t help you with that.”

Wow.

I’ve heard of men this headstrong and prideful; I just never thought I’d be on the receiving end of the insolence.

He is not going to tell me he cares; I can see it in his eyes, and I’m no good at prying information out of people.

I want someone who can express themselves. He doesn’t have to write me a freaking love poem, but he can at least tell me he cares.

“Well this night fucking sucked.” Tripp bends to grab his shoes, stepping into each one as he yanks his jacket off the hook.

“I’m…” sorry. It’s on the tip of my tongue, but I stop myself. I have nothing to apologize for except waiting too long to bring the subject back up. Nothing to apologize for except a bit of theatrics.

“You’re…?”

“Sorry you lost tonight.” My voice is nearly a whisper.

He stares at me long and hard. “In more ways than one, I guess.”

And then he’s gone.

Twenty-Two

Tripp

I don’t know what’s worse, the fact that Chandler thinks I don’t give a shit about her or the fact that she thinks I lied.

Neither is the truth.

Sure, omission could be considered lying, but in my defense, she let the subject go after our date at The Ivy, so what would have been the point in me following up to tell her the entire thing was in fact a publicity stunt? At that point in the evening, I’d forgotten I was there for a purpose and was enjoying myself, despite the sometimes tense and awkward conversation. What good would have come from completely ruining it?

So I kept my mouth shut when she didn’t push the issue, never imagining it would come up again.

Boy was I fucking wrong.

“Is your ego so huge you can’t tell me how you feel about me?”

No, my ego isn’t so huge I can’t tell her how I feel. I’m just not the sort of guy who is going to beg. Plus, she was pissed off—it would have looked like groveling for me to start spewing bullshit about how amazing and incredible I think she is.

She wouldn’t have believed that either!

Damned if I do, damned if I don’t, and that’s how it’s been my whole fucking life.

I cannot win.

Too macho for feelings, too many feelings to be macho. What the hell do people want from me?

I stab the remote control at the television, settling onto the couch for some peace and quiet but not seeing a single channel I’m flipping past. It’s all a blur. Nothing interesting, everything a goddamn waste of time.

I slam down some popcorn but don’t taste a thing. And when a few kernels fall to the living room floor, I whistle for Chewy to come eat them, forgetting he’s not here at the moment.

Check my phone for the eightieth time today, imagining that at any moment, Chandler is going to pop up in my notifications to say she misses me.

Wrong.

She is as stone cold as you are, bro.

And speaking of bros, mine called me this morning to find out how things went last night. He wasn’t there himself, obviously, but he knew Chandler was going to be with our parents and cares enough to call for the details.

“Does Mom have you engaged yet?”

Not even close. “No. It wasn’t great.”

“What do you mean, it wasn’t great?”

Why did he have to be so damn nosey so early in the morning? My brain was barely functioning at that point.

“I mean—it all went to shit.”

“What did you do?”

Now see? That’s the shit that pisses me off—everyone thinking any time something goes wrong, it’s my fault. So what if I don’t run around blowing bubbles of joy up everyone’s ass? Does that make me the problem? No.

“I didn’t do anything, jackass. This time it was Mom.”

“Mom?” He didn’t believe me. I could hear it in the way he exhaled and said, “No way.”

“Way.” I sighed, rolling over in bed to stare out the window. “She got drunk and told Chandler our first date was a publicity stunt.”

“Mom got drunk?” There was a long pause on the line. “No fucking way.”

“Way,” I repeated. “Then she hiccupped and giggled her way to the demise of my relationship.”

“You’re in a relationship?”

“Can you not be literal? You know what I mean. Whatever Chandler and I had going is fucking done.”

“Shit. There’s done and there’s fucking done. This is serious.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

“Aww, now you sound like my wife.”

His wife. Chandler’s cousin and her biggest support system.

Who no doubt hates me after that conversation.

“You just love any opportunity to rub the wife thing in my face, don’t you?”

“Please,” he scoffed. “It’s not like you want one.”

Didn’t want one. Hadn’t wanted one.

But things are different now.

