Hard Love, page 8
“Cheers!” The word is followed by tinging and clinging and lots of laughter. My eyes zero in on that damn scene stealer as she blows kisses at her cousin—and my brother—tossing a glance in my direction before taking her seat a few chairs down.
And here after the rehearsal dinner last night, I thought maybe she wasn’t so bad.
Turns out, she’s a glory hound.
* * *
At least the bastard fed me this time.
Satisfied, I watch the band strike their first few chords. Begin a popular song that’s currently at the top of the charts as Buzz and Hollis begin their cute, coordinated moves through a floral arch in the doorway of the banquet hall, leading into their first dance.
Everything according to plan.
Alone at a table I sit. The place settings and cutlery have all been cleared, and I’m hiding from the single women like a coward; it’s mostly bridesmaids and friends of the bride, man-hunting tonight because everyone knows weddings turn women into maniacal, boy-crazy, man-eating man-chasers. They get wedding fever, romanticizing everything leading up to the wedding, on the prowl, as if the event is a buffet of men ripe for the taking.
I will not fall victim to the bridal party.
Nope. Not happening.
I will continue eating these late-night snacks.
I have a career, a house, a truck, and a kick-ass dog at home waiting for me. There is nothing more that I need.
I wish the vultures would stop hovering—the whole business of them scouting the room for me is making my blood pressure rise, and hiding at a party when I should get up and join the guys at the bar is such a wussy thing to do.
I heard a few of them are smoking cigars out on the balcony. A cigar sounds fantastic right about now.
I stand.
Pop one more shrimp in my mouth, wiping my finger on a white linen napkin.
I get ten feet from the table before a hand cuffs my arm; I look down at it then up into the eyes of the freshly minted Mrs. Wallace.
Hollis Wallace.
I’ll never make the mistake of mocking that name again—not after an entire room full of people gave me shit for it.
“Are you going to the bar?”
She wants something; I can feel it in my bones.
“Was planning on it.”
“Would you do me a teensy-weensy favor?” Hollis has her hand on my arm, a smile on her face, and a sparkle in her eyes that has nothing to do with the chandelier above.
“Sure.” What favor could she possibly need?
“Could you ask Chandler to dance? She loves it but has been sitting there all night.”
Anything but that.
Who gives a rat’s ass if her cousin isn’t dancing? I sure as hell don’t. She has two working legs; it’s not like she can’t go dance by herself if she really wants to.
Chandler is a menace. “Don’t you think she’d dance if she wanted to? I don’t want to bother her,” is my lame excuse, taking the place of a flat-out refusal.
Hollis fake pouts, pushing out her lower lip. “No one has asked her.”
This isn’t a damn middle school dance—who cares if she’s acting like a wallflower. It’s not a crime to not dance at a wedding; in fact, who wouldn’t rather sit and shoot the shit with friends instead?
There isn’t a man here who wants to be dragged out onto the hardwood dance floor.
I glance around.
Except maybe that guy out there already. And that one. And that one—he undeniably appears to be enjoying himself. A fucking blasty-blast, that’s what he’s having.
“You’re telling me not one of these dudes has asked her?” I look around at the hordes of guys my brother invited.
“Not a single one of these dudes,” Hollis teases. “Besides, Chandler is shy.”
Shy = boring.
I stifle a yawn; that’s how fucking boring Hollis’s cousin is. The very last thing I want to do is trap myself by dancing with the chick who humiliated me during the dinner speeches.
“Please?” Hollis draws the plea out, eyes beseeching like a child begging for ice cream, not wanting to be let down. She has no other arguments than asking for this favor.
I’m sure there will be many more to follow in the upcoming years, but for now, Hollis Wallace has not asked me for a damn thing.
Well. If you don’t count helping Chandler move her shit from storage into her townhouse. That was a favor, but technically, Buzz was the one who asked.
“Fine,” I snap, resigned to the task.
“Oh goodie!” Hollis claps like women do when they’ve had a few too many drinks. “Yay!”
Goodie.
Yay.
A slower song starts and couples migrate onto the dance floor, one by one. The giant, crystal chandelier—brought in specifically for the event—glitters, tossing diamonds around the room like sparkles.
I drag my feet—literally drag them on the marble tile floor—until I present myself to an unenthused Chandler Westbrooke; she’s doing what I was just happily doing: socially distancing herself and pretending I didn’t just walk over. Like she can’t see me looming over her.
Faker.
She looks through me.
“Would you like to dance?” I jam my hands into the pockets of my tuxedo pants.
Her chin tilts. “No thank you.”
Excuse me? Did she say no?
One glance across the room has me meeting my new sister-in-law’s hopeful gaze.
She gives me a thumbs-up.
Fuck.
If I walk away, she’ll think it’s my fault we’re not dancing.
“I…” Uh. How the hell do you try to convince a woman to dance with you when she’s already told you no because she’s being stubborn? Big deal, I ate most of her food last night.
Luckily, I don’t have to wonder how to convince her, because no sooner do I part my lips to speak than I see Hollis dragging my brother across the room toward us, making a beeline.
When they arrive, she reaches over and grabs her cousin by the hand.
