Hard Fall (Trophy Boyfriends #2) - Sara Ney Page 0,27

door for her with a smile.

She gazes at me skeptically as she hefts herself up into the passenger side with a, “No funny business. This is just about food.”

“Sure thing,” I tell her. Shut the door. “Not.”

She should stop being so goddamn adorable if she doesn’t want me to harbor any illusions about changing her mind, because that’s my plan.

I need a girl I can bring home to my mother, and Hollis Westbrooke is perfect in every way.

Other than the fact that she hates me…

…but let’s be honest, opinions are meant to be changed, and I’m an eternal optimist, something few people know about me.

“Hope you brought your appetite,” I quip when I climb in and buckle up. “How many tacos can you eat?”

Hollis considers the question. “I don’t know, four?”

“Four!” I shout out an evil laugh, as if four is the funniest, most deranged number I’ve ever heard. “Amateur hour.”

“Um…are you trash-talking right now?”

Yes. “No, it’s just that four tacos, or four of anything, barely whets my appetite.”

She scoffs at my boasting. “Well you’re huge and I’m not, so.” Her chin tilts up and she ignores me to look out the window.

I’m huge? Huge in a good way or in a bad way? Tell me, tell me.

I’m afraid to ask for clarification, so I’ll just assume she means awesome and buff and move along.

“Are you pouting because I can eat more tacos than you?” It’s killing me, so I have to ask.

She turns and stares like I’m mental. “Are you being serious right now?” Laughs. Laughs and laughs. “Dare I ask, how many you can eat at one time?” She throws a hand up. “Don’t tell me, let me guess—an entire dozen.”

Well shit. “Thanks for taking the wind out of my sails.” I frown, deflated that she nailed it on the first guess.

“You are so ridiculous I don’t even know what to do with you.” Her chuckle is good-humored as she watches the houses turn into city blocks with shops and eateries, and finally—Taco Warehouse, aka heaven on earth.

It’s not easy to find a parking spot—this place is jam-packed every night of the week, and especially on Tuesday—but I manage to find one two blocks away, in a paid spot. It’s twenty-six bucks for a few hours, but worth it.

I fist-pump in the air for the sweet victory.

“Oh jeez.”

Hollis is watching me, but she’s smiling, amused.

Happily, I bound over to her side of the truck, reaching it before she gets the door open. Ever the gentleman, I help her get out, though she needs absolutely zero assistance.

“My lady.” I present her to the concrete sidewalk with a flourish, slamming the door behind her, zip in my step as we approach beans and rice and the delicious smell of corn and flour tortillas. Some people mock this sacred day of the week; I treasure it.

“Hola, Señor Wallace!” The owners are here, and Miguel greets us, his twinkling eyes trained on Hollis. I’ve never brought a woman here, if you don’t count Miranda, so I can see that he’s curious.

I wave and smile, scan the room; there are no tables available that I can see and no real places to sit in the entryway while we wait, but I manage to strong-arm my way in between two families against the wall, so at least we can lean while we wait.

“Sit tight, I’m going to put our names in for a table.”

Hollis nods.

It doesn’t take long to get us on the list, but we have quite a wait. The hostess, Rebecca, offers to create a table for us so we don’t have to stand around, which I politely decline before solemnly making my way back to Hollis.

By the look on my face, she knows the news is grim.

“It’s a 45 minute wait,” I announce when I slouch along the wall next to her. “We. Are. Going. To. Starve.”

Hollis rolls her pretty blue eyes sarcastically, but I like it. “Trace, were they going to bump you up on the waitlist?”

I shrug. Did she not hear me declare our impending starvation? Why is she changing the subject?

“And you wouldn’t let them?”

“No.” I sigh hungrily. “It’s not fair for me—us—to just walk in here and take someone else’s table when they’ve been waiting.” I pause. “Also, how did you know my real name is Trace?”

She shrugs and pretends to inspect her nails. “I might have looked you up.”

“Whatttttttt! Hollis Westbrooke, you did not!” I’ll admit it, I sound like a Southern teenage girl. “You googled