Hard Fall (Trophy Boyfriends #2) - Sara Ney Page 0,15
making it damn difficult to be irritated with him.
Me: Trust me, I use them sparingly.
Trace: I’ll come grab you at noon and we can figure it out on the way there. What’s your address?
Before I can think twice about it, I type it out and hit send.
Shit. Shit! I hit send? I hit send. Ugh!
Trace: Noon. Dress casual, swimsuit optional. It’ll be fun.
No way in hell am I bringing a swimsuit.
Me: I already regret this.
Trace: LOL
Trace: We’ll have fun, don’t worry about it—leave it to me.
It’s not the fun I’m worried about—it’s the ‘leave it to me’ part, and the fact that I feel too comfortable with a man who is clearly not the kind to settle down and have a family.
I might not be that old, but I know I want kids sooner rather than later, and a home, and a life that’s far different than the one I grew up with—a life filled with parents who fought constantly, because Dad is a workaholic and made Mom miserable, and probably cheated on her every chance he got.
Our life might have been privileged, but it was a gilded cage I want no part of living in.
Trace: Noon?
Me: Whatever you say, Buzz…
5
Trace
To say I’m shocked at the sight of Hollis Westbrooke’s apartment complex is an understatement. I was expecting a high-rise on the waterfront or a brownstone in the cool part of the city. Perhaps even a shiny little condo in a pricier area.
Instead, the address Thomas Westbrooke’s youngest daughter texted leads me to what can only be described as the shady part of town, or at least the opposite of where I was expecting her to live.
Dang, doesn’t her family help her out?
I swallow as I pull my sports car up to the curb adjusting my rearview mirror so I can check out the terrain behind me. As I grab my phone to shoot her a note, maybe this is the wrong place.
I text her to make sure, noting a woman pushing a stroller coming my direction from down the block and two kids playing catch on the other side of the street.
Head down, I double-check the address.
Me: Hey, I’m outside, but I’m not sure I’m at the right place.
Hollis: Are you looking at a black door with a pineapple door knocker on it?
Me: Yes?
Hollis: Then you’re in the right place. Give me a second, I’ll be right down.
I set my phone in the cup holder and wait, watching the neighbors and cars creeping slowly down the street, clock counting away the seconds it takes Hollis to bound through the front door.
“Shit. Maybe I should get out,” I mumble.
I should get out, right? And wait for her? Stand next to the passenger side door or something to be polite since I didn’t go up to her place? Not that I know which one is hers—I’m assuming this is an apartment with multiple units.
Yeah, I should get out.
I walk around, leaning against the black, lacquered paint job of my car, which I had washed to a high shine this morning. Cross my arms and legs like Jake Ryan in the cult teen classic Sixteen Candles so when my date comes out of the house, she’ll see me and be like, Who me? and I’ll be like, Yeah, you! The heartthrob Jake to her Molly Ringwald or whatever her name is in the movie.
The theme song plays in my head, and I imagine us eating birthday cake in the middle of my kitchen table later—but then again, I don’t actually have candles, and it’s not my birthday. Maybe if I’m lucky she’ll make out with me anyway.
Sweet love with her mouth.
I grin, imagining the whole thing, then the front door opens and Hollis steps out, giving me a little wave before turning to lock up.
When she faces me? Goddamn is she adorable in a bright orange and pink skirt, flip-flops, and a tucked-in tank top.
Uh-dorable.
Her hair is down, and she’s carrying a gift bag I can only assume is a hostess gift, not a gift for me. My excitement dims a bit, because I love presents.
“Hey there.”
“Hey,” she says by way of greeting, and I step aside to pull her door open, letting her slide inside and get comfortable before shutting the door. I watch as she buckles her seat belt, walking around the front, a knot forming in my stomach.
Relax, I tell myself. You’re hot shit—what are you so nervous about? Everyone in America wants a piece of you.