by Ney, Sara
We can see through the glass, and I suspect everyone can see us too, but if they’re anxious for us to come outside or want to meet the girl I brought to the barbeque, no one is showing it.
“I wonder if he’s told them anything about me,” Hollis murmurs, gazing through the patio doors at Marlon, who has wandered and is posted up near the pool’s elaborate grotto, surrounded by women—as usual. Where they came from is beyond me; no one else would have the balls to bring randoms to a teammate’s house. This isn’t a fucking party at a club—this is someone’s private home.
Daymon is a jackass.
Hollis stares out at him, so I jar her with a gentle nudge. “That safe word?”
Without averting her eyes, she opens her pretty little mouth and sighs. “What happens if you’re the one who wants to leave?”
“It could happen, I suppose.” Not likely, but possible. “How about this: if one of us has the sudden desire to leave, you have to say, ‘I forgot something in the car—do you want to help me find it?’”
It’s a bit weak as far as exit strategies go and could lead to questions from anyone within earshot, but at least it’s not a ridiculous word like phallic or wanker. Bummer, that.
She nods.
I glance down at the top of her head, her glossy hair hanging prettily, and I want to touch it, sniff it to see if it’s as delicious as it was the other day at the benefit thingy.
“You’re cool if I touch you, right? For show.”
Another nod. “Yes, I’m cool if you touch me, but don’t get handsy—someone might get the wrong idea.”
Don’t get handsy? What kind of pervert does she take me for? Pulling the sliding glass door open so we can step through, I wave my hand out in front of me so she goes first. “The same wrong idea they’ll get when you tell everyone you forgot something in the car and you need my help getting it?”
“Huh?” She looks confused, so I explain.
“As soon as you need me to follow you to the car, they’re going to assume you want to go outside and bang.”
Hollis’s face turns red in a flash. Apparently, she hadn’t thought of that scenario. “You jerk! They are not!”
I laugh again.
She shivers.
“Yes they will.” I give her a light tap on the ass and usher her onto the patio.
Hollis turns shy, self-conscious when everyone seems to turn toward us, greeting me with waves and her with curious stares, this mystery girl I brought along. All eyes are on us—on Hollis—especially those of the women present, and beside me, Hollis raises her chin a fraction higher, straightening her back. These women don’t know her, but the mood is particularly WAGgy and I know they’re judging her.
WAG: wives and girlfriends of professional athletes. From what I’ve gleaned and seen over the course of my short professional baseball career, they’re not known to be the friendliest bunch. Catty. Petty. Competitive.
And Hollis certainly doesn’t fit the description of one, so I’m sure they’re wondering what the hell a man like Trace Wallace is doing with a girl like her. Today, the girl I’m shepherding into the lion’s den looks wholesome. Sweet. Respectable.
Exactly the kind of girl I would take home to my mother, but also exactly the kind of woman who would never let me.
I doubt she recognizes any of them, so there’s no way they know she’s Thomas Westbrooke’s daughter; some of them wouldn’t even know who Thomas Westbrooke is, despite him being the boss of every man out here.
I feel her go rigid at their perusal, clutching the gift bag in her manicured hand, allowing me to steer her straight toward Noah and Miranda, our host and hostess.
“Hollis, this is Harding and his new roomie Miranda. Guys, this is Hollis Wallace.”
Noah’s brows shoot straight into his hairline—it’s shaggy, unkempt, and I should tell him he needs a haircut, but that’s his girlfriend’s job now, not mine. “This is your sister?”
“No, babe.” Miranda nudges him with an elbow. “This must be…your wife?” Her tone is perplexed, expression priceless.
“You’re married?” Noah’s eyes couldn’t be any wider. “When did you get married?”
6
Hollis
I am going to kill Buzz Wallace.
Literally. With my bare hands wrapped around his puny neck. Okay, so fine—maybe it’s not puny, and maybe I won’t be able to fit my hands around it, but I sure am going to try because what the actual fuck does he think he’s doing?
He slides his big hand around my waist and gives it a gentle squeeze. “I’m kidding. This is Hollis, but she’s not my wife. She was having a weak moment and agreed to come along with me today.”
He kisses my temple, but my face is still frozen into a stunned smile and I’m having one helluva time trying to relax.
“But wouldn’t it be funny if we were married?”
No! “I could never marry you because I could never live the rest of my life as Hollis Wallace.” Never, ever.
No.
