Hard Love (Trophy Boyfriends #3) - Sara Ney Page 0,69

these wine glasses?” I hold one up, inspecting the festive vessel.

“My mom got them on sale at the end of the season last year. I have a whole set.” He lifts his wine and takes a sip, puckering his lips slightly to suck slowly—like he’s at a tasting. Sets it down and grabs an orange carving utensil. “Williams Sonoma or someplace fancy—Mom is into this shit.”

Apparently he is too, or he wouldn’t have gotten these out, not when regular wine glasses would have done the job. Or a regular drinking glass, for that matter.

Not that Tripp is going to admit it.

“What should we put on this one?” He taps the carver against his chin, eying the pumpkin as if contemplating his life’s work. As if it’s a piece of marble.

“A face or a quote?”

He considers the question. “We could do a face on one and a quote on the other?”

We.

The word fills my belly with a warmth having nothing to do with the alcohol I’ve begun swigging to calm my tangled nerves, but which is actually giving me the courage to step closer.

Tripp is larger than life—bigger than any guy I’ve dated in the past. Those were boys still in college, mostly. Not men. Fumbling, foolish fraternity boys who didn’t know a thing about life and less about what to do in bed.

I was always too mature for guys my age, having grown up surrounded by adults with unrealistically high expectations of me, and I suppose, in a way, I projected that onto the guys I dated.

Always brief. Short-lived.

Tripp’s size takes over the space between the counter and the island, tall and broad, especially while wearing that sweater.

“Shit.” He suddenly sets down the carver. “You know what I need?”

“What?”

“An apron.” He disappears into the pantry adjacent to the kitchen then sticks his head out. “Do you want one too?”

Lord. Can I handle him in an apron? “Um, sure.”

Tripp is pulling one over his neck when he walks back out, a basic black canvas getup he’s tying around his waist. Has an identical one for me.

Standing in front of me, mere inches away, he slides the thin straps over my head, pulls it down and sizes it. Creates a fold in front so it’s not too long, then slides his arms behind my back, loops it around once, and ties it in a bow at my belly button.

“Well then. Aren’t you fucking adorable.” He leans forward, kissing me on the tip of the nose.

What the what has gotten into him? What the hell is in this wine?

I gaze down into the glass at the golden liquid, expecting to see flecks of moon dust—or a witch’s brew? Anything to explain away this odd, playful behavior.

It’s too much.

A few more minutes of this and I may end up tackling him to the ground, no karate necessary.

Standing side by side, tools and pumpkins in front of us, I stand and stare quizzically at my subject, Tripp going about sculpting a goblin’s face while I’m in charge of the quote.

Nothing comes to mind, brain working in overtime.

Maybe I should just google something? I open the internet app on my phone and search “spooky quotes,” scrolling the feed and finding nothing that interests me.

“What are you looking for?” Tripp asks, glancing over, knife pausing over his goblin.

“Themed quotes.”

He scrunches up his face. “That’s lame—why not a sarcastic one, like ‘Carpe my seeds’?”

Seize my seeds? Gross.

I feign a gag. “I didn’t realize you were such a pervert.”

“Really?” He turns toward me, rolling his eyes. “Have you met me at all?”

That makes me laugh. “I still feel like I know nothing about you.” And here we’ve spent how much time together? How is it possible I still haven’t gleaned what he’s actually about?

Guess there’s really no good way to know, other than to ask. “Have you always been into the holidays like this?” I continue looking for a saying to put on the pumpkin.

“Yeah, I guess. Our mom always makes a big deal about it. We do matching pajamas and shit every year.” Tripp smiles. “Do you know how hard it is to find Christmas pajamas for someone my size?” He laughs. “Last year I had to cut the feet out of the onesie so I could put it on—ended up cutting off too much. Couldn’t bend over because it would go up my ass.”

“I would pay to see that.”

“Oh, you can—I have a picture. Hold on.” He wipes his hands off on the front of his apron,