Hard Love (Trophy Boyfriends #3) - Sara Ney Page 0,28
like sparkles.
I drag my feet—literally drag them on the marble tile floor—until I present myself to an unenthused Chandler Westbrooke; she’s doing what I was just happily doing: socially distancing herself and pretending I didn’t just walk over. Like she can’t see me looming over her.
Faker.
She looks through me.
“Would you like to dance?” I jam my hands into the pockets of my tuxedo pants.
Her chin tilts. “No thank you.”
Excuse me? Did she say no?
One glance across the room has me meeting my new sister-in-law’s hopeful gaze.
She gives me a thumbs-up.
Fuck.
If I walk away, she’ll think it’s my fault we’re not dancing.
“I…” Uh. How the hell do you try to convince a woman to dance with you when she’s already told you no because she’s being stubborn? Big deal, I ate most of her food last night.
Luckily, I don’t have to wonder how to convince her, because no sooner do I part my lips to speak than I see Hollis dragging my brother across the room toward us, making a beeline.
When they arrive, she reaches over and grabs her cousin by the hand.
“I love this song! Come on, let’s all go dance!”
I swear, Chandler Westbrooke lets out an unladylike groan so loud it could wake the dead.
What the fuck! I’m a good catch, goddammit—why wouldn’t she want to dance with me? Not that I want to dance with her, but it’s the principle of the thing.
Chandler stands, her cousin’s hostage.
I tag along, unenthusiastically.
Hollis, you shady, tricky little shit.
She fits right in with the Wallace clan.
If she’s trying to play matchmaker, it’s not going to work; many have tried, all have failed. Including my mother and my brother.
Whatever.
Awkwardly, I decide where to place my hands on her body.
Chandler is small, shorter than me by maybe a foot, if my drunk math is correct. Maybe she’s five foot five to my six three? I don’t know, I don’t have a ruler, leave me alone.
Hesitantly, I do what my brother and every other dude on the dance floor are doing: put these paws on her waist. She half-heartedly places her hands on my shoulders. Like two kids at a middle school dance, there is enough space between us for another body, afraid of full-frontal contact.
“Sorry,” I tell her for lack of anything witty to say.
“It’s fine. We’ll survive for three minutes.”
“Gee, thanks.”
Chandler rolls her eyes. “Oh please, like you actually wanted to dance with me.”
I don’t deny it—she’s not wrong.
I didn’t and still do not.
“You don’t have to act so put out about it though.” Even to my own ears, it sounds like I’m sulking. Affronted by her indifference.
“I’m not put out about it—I’m taking one for the team,” she counters, riling me up even more.
Taking one for the team?
“Uh, plenty of women would die to dance with me” is my lame, ego-fueled reply.
My lack of a social life is by choice, not lack of options.
Chandler makes a show of looking around at the near destitute dance floor. “Oh my god, we should hurry and finish this dance. Just look at the line of women. It’s probably around the block—good thing this song is almost half over. Give the rest of the mob a fighting chance.”
Sarcastic little asshole.
And she looks so unassuming and sweet, not including the dildo I found in her room.
“Let’s just get through this,” I tell her, giving the crown of her head a glance.
Her hair is smooth and curly, twisted into some extravagantly elegant half-up, half-down do. Professional and fancy for one not part of the wedding party, though she was in the family photo.
“T-minus two minutes,” she reminds me.
“Is it necessary to do a countdown?”
“I like putting you in your place.” Her head is turned and she’s not even facing me anymore—she’s watching the rest of the guests dance and flirt and have fun.
“Putting me in my place?” Give me a fucking break. “You don’t have the balls to say boo, let alone put me in my place.”
“Okay.”
Okay? She just gave me the proverbial middle finger; god I hate when people just say okay as a reply. It’s worse when they text it. Worse than that?
K
“How much longer do we have?” I want to know.
I feel her sigh; it’s that heavy. “Behave and I won’t have to karate-chop you over my shoulder.”
“Karate-chop me over your shoulder—pretty sure that’s not a thing.” I pause. “As if you could flip me.”
Chandler’s mouth tips into a curve on one side. “Whatever you say, Tripp.”