Hard Love (Trophy Boyfriends #3) - Sara Ney Page 0,79

with yourself? Jealous of your brother and sister? Embarrassed you can’t express yourself, embarrassed when you do? I don’t know, pick your poison.”

Is this kid for real?

My eyes narrow. “Are you by any chance going into psychology when you get to college?”

One of her shoulders rises and falls in a shrug. “Nah, I’m going to major in finance.”

“Stop it, you are not. You really have knack for this,” I admit, as much as I hate to do so. Molly is the sort who has an ego about these things; I can tell.

“Are you giving me an actual compliment, Mr. Wallace?” Molly appears stunned—and happy, practically glowing.

Why is it so hard for her to believe I’d say something nice? I’m not a monster. “Hey! What did I tell you about the Mr. Wallace nonsense?”

Another shrug. “I’m being polite to my elders.”

“Har har.” I level her with a stare. “So you really think I need to be like…nice?”

This earns me a laugh from the teenager, who’s now taken to pacing back and forth in front of the oven, most likely so the cookies don’t burn.

“You can’t even say the word without cringing. Look at you—you look constipated.”

“Fine. You’re right—I can’t force myself to be something I’m not.”

“Why are you like that? I mean, it’s not like your parents are dicks.”

The mouth on this kid!

“How would you know my parents weren’t dicks to me growing up?”

“Um, hello—I’ve seen them coming and going. The last time your folks were here, I helped your mom bring in the blanket the book club had made you. You know, the one with the book covers on it.” Her sly little grin is telling; she’s making fun of me without actually making fun of me.

“Who needs help bringing in a blanket? What you’re trying to say is, you saw her and used the opportunity to snake-in-the-grass your way inside to pester her for details, you nosey shit.”

Molly yawns. “Whatever. My point is, they seem supportive.”

That’s because they were.

Are.

If I had a game tonight—Monday night football—chances are, they’d have driven the two-hour drive from their place north of here and watched the game at the stadium with the rest of the families. The WAGS, the wives and girlfriends and friends of the players. My parents make most of my games, and most of Buzz’s, and I don’t know about True because she’s not an athlete.

Come to think of it, I don’t know much about what my sister has been up to lately. The last time I saw her was last weekend for lasagna after Buzz returned from his honeymoon, but it’s not like we spoke privately or anything—I was too rushed to leave.

Shit. Molly is right. I am an assbag.

Not taking time to talk to my little sister?

What a fucker.

Shame fills my gut and I feel my face flush.

“Aww, look at you,” the little terror coos. “You’re feeling the feels, aren’t you?”

The feels?

Yes, but not about Chandler. I still can’t put a label on what’s going on there. We’ve known each other five minutes; all I know is that she’s different in a good kind of way. Kind, sweet—but can kick my ass (obviously). Knows what she wants. Determined.

Tight as fuck.

If you aren’t able to tell Chandler how you feel, she won’t stick around long…

Is that true?

And am I willing to risk it?

Twenty

Chandler

“Dear Ms. Westbrooke, thank you for your time contacting Fire Fox Media about the publicist and promotions position. We were impressed by your portfolio, but unfortunately we are not hiring at the moment. If you’d like to apply for a summer internship, I have copied the link in the signature line of this email! We hope you’ll consider it—you seem like a great fit for Fire Fox! Keep checking back, and best regards!”

Another rejection.

Awesome.

I delete the email, which is a glorified fill-in-the-blank form letter, and sigh. The half-eaten bagel on my desk was stale before I took my first bite, but I’m starving and don’t have the energy to hit the breakroom. God forbid I run into someone who wants to make small talk; I’m not in the mood for that.

No one here talks to me unless they’re kissing my ass, thinking it will give them an advantage.

I rip into the carb with my canine teeth and chew miserably.

Lazy times call for lazy measures.

“Hey buttercup!” Dad sticks his head into my cubicle, perky and alert, always on. Never off.

Also, he’s never called me buttercup before, so when I lift my head to gaze at him, my expression