Hard Fall (Trophy Boyfriends #2) - Sara Ney Page 0,84
cargo pants; complete with side pockets and heavyweight fabric, these are truly fit for a mountain man.
They fit perfect.
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 at myself again in the mirror, 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 apart.
He’s clean shaved and freshly shorn, no doubt for his impending nuptials.
Still.
He ain’t wearing the plaid he said the bachelor party was 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. Saw dust 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 put on the sweaty gym clothes that are in the duffle bag in my backseat. There must be clothes somewhere in the backseat 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, indicating the plaid get up I reluctantly donned. “Seriously. Not cool.”
“I changed my mind.” Buzz sips from a bottleneck 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.
Forget 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, blue stuffed animal. A buffalo? A horse?
A cow?
No. It’s stuffed toy cattle and it’s bright blue.
Babe the Blue Ox—just like the one Paul Bunyan has as his side-kick, from the old fable.
Buzz shoves Babe in 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 in my hand and side-stepping me, so I can’t toss the stupid stuff animal 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. “Ha ha look, Martinez photobombed.”