“I love this song! Come on, let’s all go dance!”
I swear, Chandler Westbrooke lets out an unladylike groan so loud it could wake the dead.
What the fuck! I’m a good catch, goddammit—why wouldn’t she want to dance with me? Not that I want to dance with her, but it’s the principle of the thing.
Chandler stands, her cousin’s hostage.
I tag along, unenthusiastically.
Hollis, you shady, tricky little shit.
She fits right in with the Wallace clan.
If she’s trying to play matchmaker, it’s not going to work; many have tried, all have failed. Including my mother and my brother.
Whatever.
Awkwardly, I decide where to place my hands on her body.
Chandler is small, shorter than me by maybe a foot, if my drunk math is correct. Maybe she’s five foot five to my six three? I don’t know, I don’t have a ruler, leave me alone.
Hesitantly, I do what my brother and every other dude on the dance floor are doing: put these paws on her waist. She half-heartedly places her hands on my shoulders. Like two kids at a middle school dance, there is enough space between us for another body, afraid of full-frontal contact.
“Sorry,” I tell her for lack of anything witty to say.
“It’s fine. We’ll survive for three minutes.”
“Gee, thanks.”
Chandler rolls her eyes. “Oh please, like you actually wanted to dance with me.”
I don’t deny it—she’s not wrong.
I didn’t and still do not.
“You don’t have to act so put out about it though.” Even to my own ears, it sounds like I’m sulking. Affronted by her indifference.
“I’m not put out about it—I’m taking one for the team,” she counters, riling me up even more.
Taking one for the team?
“Uh, plenty of women would die to dance with me” is my lame, ego-fueled reply.
My lack of a social life is by choice, not lack of options.
Chandler makes a show of looking around at the near destitute dance floor. “Oh my god, we should hurry and finish this dance. Just look at the line of women. It’s probably around the block—good thing this song is almost half over. Give the rest of the mob a fighting chance.”
Sarcastic little asshole.
And she looks so unassuming and sweet, not including the dildo I found in her room.
“Let’s just get through this,” I tell her, giving the crown of her head a glance.
Her hair is smooth and curly, twisted into some extravagantly elegant half-up, half-down do. Professional and fancy for one not part of the wedding party, though she was in the family photo.
“T-minus two minutes,” she reminds me.
“Is it necessary to do a countdown?”
“I like putting you in your place.” Her head is turned and she’s not even facing me anymore—she’s watching the rest of the guests dance and flirt and have fun.
“Putting me in my place?” Give me a fucking break. “You don’t have the balls to say boo, let alone put me in my place.”
“Okay.”
Okay? She just gave me the proverbial middle finger; god I hate when people just say okay as a reply. It’s worse when they text it. Worse than that?
K
“How much longer do we have?” I want to know.
I feel her sigh; it’s that heavy. “Behave and I won’t have to karate-chop you over my shoulder.”
“Karate-chop me over your shoulder—pretty sure that’s not a thing.” I pause. “As if you could flip me.”
Chandler’s mouth tips into a curve on one side. “Whatever you say, Tripp.”
She appears to be mocking me, but it’s difficult to really tell in this dim light, sparkles ricocheting off the chandelier, fucking with my eyesight.
“You know karate?”
“I’m a black belt.” She sniffs, indignant.
I snort. “Sure you are.” And I’m Paul Bunyan,and Chewy is Babe the Blue Ox.
“First degree.” Her brows are raised and she looks so incredibly like her cousin in this moment—the cousin who is watching our every move over my brother’s dumb shoulder.
I force a smile. See! Having so much fun! Great idea having us dance! I broadcast with my lying eyes.
“Liar,” I mutter through clenched teeth.
“Unfortunately, you sound like every man I’ve ever told that to. Not that I care.”
“You do care, or you wouldn’t have mentioned it. And it’s not even believable—come up with a better lie to reel men in with.”
Chandler’s eyes narrow, so much I discern it through the disco lights. “You’re such a cocky asshole.”
I shrug. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Sorry I called you an asshole.” She backtracks almost immediately. “I don’t even know you.”
I shrug again, unfazed. “I’m not sorry I called you a boring stick in the mud.”
Chandler hesitates.
Nostrils flare.
She’s doing a great job of keeping her cool considering I just lobbed an insult directly at her—
I’m off my feet in an instant, flat on my back in the center of the dance floor, staring up into Chandler Westbrooke’s satisfied face.
Disoriented.
Shocked.
“What the actual fuck.” I exhale, wind knocked out of me.
Hollis’s face appears. Then Madison’s. Then my brother’s.
“Dude!” Buzz is laughing hysterically. “She knocked you on your ass.”
As if I didn’t fucking know that, Captain Obvious.
“Thanks. Thanks so much, I wasn’t aware.”
That makes him laugh harder.
“Oh my god, Tripp, are you okay?” Madison is asking, pursing her red lips.
“I’m fine.” I lift my head, back aching as if I did just get slammed by Arnie Felder. Except it wasn’t a linebacker laying me out; it was Chandler Westbrooke.
She extends a hand, which I ignore. Buzz also extends his palm and I slap it out of my face.