I’d started to have a bit of hope that I wasn’t a complete social idiot after all. Was beginning to wonder if I had what it took to be a good partner to the right person.

Boy was I wrong.

I let the line go silent until my brother couldn’t stand it any longer.

“Tripp—are you saying you want one?”

“What difference does it make? Chandler hates me now.”

“So? Hollis hated me too but she got over it.”

“She did?”

“I mean, no. But I definitely annoyed the shit out of her. You just can’t give up because of one bad night.”

“I’m not going to hound her.”

“Since when are the Wallaces a bunch of quitters?”

“I’m not quitting! I’m giving her space.”

“Space is for astronauts, and the last time I checked, you suck at science.”

“Oh my god. You’re such an idiot.”

My brother laughed, unperturbed. “There you go, that’s the fighting spirit.”

“Is that your advice? Don’t be a quitter?”

“Pretty much.”

“Could you elaborate? You know I’m not any good at this shit.”

“Yeah—no. I can ask Hollis about it and get back to you?”

“No!” I shouted. “No, don’t do that. I can figure it out, I just need a little time.”

“If you change your mind, let me know.”

“I will.”

But I didn’t because the idea of calling him back and speaking to his wife felt weird. Asking for help isn’t in my wheelhouse and I’m not starting today with a relationship problem, especially with someone related to the quandary.

I need a game plan.

I need…

“Hey Mr. W. Is everything alright?”

Not the neighbor girl.

Fuck.

Why the hell did I agree to let Molly walk Chewy this morning when I’m not in the mood for company or conversation?

Because I wasn’t in the mood to go gallivanting around the block either.

It’s the morning after my argument with Chandler and I’m still not over it yet.

No, everything is not alright. “Why would you think something was wrong?”

“Uh—because it’s like nine AM and you’re eating popcorn for breakfast?”

I grumble. “The leftover pizza was gone.”

“You’re moodier than usual.” Molly walks all the way into the living room, invading my space as per usual, dropping Chewy’s leash so he can come say hello.

I scratch him behind the ears but offer no kind words. Don’t get him riled up, don’t pick him up and cradle him like a baby.

“Hey bud” is all I say to the dog, because apparently I’m moodier than usual.

“What’s wrong?” Molly wants to know.

“Nothing.”

She laughs. “Nothing? That’s what my mom always tells my dad when she’s mad at him—and she’ll do it in this really weird way, like she’s daring him to drop the subject and walk away. Nothing always means something.”

I mull this information over. She’s not wrong.

Clearly I’m in a foul mood, but am I going to share that with her? No.

“Does this have anything to do with Chandler?”

Yes. “Pfft, no.”

“I think you’re lying.”

Just what I need, Molly calling me a liar, too. As if the weekend couldn’t get shittier, I’m getting dumped on by a child.

“I think you need to mind your own business.”

Never one to back down from my surly mood, she presses on in true Molly fashion. “Know what I think it is?”

“No, but I bet you’re going to tell me.”

“I think you went to Chandler’s last night after your game, got into a fight, then came home.”

Um, how does she know that? “Why would you think that?”

“Easy—you came home about two hours after your game ended, parked in the driveway for about ten minutes, let the dog out, then left. Less than an hour later you were back—deductive reasoning tells me you weren’t out grabbing snacks at midnight.” She pauses to take a breath. “So what happened?”

I am not getting into this with her.

I’m not.

“Let me guess.”

“Please don’t.” Seriously. Not in the mood. “I will pay you to go away.”

“You already pay me.”

“I’ll give you fifty bucks to go home right now.”

Molly shrugs, uninterested in the bribe. “All that tells me is I’m right.”

What a little shit.

“Did you say something to make her mad or did she say something to make you mad?”

Neither. It was my mother drudging up old news and rekindling an old fire.

I silently stuff more popcorn in my mouth for the sole purpose of chewing. Chewing = cannot talk.

“Blink once if this is because you didn’t tell her how you feel.”

I blink once, but not on purpose. “Fuck. That was not my answer.”

Molly laughs, giving the dog belly rubs. “I think it was.”

Fine. It was. Now go away and let me sulk in peace.

“What are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing.”

