Hard Fall (Trophy Boyfriends #2) - Sara Ney Page 0,19

a schnitzel auf Deutsch. “I notice there are no hot dogs on the grill.”

We can see through the glass, and I suspect everyone can see us too, but if they’re anxious for us to come outside or want to meet the girl I brought to the barbeque, no one is showing it.

“I wonder if he’s told them anything about me,” Hollis murmurs, gazing through the patio doors at Marlon, who has wandered and is posted up near the pool’s elaborate grotto, surrounded by women—as usual. Where they came from is beyond me; no one else would have the balls to bring randoms to a teammate’s house. This isn’t a fucking party at a club—this is someone’s private home.

Daymon is a jackass.

Hollis stares out at him, so I jar her with a gentle nudge. “That safe word?”

Without averting her eyes, she opens her pretty little mouth and sighs. “What happens if you’re the one who wants to leave?”

“It could happen, I suppose.” Not likely, but possible. “How about this: if one of us has the sudden desire to leave, you have to say, ‘I forgot something in the car—do you want to help me find it?’”

It’s a bit weak as far as exit strategies go and could lead to questions from anyone within earshot, but at least it’s not a ridiculous word like phallic or wanker. Bummer, that.

She nods.

I glance down at the top of her head, her glossy hair hanging prettily, and I want to touch it, sniff it to see if it’s as delicious as it was the other day at the benefit thingy.

“You’re cool if I touch you, right? For show.”

Another nod. “Yes, I’m cool if you touch me, but don’t get handsy—someone might get the wrong idea.”

Don’t get handsy? What kind of pervert does she take me for? Pulling the sliding glass door open so we can step through, I wave my hand out in front of me so she goes first. “The same wrong idea they’ll get when you tell everyone you forgot something in the car and you need my help getting it?”

“Huh?” She looks confused, so I explain.

“As soon as you need me to follow you to the car, they’re going to assume you want to go outside and bang.”

Hollis’s face turns red in a flash. Apparently, she hadn’t thought of that scenario. “You jerk! They are not!”

I laugh again.

She shivers.

“Yes they will.” I give her a light tap on the ass and usher her onto the patio.

Hollis turns shy, self-conscious when everyone seems to turn toward us, greeting me with waves and her with curious stares, this mystery girl I brought along. All eyes are on us—on Hollis—especially those of the women present, and beside me, Hollis raises her chin a fraction higher, straightening her back. These women don’t know her, but the mood is particularly WAGgy and I know they’re judging her.

WAG: wives and girlfriends of professional athletes. From what I’ve gleaned and seen over the course of my short professional baseball career, they’re not known to be the friendliest bunch. Catty. Petty. Competitive.

And Hollis certainly doesn’t fit the description of one, so I’m sure they’re wondering what the hell a man like Trace Wallace is doing with a girl like her. Today, the girl I’m shepherding into the lion’s den looks wholesome. Sweet. Respectable.

Exactly the kind of girl I would take home to my mother, but also exactly the kind of woman who would never let me.

I doubt she recognizes any of them, so there’s no way they know she’s Thomas Westbrooke’s daughter; some of them wouldn’t even know who Thomas Westbrooke is, despite him being the boss of every man out here.

I feel her go rigid at their perusal, clutching the gift bag in her manicured hand, allowing me to steer her straight toward Noah and Miranda, our host and hostess.

“Hollis, this is Harding and his new roomie Miranda. Guys, this is Hollis Wallace.”

Noah’s brows shoot straight into his hairline—it’s shaggy, unkempt, and I should tell him he needs a haircut, but that’s his girlfriend’s job now, not mine. “This is your sister?”

“No, babe.” Miranda nudges him with an elbow. “This must be…your wife?” Her tone is perplexed, expression priceless.

“You’re married?” Noah’s eyes couldn’t be any wider. “When did you get married?”

6

Hollis

I am going to kill Buzz Wallace.

Literally. With my bare hands wrapped around his puny neck. Okay, so fine—maybe it’s not puny, and maybe I won’t be able to fit my hands around it, but I sure am going