Hard Love (Trophy Boyfriends #3) - Sara Ney Page 0,20
manners? Since when is being honest bad manners?
“Could you at least smile? It looks like you’re headed to a funeral, not an engagement party.”
“No, you may not bring Chewy to the wedding ceremony.”
What about the reception?
“No dogs! PERIOD!”
This whole month of festivities has been a drag. Who wouldn’t want my dog at the wedding? He’s fucking awesome!
Chandler is quiet, as if reading my mood, and when I glance over, she’s got her eyes trained out the window, chin propped on the hand resting on the door armrest.
Fine.
Good.
Dude, why are you being such a damn grouch? My brother’s voice suddenly becomes my conscience as my fingers grip the wheel tighter. But now that we’ve driven this far in silence, it would feel weird to suddenly make conversation.
Wouldn’t it?
It takes another ten long minutes to arrive at the restaurant where dinner is, and Chandler pops her door open and hops out before I can even think of going around to the passenger side to help her.
She climbed in just fine by herself—why would I help her down? Don’t women want to be independent?
Guilt niggles at me the smallest bit, the manners Mom instilled in us kids echoing through my head, rules about opening doors for women and ‘ladies first’ and showing respect and helping old people across the street.
It’s not disrespectful to let a chick open her own truck door—don’t be stupid, I tell myself. You don’t even know her.
I can’t think any more of it, because Chandler Westbrooke is gone, hightailing it across the parking lot like a rabbit afraid of its shadow.
Six
Chandler
The ride to the rehearsal dinner with Tripp Wallace was torture.
Absolutely the most awkward twenty minutes of my life. The guy couldn’t be more socially inept if he tried. Barely spoke, did not help me up into the truck, or down out of it, for that matter.
Not that I expected him to.
Okay fine—a very small part of me kind of did.
I let myself out and beeline for the door, beating him by at least twenty yards, leaving him sitting in the parking lot. It feels rude; I wasn’t brought up to leave anyone behind—but I get the feeling he purposely lingered so he wouldn’t have to walk with me.
And can we just talk about his wardrobe for a second? I know he came from work—I think Hollis said something about him having to practice earlier today—but couldn’t he have packed a more appropriate outfit to change into than shorts and a t-shirt? It’s as if he didn’t even try.
Not that I’m judging him.
But come on, we were in a church, and now we’re about to stroll into a nice restaurant for a lovely meal, and he’s wearing freaking shorts for crying out loud.
Unbelievable.
Put some effort into it—your BROTHER is getting married!
Can’t lie though…he smelled incredible.
I give my head a shake as I pull the door open, greeted by the hostess, who asks if I’m with the wedding party and leads me to the back room. Walking through, it has the same feeling as walking into the church—potted trees with glowing lights frame the doorway, Hollis following the theme throughout all her pre-wedding celebrations.
A twinge of something flutters in my stomach.
Jealousy?
No. It can’t be.
I love Hollis; I’m not jealous of her! That’s absurd.
I’m beyond thrilled she met someone, fell in love, and is going to spend the rest of her life with him.
I hug myself, handing over my shawl to the hostess so she can store it in the coat check closet, then I paste on a smile, glancing at the door for Tripp Wallace to come ambling in.
He enters—saunters, actually—casing the place as if he’s going to be robbing it later, eying everyone up but not greeting anyone.
I run my eyes up and down his body and immediately notice he’s not wearing the navy blue t-shirt he had on before. It’s a long-sleeved button-down, wrinkled. Red and black check plaid.
The same shirt he had on for the bachelor party, so it must have been in his back seat and he threw it on.
My eyes travel south.
Tripp is still wearing those damn shorts!
What the what is wrong with this guy?!
I watch as their mother approaches, taking him by the upper arm and smiling, speaking through clenched teeth. I wonder what she’s saying, can only imagine:
Her: Darling, what on earth are you wearing? You look ridiculous.
Him: It’s the only thing I had.
Her: But was it necessary to wear something you had in your back seat? And where are your pants?