Hard Love (Trophy Boyfriends #3) - Sara Ney Page 0,54

rises from the chair, still holding Chewy’s lead. “I mean, I feel like you think you’re funny? But it’s really hard to tell when you’re making a joke.”

So rude.

The kid needs to get the hell out of the house.

“Don’t look so offended, Mr. Wallace. My mom says some people aren’t meant to be humorous—you are just one of those people.” She pats me on the arm, like my grandma used to do when she was consoling me.

“I can be funny when I want to be,” I pout, sounding defensive. Ridiculously defensive, arguing with the teenage girl from the house next door…

…in my own damn kitchen.

…about women.

“I can be funny when I want to be,” she mimics. “That’s what people who aren’t funny say,” she goads, walking toward the door. “Does Chandler Westbrooke laugh at your jokes?”

“Yes.” Ha!

“I suppose she laughs because she likes you.”

“Oh. Is that the only reason, smartass?”

“Probably.” Eye roll. “I can’t imagine you give her any other reasons.”

What a shithead!

“For your information, Miss Know-It-All, Chandler doesn’t like me. She hates me.” I tell her the same thing I told my mother when she was the one doing the cross-examination. “Trust me.”

Molly shakes her head, disappointed. “You know nothing about women, do you?”

Nope.

Not even a little—but I’m not about to admit that to a fifteen-year-old. Instead, I puff out my chest, posturing to the runt. “Of course I do—I’m a grown-ass man.”

The kid laughs like I’ve just told an actual joke. “Ha—see, now that was funny.”

“What!” I trail along after her. “I do! I know stuff.”

She’s pulling open the front door and stepping out onto the porch. I want to demand that she get her ass back here so I can continue arguing with her, but like I said—she’s a teenager and why the fuck am I bothering? It’s not like I have anything to prove.

Molly works for me—I don’t owe her an explanation or a gossip session. This is my personal business, not fodder. The kid needs to stay in her lane.

“I’ll be back in about an hour, Mr. Wallace.”

I get the feeling she’s been calling me Mr. Wallace instead of Tripp intentionally to make me sound old, and it’s working. Damn her.

“My dad is Mr. Wallace,” I inform her, repeating the lines I used to hear my father say to my buddies when they’d come hang at our house growing up. The friends I had who were close who considered Roger Wallace to be their second father.

“My parents said I’m not supposed to call my elders by their actual name unless I’m invited to.”

Her elders? “You can call me Tripp.”

Molly shrugs, giving Chewy a sharp tug of the leash to get his rear moving. “Whatever you say, sir.”

“Thanks.” To get the last word in, I add, “And for the record, Chandler Wallace doesn’t like me.”

Molly laughs, turning to face me and walking backward with Chewy down the sidewalk in front of my house. “Do you realize you just called her Chandler Wallace, not Chandler Westbrooke?”

“It was an accident!” I shout.

“Was it though?” I can still hear her laughing. “There are no accidents when it comes to love.” She singsongs the last word. “L-O-V-E, L-O-V-E, L-O-V-E, love love love.” Molly practically skips down the road with the dog, merrily singing the tune.

Oh my god.

“I do not love Chandler Westbrooke!” I shout from the porch. “The woman hates me! There is no us!”

Molly turns around once more. “Thou protesteth too much! Go inside, Mr. Wallace. You sound drunk.”

This kid has made me absolutely insane and I have no idea what I’m even saying anymore, on the front stoop shouting at her with bedhead, wearing what I wore to sleep in.

Jesus, could it get any worse than this?

“I’m not protesting, I’m defending my position!” I bellow back, despite the fact that she and the dog are halfway down the sidewalk and energetically strolling away.

She throws a blithe arm up, wiggling her fingers in the air before lobbing an ‘Okay’ hand sign at me.

Shit.

I turn my head and look next door, only to meet the gaze of my other next-door neighbor, Allan Yumang. Incidentally, he and I have never seen eye to eye, especially about the hedgerow growing between our two properties—not once he erected the fence on his side of it, leaving me with the bush and all the responsibilities having a hedge on one’s property entails.

I like bush, but not that kind of bush.

The whole thing irritated me, particularly considering the fence went up while I was away,