She’s quiet for a few moments, pensive. “Why not? Don’t you like her?”

“I do.”

“So why would you just hurt her by not being honest?”

Hurt her?

I frown. Hurt her? Is that what I did? First Chandler was mad about the publicity stunt a few weeks back, and then she did a complete one-eighty to me not being able to open up. Feelings and sharing is caring and all that dumb bullshit.

Did that hurt her feelings?

My brow furrows, forehead wrinkles so deep I can feel them.

“‘Is your ego so huge you can’t tell me how you feel about me?’” I say out loud, looking up at Molly to gauge her reaction. “That’s what Chandler said last night.”

“And what did you say?”

I rack my brain, cringing as I recall. “‘If it’s not obvious, then I can’t help you with that.’”

Molly’s eyes damn near bug out of her skull. “You did not say that!” Chewy nudges her with his wet nose when she removes her hand from his belly. “Then what did she say?”

“After I told her the night fucking sucked? She said something like ‘I’m sorry you lost tonight.’”

“And what did you say?”

“Jesus Molly, I don’t know! It was shitty, okay? Adult stuff, I don’t remember.”

My outburst sounds childish—like a man who knows he’s fucked up but that won’t admit it—and I’m panting.

“I’m sorry. That was out of line.” Why am I such a prick?

She snorts. “Duh, yeah it was.” Molly continues petting Chewy. “That explosion was your feelings coming out—you can’t help yourself.”

Explosion? Where is she getting this from?

“That was not my feelings coming out.”

“Yes it was. You’re not used to it so you had an outburst. Emotions are feelings—we talked about this. You’re scared of losing her, but you aren’t sure how to express yourself because you haven’t had to before. No one has held you accountable. These women let you get away with all that bad behavior because they were using you.”

I stare, dumbfounded. “Uh, how do you know all this?”

“I asked my mom why you were such a bad boyfriend and she said most of that, but I also googled it.”

Jesus Christ. She’s talking to her mom about this shit? Does the whole neighborhood know what a fuckup I am?

“If you’re wondering if she’s talking about it with the other moms in town, the answer is yes. I heard her telling Crystal Yont on the phone yesterday that you’d rather date your dog than have a girlfriend.”

Crystal and her husband Paul live on the next block and I only know this because when I first moved in, Chewy got loose and ran down the street, into their yard. I found him humping the leg of their Great Dane.

“I would not rather date my dog.” What kind of a loser do they think I am? How friggin’ embarrassing. “I’m not completely helpless when it comes to women.”

Molly snorts. “So let me ask you again—what are you going to do about the Chandler situation?”

“I…” I don’t know. Crap, I really am terrible at this. “What do you think I should do?”

I can’t believe I’m asking a fifteen-year-old for advice, but this is what my life has come to right now. I can’t call Hollis and lord knows I cannot call my mother because then I would have to explain the situation and my guess is Mom has no idea she set off an avalanche.

“For starters, you should shower. Your bedhead is horrible.”

I pat the back of my head, feeling around for a cowlick. “What else?”

“Well, you shouldn’t go another day without contacting her, that’s for dang sure.”

“What else?”

“You’re going to have to lay it out there for her, dude. Be vulnerable and stuff.”

“What, just charge into her place and start spilling my guts?”

“I mean, ring the doorbell first, duh.” Another eye roll. “You’re being super dramatic about this.”

“No I’m not! I’m seriously asking!”

Molly stands and walks around the couch, to the kitchen, pulling open the fridge and standing in front of it. “Then yeah, I’m being serious. Dig deep and tell her you’re starting to have feelings for her.”

“I’m not in love with her.” Is it just me or do I sound a little too defensive?

I’m not in love with her. I can’t be.

It’s been a few weeks and I might be a lot of things, but I am not my brother—the guy who gets himself engaged after dating someone for less than a month.

That will never be me.

She’s taking down a package of bagels and a container of cream cheese. “Who said anything about love? You can still care and want to get to know her without confessing your dying devotion. Jeez, drama drama drama.”

I refuse to acknowledge her dig or get offended by a teenager’s interpretation of the situation. A teenager who’s tugging open the toaster cabinet and plopping one half into each side.

