Hard Love (Trophy Boyfriends #3) - Sara Ney Page 0,27

a glance in my direction before taking her seat a few chairs down.

And here after the rehearsal dinner last night, I thought maybe she wasn’t so bad.

Turns out, she’s a glory hound.

At least the bastard fed me this time.

Satisfied, I watch the band strike their first few chords. Begin a popular song that’s currently at the top of the charts as Buzz and Hollis begin their cute, coordinated moves through a floral arch in the doorway of the banquet hall, leading into their first dance.

Everything according to plan.

Alone at a table I sit. The place settings and cutlery have all been cleared, and I’m hiding from the single women like a coward; it’s mostly bridesmaids and friends of the bride, man-hunting tonight because everyone knows weddings turn women into maniacal, boy-crazy, man-eating man-chasers. They get wedding fever, romanticizing everything leading up to the wedding, on the prowl, as if the event is a buffet of men ripe for the taking.

I will not fall victim to the bridal party.

Nope. Not happening.

I will continue eating these late-night snacks.

I have a career, a house, a truck, and a kick-ass dog at home waiting for me. There is nothing more that I need.

I wish the vultures would stop hovering—the whole business of them scouting the room for me is making my blood pressure rise, and hiding at a party when I should get up and join the guys at the bar is such a wussy thing to do.

I heard a few of them are smoking cigars out on the balcony. A cigar sounds fantastic right about now.

I stand.

Pop one more shrimp in my mouth, wiping my finger on a white linen napkin.

I get ten feet from the table before a hand cuffs my arm; I look down at it then up into the eyes of the freshly minted Mrs. Wallace.

Hollis Wallace.

I’ll never make the mistake of mocking that name again—not after an entire room full of people gave me shit for it.

“Are you going to the bar?”

She wants something; I can feel it in my bones.

“Was planning on it.”

“Would you do me a teensy-weensy favor?” Hollis has her hand on my arm, a smile on her face, and a sparkle in her eyes that has nothing to do with the chandelier above.

“Sure.” What favor could she possibly need?

“Could you ask Chandler to dance? She loves it but has been sitting there all night.”

Anything but that.

Who gives a rat’s ass if her cousin isn’t dancing? I sure as hell don’t. She has two working legs; it’s not like she can’t go dance by herself if she really wants to.

Chandler is a menace. “Don’t you think she’d dance if she wanted to? I don’t want to bother her,” is my lame excuse, taking the place of a flat-out refusal.

Hollis fake pouts, pushing out her lower lip. “No one has asked her.”

This isn’t a damn middle school dance—who cares if she’s acting like a wallflower. It’s not a crime to not dance at a wedding; in fact, who wouldn’t rather sit and shoot the shit with friends instead?

There isn’t a man here who wants to be dragged out onto the hardwood dance floor.

I glance around.

Except maybe that guy out there already. And that one. And that one—he undeniably appears to be enjoying himself. A fucking blasty-blast, that’s what he’s having.

“You’re telling me not one of these dudes has asked her?” I look around at the hordes of guys my brother invited.

“Not a single one of these dudes,” Hollis teases. “Besides, Chandler is shy.”

Shy = boring.

I stifle a yawn; that’s how fucking boring Hollis’s cousin is. The very last thing I want to do is trap myself by dancing with the chick who humiliated me during the dinner speeches.

“Please?” Hollis draws the plea out, eyes beseeching like a child begging for ice cream, not wanting to be let down. She has no other arguments than asking for this favor.

I’m sure there will be many more to follow in the upcoming years, but for now, Hollis Wallace has not asked me for a damn thing.

Well. If you don’t count helping Chandler move her shit from storage into her townhouse. That was a favor, but technically, Buzz was the one who asked.

“Fine,” I snap, resigned to the task.

“Oh goodie!” Hollis claps like women do when they’ve had a few too many drinks. “Yay!”

Goodie.

Yay.

A slower song starts and couples migrate onto the dance floor, one by one. The giant, crystal chandelier—brought in specifically for the event—glitters, tossing diamonds around the room