“Get the fuck away from me,” I snap, feeling like a colossal idiot.
I can get up from the floor myself. I don’t need help.
“That was the best thing I’ve seen in my entire life,” my brother goes on while I catch sight of my mother rushing over.
Awesome.
A crowd is gathering.
“Don’t move him!” a woman’s voice shouts and I crane my neck to see Mom shoving her way through the masses. “It could be his spine! Someone call an ambulance.”
“He’s fine, Mom. He’s just being a pussy.” Buzz is looking down at me, giving my hip a nudge with the toe of his wedding shoe.
Hollis smacks him. “You can’t say pussy at your wedding.”
“Sorry.” He is not the least bit chagrined. “Tripp doesn’t need an ambulance—he needs a waambulance.”
If I were standing, I’d sock him in the balls.
“Boys, stop,” Mom fusses, dropping to her knees in front of me, wearing her sparkly mother of the groom dress, checking for bodily injuries—as if I’m on my back on a football field and she’s the medical staff. It’s a scene we’re all too familiar with.
“Sweetie, are you okay?” Mom’s hands are forcing my eyelids open and I swat them away.
“Mom, I’m fine.”
Just stunned.
What the hell is Chandler doing flipping me at a freaking party in the first place? What the fuck did I say that was wrong? Is she a total psychopath?
“Stop moving!” Mom demands. “Let me see your eyes. You might have a concussion,” she declares, much to my brother’s amusement. Dad hovers not far behind her, arms crossed, looking perturbed.
He rolls his eyes.
Fucking great.
My dad thinks I’m a pussy, too.
“Son, pick yourself up,” he’s saying in an authoritative tone, mouth set in a straight line.
“Roger, he might be hurt,” Mom tells him, worried.
“He’s fine. Anyone can see the girl tossed him on his rear.” He’s eyeballing Chandler with a healthy dose of respect. “Don’t say I blame her.”
I unfold myself from the ground, stiffly sitting up—as if I was down there doing crunches—and rise, swiping at the dust I managed to gather on my black pants and jacket.
Thanks a lot, Chandler.
She’s among the group of onlookers—as if she wasn’t the one who tossed me and left my corpse there to rot while the vultures gather.
What woman is so freakishly strong that they can put a grown man who’s twice her size on the floor like that? Christ.
I didn’t see it coming—and I see everything coming.
I glance at her again, giving her the opportunity to rush over and check my body for injuries, the same way my mother did. Fuss over me, ashamed by her actions, ready to make amends.
The woman just stands there, smug.
Chandler has nothing to say.
No defense, no apology.
Stands there with a shit-eating grin on her face. I hate to call it a smirk, but there’s no denying that smug countenance. And fuck if one of her brows doesn’t arch in my direction.
An arched brow of victory.
I showed you, that brow is saying, taunting me. Superior.
That’s one chick I’ll never call boring again.
Lesson learned.
“Nothing to see here,” I tell my friends and family, phones pointed in my damn direction. “Put those away, would you?” I shield my face, but the damage is done.
A SportsCenter journalist approaches.
I recognize her from the locker room; it’s Sunny Bellefonte and she often covers our games. Great, just what I needed—media coverage of me being dumped on the ground by a waif.
“That was something I wasn’t expecting to see at a classy wedding.” Sunny is chuckling. “What’d you do to piss her off?”
“Nothing.” Except call her boring and imply that she was less exciting than watching paint dry. “That was not part of your exclusive, by the way,” I complain, dusting off my knees.
Sunny’s laugh is patronizing as she sizes me up. “That hardly matters, Wallace—a dozen other people caught that on their phones and the video has already made it onto the internet.” Her finger hovers over her tablet. “Would you care to name the young lady who flipped you on your back?”
“No.”
“No?” Her blonde brows are raised. “Is she a girlfriend?”
“Hell no.”
“Yeah.” She taps her chin with the tip of her tablet stylus. “The independent, badassery kind of woman hardly seems like your type.”
Is she implying that Chandler Westbrooke is independent and badass?
Mousy and lame is more like it.
I whip my head around to glare at Sunny, reacting to her barb. “Not my type? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“No offense, Wallace, but you seem more like one to go for the flighty, submissive type. Not the kind who’s going to kick your ass in public and leave you lying there.” She’s laughing again, definitely condescending to me. To my face.
Is something in the water tonight? Why am I being ganged up on?
“I heard your speech at dinner.” Another sardonic laugh. “I’m sure half the ovaries in the room shriveled up and died, while the other half still want a piece of you.”
My sister-in-law didn’t invite any bimbos to the wedding, if that’s what Sunny is implying, so her theory holds no weight. Still, the fact that she thinks those are the only women who are attracted to me stings.
I’m butthurt. “Are they paying you to come here and harass me?”
“No, they’re paying me to get a photo of your brother getting a piece of cake set on his tongue by his lady love.”
“That happened an hour ago—why are you still here?”
“You never know what’s going to happen, and you, my friend, just made my whole evening of skulking in the corner worth it.”
“I hope they aren’t feeding you,” I grumble. “You’re nothing but a thorn in my side.”