How the hell does she know where all this shit is?

I need to install cameras, stat, and change my damn door codes before she wises up, invites her friends over, and throws a raging kegger at my house while I’m traveling for work.

“You think I should go over there?”

Molly gives me an incredulous look. “You don’t honestly think she’d step foot in this house, do you? After last night? Get real.” The bagel pops up and she quickly pulls each piece out, dropping the hot carbs onto a plate. “You could ask her to meet you at The Ivy. That would be romantic.”

“The scene of the crime…” I say ominously.

“Huh?”

“Nothing.”

But now that she’s mentioned it, it’s a great idea. Invite her to the place where we met for drinks, but this time, it will be a real date. One where I grovel and beg and confess my…my…

That I like her.

Now how am I supposed to get her there?

Twenty-Three

Chandler

Hollis: I’m starving!

Me: Maybe you’re pregnant.

Hollis: Why does everyone keep saying I might be pregnant?

Me: Because you might be pregnant?

Hollis: Fine, it’s true that we’ve been trying, but NO I AM NOT. And that’s not why I texted you…

Me: Sorry, lol. What’s up?

Hollis: I’m starving.

Me: Okay…?

Hollis: Wanna eat with me? Trace is working on one of his houses.

It’s always weird hearing my cousin call her husband by his real name rather than his nickname and I always forget he flips houses in the off-season.

Me: Sure, I could eat. What did you have in mind?

Hollis: Somewhere with amazing drinks. I’m in the mood for a cocktail.

Me: That’s SO many places…

Hollis: What about The Ivy?

I hesitate, fingers hovering over the keypad on my phone, top teeth biting into my bottom lip.

Who cares if it’s the place where I went with Tripp—it’s not like it holds sentimental value. It’s just a restaurant. I’m a big girl; it’s not going to trigger me.

Me: Sure, that sounds good. What time?

Hollis: How about…meet me there in an hour? I’m just wearing jeans.

Me: Cool. See you in an hour.

* * *

Same curbside. Same valet. Same walk up the concrete sidewalk to the front door of The Ivy.

It looks semi-deserted and I wonder if Hollis made a mistake choosing this place because it does not appear to be open. Then again, it’s still too early for a dinner rush or a drinking crowd.

Same doorman.

Same hostess.

“Chandler Westbrooke?”

I nod.

“Right this way please.”

She’s leading me to the bar, the room quiet but not completely devoid of customers; an older couple is enjoying cocktails at the long counter, and a gentleman with his back to me sits at one of the high-top tables.

I do not see my cousin anywhere.

Confused that the hostess recognized me, I consider going to check the dining room; surely she’s mistaken. We’re here for dinner, not drinks, and Hollis hasn’t arrived yet.

My stomach growls.

If the hostess will seat me, I can order a bread basket and maybe some appetizers, or even—

“Chandler.”

Tripp is rising from the high-top, all six foot three of him, and I stare, dumbfounded. Give my head a little shake.

“My cousin isn’t coming, is she? This was a setup.”

“Guilty.” He holds his hands out. “I didn’t think you’d see me otherwise.”

I didn’t think he wanted to, considering he hasn’t even tried to contact me. No texts, no phone calls. No flowers.

A bouquet I hadn’t noticed rests on the tabletop.

Okay, I will admit, the flowers are a nice touch.

A little bit of the ice that formed when he hurt me thaws.

“I guess you’ll never know since you didn’t reach out.” I say it because he needs to know staying silent is no way to work through a misunderstanding.

“Would it have mattered?”

“Yes.”

He nods. “Alright. I’ll remember that.”

I hope he writes that shit down because I have no interest in teaching a grown man how to be in a relationship.

Slow down, speedy—you don’t know why he brought you here.

I sit, setting my purse on the table next to the bouquet.

“Those are for you.”

They’re beautiful—look hand cut, and specifically selected by someone, for me. Wildflowers wrapped in brown paper, mixed with roses, greenery…with snapdragons and hydrangeas. It’s huge, colorful, and smells gorgeous.

“Thank you, I love them.”

