Hard Love (Trophy Boyfriends #3) - Sara Ney Page 0,66

a voice from the next house over. “What’s taking you so long, sheesh!”

We turn, startled, and see Molly hanging halfway out a second-story window, the creep.

“That’s it.” An actual laugh escapes my mouth. “I’m calling my realtor in the morning and putting the house up for sale. I’ll give the damn thing away if I have to—that kid is a menace.” I stab a finger in Molly’s general direction.

“Do it!” said menace yells, loud enough to wake the entire neighborhood. Or maybe I’m just hypersensitive; I hate being told what to do, especially by minors. “Come on, Mr. Wallace, give her a kiss!”

Chandler sputters out a laugh. “Just ignore her, she’ll leave you alone.”

Not soon enough. “I wish she would go away.”

That makes Chandler laugh again, harder this time. “It’s cute. She’s appointed herself as your overseer.”

“More like evil overlord.” I take a deep breath in, about to enter uncharted territory. It’s been years since I’ve gotten closer to a woman with the intent of kissing them; being drunk in a bar doesn’t count and neither do all the times strange women have kissed me.

This feels weird.

It feels too romantic with the cold weather and the slight wine buzz and the good mood.

Foreign.

On one hand, I have the neighbor girl dictating my next move, telling me what to do from her bedroom window. On the other, I’d planned to kiss Chandler anyway. Why not, right? We’re both adults and she’s pretty and funny and kind.

The kind of girl my mother would love to see me end up with—not that I’ve ever given that much thought. Or maybe I’m just lying to myself. Family is the most important thing to me and why the hell am I thinking about this shit right now!?

My eyes dart over to Molly’s window. It’s still lit up, but she’s no longer in it.

The coast is clear.

If Chandler senses my intention, she doesn’t comment, but she does still have her chin tilted in my direction, eyes watchful, lips pouty.

“Thanks for bringing me home.”

I count to three.

One.

Two.

Three.

Push off from leaning against her car door and slide a hand over her hip, dipping my head toward hers.

Our mouths meet in a chaste kiss.

We smile, automatically going in for another as if by magnetic force, only one thought playing like a loop inside my head.

Do not fall in love with this girl, Wallace.

Do.

Not.

Fall.

Sixteen

Chandler

Tripp Wallace is wearing a sweater.

That’s right—that man is clothed in an honest to god, bona fide sweater. Hard to imagine, but here he is, a walking, talking wet dream.

Drool may or may not be coming out the side of my mouth. He looks so incredibly good—so handsome and masculine.

And it’s not just any old sweater; it’s one of those chunky fall kinds that look spun from oatmeal, birch, fireside chats, and walks in the snow.

What’s worse? He’s dressed the dog up in a costume, the little pooch trotting along happily after being hoisted down from the back seat of Tripp’s truck wearing a candy corn outfit.

Stop it right now…

God has a funny sense of humor, sending me a man who wants nothing to do with dating, relationships, or the warm and fuzzy trappings that come along with it. Like snuggling and romantic dates, and…and…

Is the pumpkin patch a romantic date?

Debatable, especially when said date is tromping through the field wearing steel-toed work boots, seemingly on a mission to get in and out.

I kneel down, fingers grazing the side of an enormous, bright orange gourd.

“What about this one?” I poke at it.

Tripp glances over his shoulder, his hand gripping Candy Corn Chewy’s long leash, scratching the stubble beneath his own chin, five o’clock shadow only adding to his metrosexual vibes.

“It’s too lumpy,” he decides, taking a few steps in my direction.

Too lumpy. Too round, too flat. Too thin.

This man is ridiculous.

“What are you looking for exactly?”

“Not too big and not too small. I don’t want to pay a fortune for something that’s going to be dead within a week,” he says seriously. “I need one that is smooth with plenty of room for sculpting the face.”

Oh, he’s sculpting now instead of carving?

Around his feet, Chewy sniffs at the leaves, happily grabbing hold of a vine with his teeth and snarling as if he’s winning a wrestling match.

He quickly loses interest and drops it, dozens upon dozens of available vines within reach.

“Chewy.” Tripp makes a kissing sound. “Come here.”

He bends, commanding the pup to sit, and arranges a few pumpkins into a fall vignette. Takes the cell out