Hard Love (Trophy Boyfriends #3) - Sara Ney Page 0,8

again, what do I know about women?

I set the axe on the table because it looks like the game is at a standstill. Now that the girls are here, laughter rings out at the next throwing cage, one of the bridesmaids or best friends or whoever she is giggling as she attempts a shot at hitting the bullseye.

The axe thumps to the ground loudly, but everyone still cheers.

Why would everyone cheer? She’s a loser.

That axe didn’t even come close to hitting the target! Irritated, I grab the bottle of beer in front of me and chug, second-guessing immediately after if the beer is even mine.

Shit.

I gag, literally, and set it down, glancing around to see if anyone saw.

No one is paying me the least bit of attention, all eyes and ears on two people, the bride and groom, and aren’t they adorable?

I observe as everyone watches them, standing off to the side as usual, alert and perceptive, two of my greatest qualities—other than persistence and physical strength. I like to think nothing escapes my notice; five long years on the football field have assured that.

Five years being paid shitloads of dollars guarantees nothing gets past me. Nothing intimidates me.

I feel a set of eyes watching me, lifting my gaze to find one of the gaggle staring. Like the others, she’s dressed all in pink, though her dress is less revealing. Light pink wig, light pink dress.

No idea what she looks like, not covered in all that fuss. It could be Hollis’s sister Fiona or her best friend Madison sizing me up for all I know—and I’m not interested in either of those women.

I’ve already been down that road with both of them, the shameless flirting on their part, the awkward letdown on mine. Nope, don’t think it’s either of them. They know better than to waste their time.

Must be one of the other minions.

She has a small smile on her face—one she probably thinks I can’t see from my spot at this table, over fifteen feet away—as her eyes rake over my cargo pants and lumberjack shirt. The stuffed animal dangling from my side pocket by the horn.

I’m used to people staring at me; this is nothing new.

I’m not a fucking idiot; I know I’m good-looking. The thing is, I’m just not interested in a woman who’s only out for my money. My looks may fade and my bank account might be depleted. So if someone is going to chase me solely for those two things alone, they can kiss my tight end.

I smirk at my own joke. Tight end, get it?

If this broad thinks I look stupid, that’s her problem, not mine. I’m dressed like this for my brother—not for the judgy bridal party. And when she finally notices me noticing her, she jerks her gaze away, hiding behind the shield of that powder pink hair.

Four

Chandler

The Quickie.

Description: A sleek, tantalizing partner for those of us who aren’t messing around with foreplay. Silicone coated, water safe. Wash thoroughly with Love Care Cleaning Solution after each use, store in enclosed case. Batteries not included.

For those of us who aren’t messing around with foreplay? What does that even mean? Don’t some people use toys when they’re actually having sex? I haven’t ever done so, but I know enough to have gleaned a bit of knowledge.

Sighing, aware that The Quickie is nestled not-so-innocently inside the swag bag I set on the counter, I remove the offending wig on my head and shake out my natural hair—the real stuff underneath—and give my scalp a good massage with my fingers, basking in the relief. It was hot and itchy having that thing on my head for the past several hours, and I set it next to my bachelorette goodies.

The townhouse I’m renting from Hollis (which my father is irritated about, because Westbrookes do not rent, especially from each other—they own) is mostly empty, except for my bed and a suitcase, the rest of my things arriving tomorrow morning.

Wig off, I pad absentmindedly to the bathroom, the echo of loud music still reverberating through my eardrums, the last bar we ended at more of a concert hall with a million amps and scores of people.

I can’t hear myself think, just the sound of electric guitars wailing and pop stars singing.

As my hair goes back in a tie, my eyes stray to the tired, mascara-smudged bags beneath them and I cringe, rooting for a cotton ball, swiping it over my face, removing the makeup caked on there.