The server comes and I order an iced tea and a few things to nibble on since it’s close to dinner time.

“So. Molly sent me. She wanted me to give you this.” Tripp pulls out a white envelope and hands it across the table.

I smile, knowing whatever she’s written is going to be good, and tear open the seal without pause.

I’m not wrong.

Hey Chandler,

If you’re reading this, it’s because Tripp finally got his head out of his butt and tricked you into meeting him so he can grovel. I’ve given him some pro tips, but I don’t trust him on his own. The dude is a hot mess. Like, way worse than the guys my age—but like, the thing you should know (because I’ve been hanging out at his place with Chewy even though he HATES IT) is if he DIDN’T like you, he wouldn’t spend time with you. He’d be doing all the lame things he used to do before he met you, like spraying off his driveway every weekend, riding around the subdivision in his golf cart, and trimming bushes like he’s some kind of landscape architect (rolling my eyes). He is so. Old. (No offense.)

Anyway, I’m not saying you should date a man who’s a total project, but he has some things he needs to work on. Still, the bones are good and he has potential—so like, be patient (but not too patient) and give him a second chance because we both know guys are idiots but also highly trainable.

I’ll be waiting for an update and hope to see you parked in the driveway soon—the dude is pathetic when he’s moping. No offense.

Xx Molly from next door

I fold the letter, grin on my face as I tuck it into my purse.

No offense.

What a little turd.

I try to remember what I was like as a teenager but can honestly say I wasn’t nearly as mature as Molly—never in a million years would I have written a woman a letter giving her relationship advice. What a ballsy young lady.

She will be formidable when she’s grown, of that I’m certain.

“What does it say?”

“Oh, where to begin.” I chuckle, studying his face. He looks tired—as if he hasn’t slept since Saturday night. And maybe he hasn’t; it seems he has a lot on his mind—thoughts I’d love to hear. “At least she likes you—I can’t imagine what she would be like if she didn’t.”

“She wouldn’t come around.”

“You’d love that, wouldn’t you?”

He considers the question. “Honestly, I’m kind of getting used to the little shit. Molly has actually helped me see things more clearly.”

Oh? This interests me and I lean closer, resting my elbows on the tabletop. “What kind of things?”

Tripp laughs. “First tell me what was in the letter.”

I lean back, arching one of my eyebrows and crossing my arms. “This isn’t a negotiation.”

He breathes out a puff of air. “Okay fine, you’re right.” Pauses. “I realized I’m used to bottling everything up inside and only considering myself—which is the reason I invited you to The Ivy the first time, to make myself look good and feel better. Which is bullshit. You deserve better and I’m sorry.”

Drip, drip goes the ice. “I accept your apology.”

“And…” He takes a drink of the cocktail—or ice water; I’m not quite sure. “I shouldn’t have said what I said last night. When you said you didn’t know how I felt and I implied it wasn’t my problem if you couldn’t figure it out, that was a dick move. My mother would kick my sorry ass if she’d heard the way I talked to you.”

I wanted to kick his ass, too.

Heat fills my face and I blush as he continues speaking.

“The truth is, I’m really rusty. I haven’t actually dated anyone—not anyone I took seriously. I didn’t give a shit what they thought because they weren’t women I wanted around. I…I missed you after I left last night, and I’ve felt like complete shit since. I realize all I would have had to fucking do was say, ‘Chandler, I like you. I want to see where this goes.’”

I hold my breath.

“I want to have you around. I think you’re sexy and hot as hell, and I want to…” He considers his next words. “I want to help you find your dream job and achieve your goals.”

Sexy and hot as hell?

I blink.

He wants to help me find my dream job and achieve my goals?

Stop it.

Stop it right now.

My nose tingles, the telltale sign that I’m going to start crying—not sad or frustrated tears, but happy ones, and I tip my head back so they don’t well up in my eyes. Wipe at my nose to get rid of the prickle there.

I’m not successful, not even a little.

Tripp’s face falls. “Did I say something wrong?”

I wave a hand in front of my face like I’m shielding it from the paparazzi, unable to talk. “No, it’s good, it’s good.”

