Hard Love (Trophy Boyfriends #3) - Sara Ney Page 0,81
disguise?”
I find Tripp hovering near the entrance of the café, donning a baseball cap, sunglasses, and a hoodie. These three things do nothing for his anonymity; rather, they cause him to stand out instead of blend in.
“Sort of.” His big shoulders shrug and, color me surprised, he leans down and kisses me in the corner of my mouth as a greeting.
I blush from my toes up to the roots of my hair, ignoring the butterflies in my stomach and try to sound normal when I say, “Well you look sketchy as frick. You should take that hood down at least, you weirdo.”
“I want to be left alone.”
So adorably clueless. “Um, you stand out like a sore thumb. That sweatshirt is bright blue and has the Blues logo on it.”
Tripp looks down at me. “You look cute.”
Do I? Eh.
What I look is professional, in a high-waisted black faux leather pencil skirt, tucked-in black silk blouse (with little red dots on it), and red heels on my feet.
“Thank you.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ears. “I wasn’t expecting to go anywhere for lunch, otherwise I would have—”
“No, I like this. You look hot.”
Hot.
I do?
Not so sure about that, but I’ll take his word for it.
“You must have a thing for the secretarial look,” I say as we wait for the hostess to seat us. When she approached before, Tripp silently stuck two fingers in the air and didn’t say a word.
“Is that how you always dress for work?” he asks, putting his hand to the small of my back, guiding me behind the hostess as we weave through the crowded café, the occasional patron glancing up to stare at Tripp as we walk past.
Men and women.
The men want to ask for his autograph, the women want to hit on him. Fuck him. Take him home in the middle of the afternoon.
I can see it in their eyes, and it’s nothing new to me, having grown up around athletes. Tripp seems immune to it, hand now skimming from my shoulder down the side of my silk-covered arm.
When we’re seated, menus in hand, he takes down the hoodie and removes his sunglasses, intense brown eyes boring holes as he studies my face.
“How have you been?” He wants to know, unapologetic and making no excuses for not having reached out since Saturday. Technically it was Sunday when I left, but still. Same thing.
“Good. Still unpacking.” A server comes by to fill our water glasses, and I thank him. “Work, obviously.” I take a sip of the water. “How about you?”
Tripp sighs, sitting back in his chair, crossing his big, bulky arms. “Molly the meddler won’t leave me alone.”
I raise my brows. “What has she done now?”
“She broke into the house and was baking chocolate chip cookies on Monday.”
“What?! She broke in? How?” The questions come rapid fire. I cannot believe that kid broke into his house!
“Well, I mean—she has the code for the house, so technically she didn’t break in? But I didn’t know she was going to be there and she scared the shit out of me.”
Oh, well that makes more sense than what I came up with—a back window, perhaps? Prying it open with a crowbar? Squeezing through the doggie door in the laundry room?
No, using the code and letting herself in unannounced sounds more like Molly.
I chuckle, picking up the menu and scanning it. Everything sounds good, and I settle on breakfast for lunch. Eggs benedict on avocado toast.
Nom.
Tripp orders a cheeseburger and fries with extra lettuce, extra tomato, and extra pickles with a side of Cajun mayo.
“Why did she break in? She must have had a reason.” A cute little basket of small cornbread muffins appears and I unfold the napkin in the basket to steal one away. Hot from the oven! Mmm.
I pop it in my mouth as Tripp explains.
“Her parents were arguing and she didn’t want to stick around for the fighting and the make-up sex.”
I consider this information. “Everyone’s parents argue from time to time. I’m guessing it was just an excuse for her to hang out at your place. You should probably give her some boundaries before it gets out of hand.”
I get it that Molly is young, but she can’t just show up willy-nilly, especially at the house of a man who lives alone. Jeepers. No.
“Good idea. Maybe you can help me think of some.”
I warm to the suggestion, the insinuation that he wants me around.