Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 91501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
“So what are you doing tomorrow?”
I rack my brain but the answer is immediate: unpacking, lying around, unpacking some more, watching TV, ordering food, unpacking, sleeping.
In that order.
“Stuff” is my brilliant answer.
I can almost hear his annoyance. “At least you didn’t say washing your hair.”
“I’ll probably do that, too.”
Ha!
“Be serious for a second—what’s the harm in having a drink with me?”
“Why are you so determined to get me out of the house? You didn’t even know my name last week.”
“I’m determined to make you like me, that’s why.”
I highly doubt that’s true, but I cannot continue arguing with the guy about his motives.
“You called me out of the blue because you suddenly need me to like you,” I deadpan, clearly not ready to let the subject go.
“Yes.”
“And it has nothing whatsoever to do with me dropping you on your ass.”
He pauses. “First of all, you did not drop me on my ass.”
“Yeah I did.”
Tripp takes a breath in, seeking patience. “You—” Inhale. “Whatever you say, Chandler.”
Whatever I say? Who is this guy and what has he done with Tripp Wallace?
I get an idea.
“Tell you what…” I hope he’s listening. “I will agree to have a drink with you—”
“Great!”
“—if you dress like Paul Bunyan and bring your stuffed blue ox.”
The line goes dead. Silent. “No. No fucking way.”
I feign a disappointed sigh. “Well, sorry it didn’t work out. You have a great night.” I get ready to end the call, but his voice stops me.
“You are an asshole.”
Yet another thing no one has ever called me. I’m racking up many firsts with this guy.
“I’m flattered you think so.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
“Wasn’t it though?”
“No.”
“Okay, well…” I blow out a breath. “You take care. Think about my proposal and let me know. Or not. But either way, good luck with your games and…stuff.”
I tap to end the call, satisfied to have gotten the last word.
The last and only word, because I know I will never hear from Tripp Wallace again.
And if I’m being honest? The thought of that has me a little bit disappointed…
Eleven
Tripp
“She wants me to dress like Paul Bunyan,” I tell my mother via FaceTime after the various conversations I’ve had with Chandler. I bend to scratch Chewy behind the ears and his satisfied doggy grin has me grinning back despite myself.
“Why would she want you to do that, dear?” Mom is in the kitchen, phone propped on the counter as she slices up one potato, then another, probably for a meal I’ll never have the chance to eat. “It makes no sense.”
“Because she’s a sadist.” And I pissed her off enough that she took it upon herself to humiliate me in public, and she’s trying to do it again by having me wear a costume to have drinks.
The word sadist has my mother glancing up, brows furrowed with a frown. “Is that a nice thing to call someone? You barely know the girl. She seemed nice enough during the wedding festivities.”
Seemed nice enough? “Are you nuts? You were in the room when she had me flat on my back, remember? You thought I had a concussion and had the ambulance on speed dial.”
Mom shrugs. “A mother’s reflex. Still not a nice thing to say about a young woman you hardly know.”
Um. Flat on back? No remorse? That girl?
Still, my shoulders sag under Mom’s disapproval and I backpedal at my use of such a harsh adjective to describe Chandler. “Wrong choice of words, sorry.”
Chewy stares up at me as I stand in my bathroom about to turn on the shower and clean myself off.
I crank the water on to preheat it while chatting with Mom.
“I just think you should try being a bit…sweeter. Would it kill you to let your guard down and enjoy yourself around a pretty woman?” Her head is tilted forward, the top of her hair parted down the middle, the same style she’s worn since True, Trace, and I were kids. A few more wrinkles in her forehead but still the same constant in our lives.
“Sweet?” I want to gag.
Mom sets down her knife and rests both hands on the counter. “Tripp Wallace, perhaps if you made more of an effort to be fun, you wouldn’t still be single.”
Fun? “What does that have to do with my being single? I’m single because that’s what I want, not because I ain’t fun.”
She clucks her tongue at my bad grammar.
“I don’t need a girlfriend or a wife!” That isn’t exactly true. The truth is, I actually would love a family—I just never have the patience to find one. Plus, there haven’t been any women who wanted to tolerate my special brand of humor. “I have Chewy.”
At the mention of his name, the dog barks for attention.
“Who’s a good boy? You are!” I tell him, giving his ears another fluff. “Good boy!”