Hard Love (Trophy Boyfriends #3) - Sara Ney Page 0,70
pulls the cell out of his back pocket, and begins scrolling through his gallery. “Here.”
Bright blue fleece onesie, the fabric cut up to his knees so it looks more like Bermuda shorts. It’s covered in snowmen and snowflakes, zippered down the front with a hood.
In his arms is a sullen-looking Chewy, who dons a dog version of the very same outfit. They both look grumpy and unamused, plump Christmas tree glowing in the background with piles of presents underneath.
“Aw, cute.”
Tripp frowns. “I am not cute. I’m manly.”
Yeah, yeah, yeah. “In that getup? You’re cute.”
I tilt my head, still standing here idly, having done zero carving on this orange pumpkin on the counter in front of me. At the rate I’m going, it’s never going to be ready to display on the front porch!
At least he scooped out the middle to give me a head start.
“By the time I have my goblin teeth carved, you’re still going to be staring at that thing.” Tripp laughs. “Just put something stupid on it.”
“But I don’t want it to be stupid—I want it to be cute.”
“Carve a T plus C,” he says, not looking at me.
T plus C? What does that mean?
T plus…
“Tripp plus Chandler?” That cannot be what he means. That’s almost…romantic, and surely that’s not his intention. We’re not dating!
“Sure, why not?” His tongue is stuck out the tiniest bit as he concentrates on his task.
“Uh, because? That sound relationshippy.”
“So?”
Is he for real right now? This is only our first date and it wasn’t even his idea—it was the idea of a conniving fifteen-year-old girl, one I’m expecting to pop out from behind the living room drapes at any moment.
“It sounds like we’re, you know—in a relationship.”
“So?”
I prop a hand on my hip. “Would you stop saying that?”
“It’s a pumpkin, Chandler. It’s not a marriage proposal.”
“I know that, Tripp.” My tone sounds slightly insolent, almost condescending, but we’re entering strange waters here. It almost feels like we’re about to have “the talk”.
You know the one. The What is this we’re doing? talk, only having it was not my intention. Like—at all.
“What if I just carve the word CHEWY on it?” I suggest, uncomfortable with his.
“That works too.” Tripp’s wide shoulders shrug. I can’t tell if he’s disappointed or not, because he won’t look at me. Just grumbles out a “Go for it” and continues working.
Hmph.
I carve his dog’s name on the pumpkin—it takes me all of the next hour, my wine glass magically refilling itself, grapey and delicious—then take a quick break to check the seeds we threw into the oven to bake.
They look nice and crisp sprinkled with salt, butter, and a bit of olive oil, and smell fantastic too.
I use a spatula from a nearby drawer to push them around the pan so they bake evenly. Steal one and blow on it before popping it in my mouth.
It’s warm and crunchy.
Yum.
“No fair!” Tripp catches me snacking out of the corner of his eye. “I want some!”
Fair enough.
I offer him one, but instead of taking it, he opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue.
A nervous giggle escapes me and I almost groan, hating how nervous it makes me appear, how young I must sound, too. Even though I’m technically only four years younger, somehow in this moment the age gap between us makes him feel worlds away. This man is a professional football player—he deals with screaming fans and multimillion-dollar contracts and agents and the media. He’s already seen and done things I couldn’t dream of accomplishing.
He has a real career. With real responsibilities.
I work for my dumb parents.
It makes me feel like a child. What have I even done? I’ve accomplished nothing but graduating twice. Earning degrees, but so what?
I giggle again, trying to focus on that pink, waiting tongue sticking out of his mouth, careful not to touch it when I gingerly set the baked pumpkin seed on top.
He closes his mouth before I can remove my fingers.
Oh god.
Oh lord.
Warm, wet lips graze the tips before he begins slowly chewing. A groan.
“Good stuff.” Simple words and yet—his eyes are like fire, sparks crackling when he looks at me.
Stop being so scared, Chandler. You can toss this man on his ass—you’ve already done it twice.
“Did you like that?” The words leave my mouth before I’ve thought them all the way through, sounding sexy and raspy and way out of my level of expertise.
My level? Ground zero.
Hello, what are you doing? The man wants to eat you alive!