Hard Love (Trophy Boyfriends #3) - Sara Ney Page 0,22

me a nod.

His elbow bumps my upper arm.

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” He can’t help that he is built like an army tank.

Tripp folds his arms in and looks horribly uncomfortable.

He moves to take a drink of his own water and bumps into me again. “Shit, sorry.”

I smile to myself. Poor guy.

In a weird way, I feel a pang of sympathy for him.

He spreads his legs, bumping my knee.

I take another sip of water, the heat from his thigh seemingly burning a hole through the fabric of my dress where it’s covering my leg.

I shift in my chair, wishing they’d get this show on the road—start serving food, the bride and groom both stand to give their ‘thank you’ speeches for all the help and blah blah blah we can’t wait for tomorrow thank you for being part of it.

Servers begin refreshing waters as seats fill, taking drink orders, setting down carafes of iced water.

My beautiful cousin, dressed in white, takes a seat at the head table, her fiancé standing until she’s settled. He kisses the top of her head before sitting himself, putting his arm on the back of her chair.

She leans back into him so he can plant another kiss on her temple, the pair of them smiling contently, radiating joy.

The butterflies in my stomach stir.

Food starts appearing from out of nowhere, and a playlist comes on over the speakers located in each corner of the room. It’s full of flowers and trees and twinkling lights.

Magic.

And this is just the rehearsal dinner…

I wonder what tomorrow is going to be like. I haven’t actually seen Hollis’s dress, and they weren’t done decorating the church tonight—there were still three more trucks full of plants and props in the parking lot when we pulled out, ready to unload.

The wedding planner will be pulling an all-nighter, that much is certain.

To my left is Tripp, to my right is another guy I’ve never met, and I peer down at his place card: Ryan Sherman.

Huh.

He doesn’t look like any relation of the Westbrookes; he must be on Buzz’s side of the family.

But then…why isn’t Tripp talking to him?

I shrug, then turn. “Hi, I’m Chandler.”

He tilts his head. “Ryan.”

“I’m the bride’s cousin,” I tell him, filling in the details he didn’t ask for.

“I’m here for the free food.” He laughs, napkin still on his plate.

“Oh.”

“Just kidding,” he finally supplies with a laugh. “I went to high school with Buzz—I’m doing a reading at the ceremony.”

“Ah, okay. I’m doing a reading too.” A short one, because they don’t want the ceremony to stretch on too long.

“Can you believe the bastard is tying the knot?”

“Um…” How do I reply to that?

“How you doing, man?” He reaches around me to smack Tripp in the bicep. “Long time no see, right?”

“Right.”

I glance back and forth between them. “Did the two of you hang out together when you were younger? Or are you just Buzz’s friend?”

“Nah man, we go way back. I used to hang out at their house all the time. Played baseball with Buzz.”

“Did you play in college?”

“No, I turned down the scholarships.”

Tripp snorts.

“I’m happy for him though.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m in healthcare.”

Healthcare? That could mean so many things. “Are you a doctor?”

Tripp snorts again and I shoot him a scowl. What is his problem?

“IT.”

“IT?” I repeat, not sure how information technology is considered healthcare.

“I work at St. Joe’s Hospital on their database.”

Then why didn’t he just say he’s in computers?

“Healthcare my ass,” a low voice says. “What an idiot.” He mutters so quietly I have to strain to hear and think I must be mistaken. He did not just call Ryan Sherman an idiot.

Did he?

We go about ignoring each other—clearly he has no interest in the polite, meaningless conversation you’re required to partake in when in mixed company. Or seated next to someone at a party. Or because you’re a nice person!

Polite conversation was instilled in me as a child by my stuffy, snotty parents.

I almost lick my lips when the leafy salad is set down in front of me, heaped full of lettuce, cucumber slices, beets, carrots, crisp snap peas, and a few bright red cherry tomatoes. Using the tip of my fork, I give those a nudge toward the edge of my plate; they are my least favorite when it comes to vegetables.

“Are you going to eat those?” Tripp’s voice asks, all the while his thigh’s continuously bumping mine under the table.

“They’re…not my favorite,” I say by way of explanation. It’s neither a confirmation nor a denial, but