Hard Fall (Trophy Boyfriends #2) - Sara Ney Page 0,26
room to make it an open floor plan and am staring at the studs—starving.
I should eat.
I could go by Noah and Miranda’s with a box of tacos, but…Noah would probably hate that. Not that I typically care. I do what I want where he’s concerned, which could be the reason he gets so pissed off at me…?
Whatever.
Not my problem.
Against my better judgment, I fiddle with my phone and text the one person I shouldn’t send a message to.
Me: What are you doing?
There. Straight to the point.
Hollis: Who is this?
She knows damn well it’s me—we’ve texted before.
Me: It’s Buzz. Stop pretending you lost my number.
Hollis: Fine. But why are you texting me?
Me: It’s Taco Tuesday.
Hollis: Ummmmm…so?
Me: I’m starving, that’s why. And I want company.
Hollis: That sounds like a YOU problem, not a ME problem.
Me: That’s a little harsh, don’t you think? Who says shit like that?
Hollis: My friend Natasha?
Me: She sounds mean.
Hollis: She is. And if you don’t behave, I’m going to tell her you’re bothering me.
Me: Does Natasha also hate food?
Hollis: **narrows eyes**
Me: Does she? Does she hate tacos?
Hollis: Taco Tuesday is HIGHLY overrated.
Me: What the hell are you, some kind of monster?
Hollis: LOL
Me: Don’t patronize me with your LOL. **crosses arms and turns to the wall**
Hollis: Oh, you’re going to be sassy now? Fine. No tacos for you.
Me: **runs back** Wait! I spoke in haste.
Hollis: LOL I’m sorry but you’re killing me. Why are you like this?
Me: Soft shell or hard shell. You have to choose. Go.
Hollis: Hard shell.
Me: Good. When can I pick you up?
Hollis: UH!
Me: Going once…
Me: TWICE…
Hollis: Fine! FINE! Come get me. I can always eat.
Satisfied that I’ve won our little back and forth, I shoot her another text, giving her a half hour to get ready. Go to the kitchen, which hasn’t been completely demoed yet, and wash my face in the sink. Hands and arms too—I’m covered in sawdust and grime. Super manly, but kind of gross. No helping my shirt since I don’t have anything clean to throw on, but I find a baseball cap to cover my mop.
I do a walk-through of the house, a mid-century colonial in an up-and-coming neighborhood I bought at an auction last month, doing a sweep to make sure no power tools are plugged in or left on.
Damn if I’m not whistling, totally in the mood for Hollis and tacos.
Tacos and Hollis Tuesday.
Nice ring to it, though she would probably disagree. I’ll have to run it by her…
I have my truck today, the sports car an impractical mode of transportation for a construction site, and pull it out of the short driveway, feeling all sorts of masculine as I navigate my way toward Hollis’s place.
It’s not as far as I’d have to drive if I were coming from my house, so I’ll be a few minutes earlier than what I told her, but I’ll just sit in the truck and wait it out so I don’t rush her.
I know how pissed my sister would get when we used to rush her while she was getting ready, and the last thing I need is a riled Hollis refusing to come outside because I’ve pissed her off.
Dude, I remember this one time when we were all going to a holiday play at the community center. True had to have been 17 or 18 and was the last person to get ready. Tripp and I thought it would be funny to stand in the doorway of the bathroom and remind her of the time, every 60 seconds. “It’s six oh five, Trudie—hurry up.” Then, “It’s six oh six, True. Better finish up—Dad has the car going.”
I will never forget the wild look in her eyes as she told us to shut our mouths and go away then screamed for our mother to get us to leave her alone, veins popping out of her porcelain skin.
Guess girls don’t like to be rushed.
I’m early, but not unforgivably so, so I shoot her a text to let her know I’m here, in case she’s ready to go.
Me: Downstairs, take your time.
A few seconds later: Coming!
I can almost see the little cutie bounding down the stairs, and then I do see her. The door to the building opens and she steps out, all sunshine and happiness and blonde hair on what was an okay day.
Ripped-up jean shorts. Yellow tank top. White sneakers.
Little ray of brightness is what she is, and I hop out of my side to greet her at hers, pull open the