Hard Love (Trophy Boyfriends #3) - Sara Ney Page 0,44
the button to lower the door. Yes, lower the door, not pull it closed.
Buzz sure is slick.
“Sweet ride,” I tell Tripp, the little liar.
“Thanks.”
“What dealership did you get it from?” I pull down the sun visor and make a show of looking around. “Maybe I’ll ask for the Wallace discount.”
He shifts around in his seat uncomfortably. “Uh…the one downtown.”
“The one off of Ohio Street or the one that’s right off the main drag?” I look down and see a candy wrapper on the floor near my feet. Swipe it up, holding it between two fingers. “They did a horrible job detailing this before letting you drive it.”
He clears his throat. “It’s probably pre-owned.”
Yeah, yeah, yeah, you shithead.
“How fast does it go?”
He grinds the gear shift. It’s loud and fills the car with awkward silence.
“Sorry.” His eyes are glued to the road. “It goes, uh—zero to eighty in…thirty seconds.”
I pull a face. “It takes thirty seconds to get to eighty? That’s terrible.”
“I meant five seconds. Sorry, I’m still learning about cars.”
That much is obvious. Even I know what acceleration rates are decent for a sports car—Tripp has no idea what he’s talking about.
For a few moments, I let the car subject die, giving him a reprieve so I don’t ruin what fragile friendly vibes he’s attempting to give me.
It’s not easy for him to be in this car with me; he lacks the social skills to make small talk—way too blunt for most women, I would assume. And if I had to guess, he instantly regretted offering to pick me up tonight the moment he extended the invitation.
Oh well—not my problem.
“So it’s just this car and your truck?”
“Yeah, I mostly only drive trucks. I don’t know if I’m going to buy this Beemer or not.”
Not.
I tap my fingers on the armrest and watch the city approach, one side street after the next, and he zigzags and zips his way to The Ivy.
At least he knows where he’s going without using the navigation system.
A few minutes later, we’re pulling up to the awninged walkway of The Ivy, two valet attendants already waiting at the curb as if they’re expecting us. A few men linger near the shrubs. Two more across the street.
Paparazzi?
Shit.
I hadn’t considered being photographed tonight while I was getting dressed and feel relief because I dolled up a bit more than I was initially going to.
Again, I pull down the sun visor and flip open the mirror.
“You look fine,” Tripp tells me, wowing me with his praise.
“Gee, thanks.”
He looks…offended? “What’s wrong with the word fine?”
Nothing. Not technically. But if you’re going to flatter someone, there are a million better words with which to do so. Pretty, beautiful, effervescent.
I laugh.
Effervescent.
I can’t for the life of me imagine that word coming out of this man’s mouth.
“What’s so funny?”
Why lie? “I was picturing you being nice to me.”
“Are you implying that I’m not nice to you?”
“No, I’m implying that I can’t imagine you saying anything sweet.”
Tripp looks genuinely confused. “Who wants to be sweet?”
That makes me laugh. “Not you, apparently.”
I click the door so it unlocks and releases, opening straight up instead of out, and am suitably impressed. I’ve never been in a car that does that before; it’s totally fancy.
“I can be sweet when I want to be,” Tripp tells me, doing the same with his driver’s side door and stepping one leg out of the car.
I stifle a fake yawn. “Sure you can.”
“Wanna bet?”
“This isn’t a challenge. And besides, the last time I asked you to do something, you reneged.”
Cameras begin to go off, and I blink. Why are they taking photos of us? Do they do this to everyone who walks in, or is someone else inside that’s famous?
I mean—Tripp plays football, but he’s not famous famous—not like a celebrity on television or in the movies. Does football count? I hadn’t thought about it before, although now that I am, I suppose Buzz was ‘famous’ before he met my cousin. People cared about who he dated and what he wore, and the places he went.
“Who are you guys camping out for?” I ask a guy dressed all in black: black camera, black jeans, black windbreaker. His cheeks are ruddy pink and his hair is windblown, as if he’s been waiting for hours.
“You,” he tells me.
It hadn’t occurred to me that fans would give a shit about Tripp and me having a simple drink at a nice restaurant.
Click, click, click, go the cameras, flashes going off in every which way.