“Then why are you crying? Fuck, I fucked this up, didn’t I? I’m sorry,” he babbles, vomiting apologies all over the place and I just need him to stop talking, because the more he talks, the more emotional I get. “Shit.”

“I’m not a crier,” I tell him, crying.

“Then why…”

My hand waves again. “I’ll be fine in a second, just give me a minute.” I root around in my bag to retrieve a tissue, wiping my eyes and dabbing at my nose.

Ew.

I’m hideous—and he just called me sexy and hot as hell? Is the man out of his mind?

Ugh. “Okay. I’m better now. Continue.”

He doesn’t seem convinced. Gets up out of his chair and comes around to my side of the table.

“Can I touch you?” he asks, holding his hands in the air before I nod, then places them on either side of my face. Wedges himself between my legs and plants a kiss on the tip of my nose. “You’re so cute.” Kiss. “I missed you.”

Kiss.

Has hell frozen over? Has Tripp Wallace finally been hit so hard in a football game that his brains have been fully scrambled?

Motionless I sit as he kisses my face. “I’m far from perfect. I’m literally the biggest jackass I’ve ever met and I don’t make apologies for that, so I ask that you bear with me. I don’t want to know what my life is like without you.”

“Is this you declaring your love for me?” I can’t help asking, enjoying the horrified look on his face, then let him off the hook with a “Relax, I’m joking.”

His head gives a little shake. “No, it’s fine. I just have to get used to it. I’ve never told a woman I love her before—my mom and sister do not count.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying…maybe I will say it. Not right now, obviously, but someday, if you’re willing to keep me around.”

I tilt my chin up so he has access to my lips. “I think I’m willing to keep you around.”

“Molly and Chewy are part of the package deal.”

That makes me laugh. The neighbor girl slash matchmaker and the slobbery bulldog.

“You know, I always thought it was going to be your mom, brother, and Hollis who pushed us together, but here it ends up being the fifteen-year-old girl next door.” I nibble my bottom lip. “We should get her a gift or something.”

“No way! That’s like putting out a bowl of milk for a stray cat. Once you start feeding it, it never leaves.”

“I think you’re past that point already.” I laugh.

Tripp presses his body into mine. “You coming home with me?” Kisses the side of my neck and I relish the feel of his lips on my skin, mindful of the other people in the room. The last thing we need is to wind up in the news again, locking lips in public.

We’ll be forever known as the most PDA couple in sports history.

Maybe that’s what the world needs though.

More love.

With that thought, I let my hand stray to the back of his head, fingers raking through the hair that could use a good trim. And when his erection nudges the apex of my thighs, I groan.

He hasn’t been inside me for days. Ugh.

I relent; the idea of make-up sex has my entire body positively vibrating.

“Alright. But you have to deadbolt the doors.”

“Deal.”

Epilogue

Molly

One month later

There’s a strange car in the driveway when I get home from school and I’m pretty sure it doesn’t belong to Mr. Wallace or his new girlfriend, Chandler.

It’s a white SUV I’ve never seen, with Illinois plates, parked crooked—like the person driving it threw it into park so they could hop out and get inside. Weird, like who does such a shitty job? Parking isn’t hard.

Rolling my eyes, I set my backpack on the front stoop of my house before weaving my way through the bushes that separate our place from Mr. Wallace’s. Stomp over to the white car.

Press my face against the tinted window and peer inside.

Purse. Sunglasses.

Coffee in the cupholder.

Hmm…

I know for a fact Mr. Wallace and Chandler aren’t home; they both work today, and it’s my job to walk the dog. He didn’t say a word about anyone being here when it was time for me to pop in.

Whoever it is knows how to get inside, but his parents both drive black cars.

I know, technically, my only responsibility is walking Chewy, but I consider it a full-time job to know the ins and outs of this neighborhood. My mom calls it snooping, but I call it doing my civic duty.

Shoulders back, I punch in the garage code and crouch to go under it before it’s fully raised. Grab a baseball bat as a weapon before letting myself inside through the laundry room door.

