Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 76303 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76303 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
“My parents’ place—my brother and I usually have dinner there on the weekends we’re home.”
“Oh that’s right, you have a brother. He’s an athlete too, yeah?”
“Yes. He plays around with the old pigskin.” That’s one way of saying he plays football.
“Is he married?”
I give her a sidelong glance, only taking my eyes off the road for a split second. “No, he’s not married.” Is she feeling me out to find out if he’s single?
“Your poor mother, two bachelor athletes. I bet you were a real handful growing up.”
That’s putting it mildly. “I’m shocked she doesn’t have gray hair.”
“I can only imagine.”
“I’m my mom’s favorite,” I brag.
Hollis’s brows go up. “How do you know?”
“She told me.”
She rolls her eyes. “She probably told both of you that and I bet she did it so you’d behave.”
“No for real, I’m her favorite. She always sneaks me the last piece of dessert.” Though come to think of it, Tripp always leaves their house with leftovers and I don’t.
The last time we were there, he had two plastic containers in his hands on the way home.
Fuck!
“What’s that look for?” Hollis wants to know, but I suspect she already does.
“Nothin.”
“Oh, come on—mothers can’t have favorites. That’s the law.”
“She gave him leftovers!” I blurt out.
My fake date looks over at me like I’ve gone and lost my damn mind. “What on earth are you going on about?”
“Mom—she gave Tripp leftovers last time and all I got was the last stupid piece of fruit tart!”
More laughing. “Well maybe you should pass on dessert and she’ll give that to him. Then you can have take-home containers.”
“I don’t want leftovers. I want cake.”
“Then why are you complaining?”
“It’s the principle of the thing. Also, one year, they bought Tripp a football-tossing machine for Christmas and they never bought me a pitching machine, even though I wanted one, and I’m a better athlete.”
“How old were you?”
“Thirteen.”
“My god, are you seriously complaining about something that happened over a decade ago?”
I grumble, “No.”
But I am.
I clamp my lips shut.
“Thanks for picking me up. It wasn’t necessary.”
I glance over. “If I hadn’t picked you up, you wouldn’t have come.”
That makes her chuckle. “True.”
“What do you have against me anyway?”
“Against you? I don’t even know you—I bumped into you once before you railroaded me at the fundraiser yesterday. You haven’t given me a chance to have anything against you.”
Valid points. Still, “So you’re saying, had we gotten to know each other better, you might have organically wanted to go on a date with me.”
“First of all—this isn’t a date. Secondly, did you seriously just say ‘organically’?”
“First of all, this is a date. Even a pretend date is a date, in my opinion. If two people are out doing something? Date. If two people are going to eat food together? Date. If two people are—”
“I get it, I get it. Fine. To clarify, I mean it’s not a romantic date. Better?”
No. “Sure.”
“You don’t sound sure.”
Because I’m not. “You have terrible taste in men.”
Hollis turns toward me, surprised. “What on earth would make you say that? You don’t even know me.”
“A of all, you dated Marlon Daymon.” I pull a face. “B of all, you won’t date me. Ergo, terrible taste in men.”
She studies me from her spot in the passenger seat, wide-eyed. “Are you always like this?”
“Like what?”
“So…persistent and argumentative.”
My mouth opens to argue, but I clamp it shut. Open it. Clamp it shut. Damn her, why’d she have to go and call me argumentative—who can argue against that? “Am I? How so?”
Hollis laughs as if I’m a stand-up comedian who has just told the world’s funniest joke, tears actually running out the sides of her eyes. “Oh my god, you’re hilarious. I can’t.” She waves a hand, fanning it in front of her face to dry it. “Ugh, for real. You kill me.”
I don’t get the joke, so I stare out the windshield, concentrating on the road and the journey to Noah Harding’s house, which is a twenty-mile drive that takes thirty-five minutes. He lives outside the city—we both do—away from the hustle and bustle in a gated community.
For a bit, we drive in silence, the gift bag on the floor in front of Hollis drawing my curiosity, and I wonder what’s inside. Probably booze. Isn’t that what everyone brings?
“What’s in the bag?” I ask, letting the interest get the best of me.
“Um. Let’s see…” She pulls it onto her lap. “Foaming antibacterial hand soap, and…” She roots around. “Hand lotion, chocolate-covered almonds, and a candle for the kitchen.”
That’s really nice of her. “Where’s my goody bag?”
Hollis rolls her eyes. “It’s not your party.”
“Yeah, but I invited you.”
“You did not invite me! You manipulated me into coming! Ergo”—she stretches the word out—“you do not get a gift bag. Stop being a beggar, jeez.”
Well that was rude. “I was just asking.”