Hard Love (Trophy Boyfriends #3) - Sara Ney Page 0,15
but have always wanted one.
It would be so perfect.
If the guy wasn’t a douchecanoe.
I scrunch up my face. “I love you, but…”
“So no to Tripp? You don’t want me to…” She gives her upper torso a shimmy. “Facilitate a union?” Her brows go up and down.
I laugh. It’s sweet that she thinks he’d even want to date me if she suggested it to him. “No, I’m good.”
Her eyes trail to the swag bag from her bachelorette party, and she gives an “Ooo” before pulling it toward her. Peers inside. Roots around. “The vibrator isn’t in here. Did you get one?”
“I did.”
Hollis glances up at me. “Where is it?”
I stare at her silently, unwilling to point toward the bedroom or admit that I may have tried using it last night before passing out in bed with exhaustion.
“Chandler Westbrooke, were you jerking off last night?” she shouts as the front door opens and Buzz sticks his head through, ears perking up at the tail end of Hollis’s statement.
“Babe, we’re back.” He has a shit-eating grin on his face.
Oh good, he didn’t hear her talking about—
“Who was jerking off last night?” he asks, coming all the way through, holding a box labeled Books. “Was it you?”
He’s looking straight at me and I go to the fridge, yanking it open solely to avoid his gaze. Stare down at the empty ice box, glowing light illuminating the zero foods I have stocked on the shelves.
“We were talking about sex toys.”
I want to groan when Hollis supplies Buzz with details.
No we weren’t talking about sex toys! She was, I want to say, but I don’t want to sound like a petulant child. One who’s embarrassed to discuss sex in front of practical strangers—even ones who are about to become family.
“I hate when you call it jerking off,” Buzz tells his fiancée, kissing her on the top of the head on his way to the living room. “It’s such a dude-like thing to say.”
She pops donut onto her tongue. “Is there a daintier way to say it?”
“Yes. Just say masturbate,” he says over his shoulder. “Or pleasuring yourself.”
“Ew.” In goes more donut. She chews.
In walks Tripp.
He doesn’t speak, just stands there holding a cardboard shipping box, brows raised expectantly.
“Living room.”
Off he goes.
What is his problem? I mouth to Hollis so he doesn’t hear me.
My cousin shrugs, and we follow him with our eyes as he passes by again, heading back out to the truck for more stuff.
“Probably sexual frustration. He doesn’t date much.”
“Dating and sex have nothing to do with each other,” Buzz remarks, passing by the kitchen and out the front door.
Does the man have supersonic hearing? Jesus, he was in the other room when Hollis said that.
“We should probably help them.” I worry my bottom lip, not wanting to appear lazy after the guys came to help me move.
“Pfft, let them do it. Have you seen them? They’re built like tanks.” She lifts her coffee mug and slurps. “Besides, I’m the bride.”
“I’m not.” I glance at the front entrance. “Are they going to think I’m a brat for not helping?”
My cousin scoffs. “Pfft, no—Buzz told Tripp it was your birthday so he wouldn’t make you feel bad for taking it easy.”
Why does that not surprise me? “Let me guess—he’s the type of guy who tells the servers at restaurants it’s someone’s birthday for the free dessert.”
She nods. “Free dessert, yes, but mostly the embarrassing singing part.”
Sounds about right.
The guys reappear, Buzz holding boxes, Tripp carrying two suitcases I remember packing clothes inside of.
He stares at me.
“Those can go in the bedroom,” I direct. “It’s down the hall and—”
“Is it the only bedroom?” Tone impatient.
“Yes.”
Rolls his eyes. “Then I think I can figure it out.”
Rude.
I stand, slack-jawed at the end of the hallway while he hefts the gold suitcases I stuffed to the gills, down the hall, each arm carrying one.
He returns from my bedroom and disappears outside, quickly reappearing with a side table clenched between his hands, blank expression on his face as he regards me for instruction.
He speaks. “Bedroom?”
“Yes please, on the right side of the bed.”
I trail behind him for lack of anything to do, not wanting to unpack with people here.
I find Tripp Wallace—all six foot something of him—standing next to my bed holding the side table. He’s staring down at my carpet, bending at the waist to scoop something off the floor.
When he stands, he’s holding something pink; it takes my brain a good ten seconds to register The Quickie, plucked