Yes, I know what you’re thinking—this is a terrible idea. What if a murderer is inside? What if I’m about to walk into a home invasion and become a casualty of a botched job?

I scoff.

The odds are slim, considering it’s a woman’s vehicle parked in the driveway.

Rounding the corner to the kitchen, I let out a tentative “Hello?” before stepping all the way inside.

Nothing.

Chewy hasn’t even come out to greet me from wherever it is he’s fallen asleep—if he’s sleeping and not tied up in a corner with a gag in his mouth.

The thought spurs me on. Chewy might need me!

My parents are going to kill me. No job is worth putting your life in danger! my dad will say.

Shoulders back. Chin up.

Listen, Molly, being brave and facing your fears is one thing. Risking your life for—

A low moan comes from somewhere near the pantry.

I stop dead in my tracks, listening.

“Ugh…”

There it is again!

Someone is in the bathroom…

I tiptoe toward it, sneakily, just in case.

The door is cracked wide enough for me to see a woman on the floor, dark hair and head bent over the toilet, Chewy lying faithfully at her side, his adorable jowls slobbering on her feet.

Is she puking?

I push the door open wider, resting the baseball bat against the doorjamb.

“Hello?”

The woman startles, letting out a “Holy shit!” Head lolling as she lays it on the cold, white toilet seat.

I sure do hope the cleaning lady was here.

“Who are you?” I waste no time with pleasantries, puking invader or not.

“Who are you?” she has the audacity to volley back.

The nerve!

“Who are you?” I parrot, clearly the injured party who deserves an explanation in this situation.

The woman rolls her glassy eyes, irritated but in no shape to continue the chicken fight. “I’m True.”

I cross my arms and spread my legs defensively. “Are you on drugs?”

She laughs out a groan. “No, I’m not on drugs.”

“Then why are you on Mr. Wallace’s bathroom floor barfing?”

This woman who calls herself True finally focuses her gaze on me, looking me up and down. “Who did you say you are?”

I straighten my spine. “Molly. I live next door.”

“Ahh, the dog walker.” Her body goes slack as she hugs the toilet bowl with both hands.

“And house sitter!” My foot is still tapping on the hardwood floor. “Who did you say you are? You’ve only told me your name—you didn’t tell me what you’re doing here.”

She moans. “Well, well, well, aren’t you just a little ray of Pitbull terrier. Does my brother know he has a guard dog living next door?”

Pitbull terrier? That makes no sense, but I’m not about to tell her that.

In any case, I take it as a compliment.

“Why are you puking?”

True Wallace pauses.

Hesitates good and long before turning to glance up at me, breathing heavy. Brows a bit sweaty now.

“I’m pregnant.”

Hard Luck

Coming 2021

SOME GIRLS HAVE ALL THE LUCK

Unfortunately, I am not one of those girls. Not when I lost my apartment because my roommate let the lease lapse while I was traveling for work. Not when my brothers keep finding love and my mother keeps reminding me I’m still single. Not after a one-night stand during my older brother’s wedding has me waking up pregnant.

I have to keep it a secret—from him and my family. I sure can’t tell my brother his teammate, Mateo Espinoza, is the man I slept with.

Confident, funny, Mateo…

A GUY CAN’T CATCH A BREAK

Just when I thought I’d found the girl of my dreams, she ghosts me. Worse? Her brother refuses to give me her number and my calls to her office go straight to voicemail. I thought I was a catch; professional athlete, charming, raised with six sisters—I’m a guy who knows his way to a woman’s heart! What reason could she possibly have for avoiding me?

When I finally catch up to True Wallace, I’m going to get the answers.

Sign up for Sara’s Newsletter to find out when Hard Luck releases, and read real-life “Sara Dates A Douchebag” stories only found in her newsletter:

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About the Author

Sara Ney is the USA Today Bestselling Author of the How to Date a Douchebag series and is best known for her sexy, laugh-out-loud New Adult romances.

Among her favorite vices, she includes: iced lattes, historical architecture, and well-placed sarcasm. She lives colorfully, collects vintage books, art, loves flea markets, and fancies herself British.

For more information about Sara Ney and her books, visit: https://authorsaraney.com

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