Hard Fall (Trophy Boyfriends #2) - Sara Ney Page 0,17
with me.”
“First of all—this isn’t a date. Secondly, did you seriously just say ‘organically’?”
“First of all, this is a date. Even a pretend date is a date, in my opinion. If two people are out doing something? Date. If two people are going to eat food together? Date. If two people are—”
“I get it, I get it. Fine. To clarify, I mean it’s not a romantic date. Better?”
No. “Sure.”
“You don’t sound sure.”
Because I’m not. “You have terrible taste in men.”
Hollis turns toward me, surprised. “What on earth would make you say that? You don’t even know me.”
“A of all, you dated Marlon Daymon.” I pull a face. “B of all, you won’t date me. Ergo, terrible taste in men.”
She studies me from her spot in the passenger seat, wide-eyed. “Are you always like this?”
“Like what?”
“So…persistent and argumentative.”
My mouth opens to argue, but I clamp it shut. Open it. Clamp it shut. Damn her, why’d she have to go and call me argumentative—who can argue against that? “Am I? How so?”
Hollis laughs as if I’m a stand-up comedian who has just told the world’s funniest joke, tears actually running out the sides of her eyes. “Oh my god, you’re hilarious. I can’t.” She waves a hand, fanning it in front of her face to dry it. “Ugh, for real. You kill me.”
I don’t get the joke, so I stare out the windshield, concentrating on the road and the journey to Noah Harding’s house, which is a twenty-mile drive that takes thirty-five minutes. He lives outside the city—we both do—away from the hustle and bustle in a gated community.
For a bit, we drive in silence, the gift bag on the floor in front of Hollis drawing my curiosity, and I wonder what’s inside. Probably booze. Isn’t that what everyone brings?
“What’s in the bag?” I ask, letting the interest get the best of me.
“Um. Let’s see…” She pulls it onto her lap. “Foaming antibacterial hand soap, and…” She roots around. “Hand lotion, chocolate-covered almonds, and a candle for the kitchen.”
That’s really nice of her. “Where’s my goody bag?”
Hollis rolls her eyes. “It’s not your party.”
“Yeah, but I invited you.”
“You did not invite me! You manipulated me into coming! Ergo”—she stretches the word out—“you do not get a gift bag. Stop being a beggar, jeez.”
Well that was rude. “I was just asking.”
“Why. Are. You. Like. This?”
I shrug. “Probably because I had to live in my brother’s shadow my whole life.”
“You literally just got done telling me you’re your mother’s favorite.”
Hmm. She’s right, I did.
We arrive at Harding’s gate and I lean out the door to punch in the code since the gatekeeper isn’t in his tiny hut. House. Whatever you call the spot where he sits so he’s not bacon in the sun.
“You have the code?”
I won’t lie, my chest puffs out in pride at my own importance. “Pfft, heck yeah. Harding is my best friend.”
Hollis smiles out the window.
I get to show off again when we get to the second set of gates—Noah’s actual house—and I punch those numbers into that keypad, too.
“This is so pretty.”
That’s an understatement; the house is a McMansion—although, by Hollis Westbrooke’s standards, having grown up with a silver spoon in her mouth, she’s probably used to giant homes like this.
Me? I was raised in your average neighborhood with starter homes, two point five kids, parents who both worked long hours, and we never took vacations. Tripp and I only saw homes like this in the movies—I don’t think there were any even remotely this grand within a fifty-mile radius of where I grew up.
And here I am, best buddies with a guy who owns one.
Not to say my house isn’t as nice, though it isn’t. I’ve been doing what Hollis has been doing: buying up shitholes, renovating in the offseason, then selling them for a profit. I haven’t told her that yet, mostly because for all the talking I do, I’m actually a private person, and right now, she doesn’t seem interested in getting to know much personal information about me.
Damn shame.
The garage door is open, and there is an empty spot, so I pull inside, much to Hollis’s horror.
“What are you doing! You can’t park here!”
“Why not?” I put the car in park, cut the engine, unbuckle my seat belt. “I always pull in if the space is open.”
“Oh my god.” Hollis burrows down in her seat, and it’s not bright enough in here to tell, but I’m certain she’s blushing.