Everyone is laughing now except for Buzz, who is pouting beside me, hand still settled at my waist. I want to shrug it off, but I don’t want to do it in front of his friends, not when we just arrived. Besides, I can feel Marlon’s eyes watching us from his spot by the pool, and I feel a wave of intense satisfaction move through me.
Drink it in, asshole—drink. It. In.
“Well Hollis, it’s so nice to meet you,” Miranda says with a smile, and I remember the gift bag in my hand, offer it up to her—to them.
“Oh! I almost forgot, this is for you.”
She takes it and peeks her nose inside the bag with a delighted smile. “Oh! I love foaming hand soap!” Removes the lid from the candle and sniffs it. “Ugh, this smells so good! Thank you!” Miranda digs through the rest, and when she lifts her head, “Hollis, want to come inside with me so I can put this in the kitchen?”
“Of course.”
She’s going to grill me for details as soon as we are out of earshot, I can’t help thinking as Buzz leans in and smooshes his lips to my cheek.
“Don’t be gone too long, sugar bottom. I already miss you!”
“Could you not?” He’s laying it on way too thick. It’s vomit-inducing, looks ridiculous, and is embarrassing me.
I wonder what his friends are thinking but can’t bring myself to look at Noah, and I certainly can’t bring myself to glance over at Marlon.
What a mess Buzz is making—they’re supposed to think we’re on a date, not in a full-blown relationship.
Miranda leads me back into the house, resting the hand soap at the sink, placing the candle in the middle of the counter, and removing the rest of the bag’s contents. Squirts some lotion on her palms and happily locates a container for the chocolate-covered almonds.
“This was so kind of you. Thank you.” Now she’s resting her palms on the counter and smiling directly at me. “So. Now that we’re alone…how long have you and Buzz been…you know. Seeing each other.”
Why is she saying it like that? “Um. It’s very new.” So new this is our first date and we’ve only met once, one other time, for a total of maybe ten minutes, tops. But isn’t that how most people meet? Briefly, and then they go out on a first date?
Yes, but not to a party with all the guy’s friends.
Oh my god, are you seriously arguing with yourself? Get it together.
I wish Madison were here—she’d do all the talking for me.
My palms sweat.
“Are you alright?” my hostess asks, going to the fridge and putting some ice in a cup. “You want an ice water? You look like you could use an actual drink. Maybe some alcohol?”
“No! No, I mean—no thank you, I’m good—but yes to the water. Thank you.” Shut up, Hollis. Stop talking.
Luckily, Miranda laughs. “I totally get it, you know. Not only is Buzz a handful, the entire group out there can be a bit much. But give it a bit of time and you’ll find Buzz is actually a softie, and the group is very
loyal once they get to know you.”
“Buzz is a softie?” That’s not exactly the word I’d use to describe him. Then again, she’s known him longer than I have.
“Yes. If it weren’t for Trace, Noah and I wouldn’t be together, and we wouldn’t be here today celebrating the cohabitation with pulled pork and potato salad.”
“What do you mean, ‘if it weren’t for Trace’?”
“He was our matchmaker.” She laughs, pushing a glass of ice water across the counter toward me, popping a yellow and white striped straw into the center.
Did she say matchmaker?
“Yep.” We both look through the glass, out onto the patio, to catch Buzz Wallace doing a weird TikTok dance, arms in the air, ass shaking. “Um…so yeah, Noah didn’t want anything to do with me after we had this horrible public relations nightmare and Buzz was the one who brought us back together by tricking him into seeing me.”
“Buzz?”
“Yes. He’s actually really romantic. I’m almost positive we’re not the only couple he’s tried to match up.” She cocks her head to the side and thinks. “Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure the security officer at the park—Karl is his name—and one of the administrative assistants are dating because of Buzz, but you’d have to ask him for sure. It could just be a rumor.”
What? I point out the window. “That guy? The one smacking his own ass right now?”
He is, smacking his own ass, doing a weird ‘back that ass up’ motion, hopping in reverse while everyone laughs.
I blush. “Oh god.”
Miranda laughs. “He really is a good guy. I don’t think he’s made good choices in the past as far as his own dating life is concerned, but honestly, not many of these guys have.”
I know what she means, but I want to hear her version of it. “What do you mean?”
“Well. I mean…okay, so, not to be mean, but see the guy next to the pool grotto? His name is Marlon, and no offense, but those girls with him are groupies and only after one thing: his money. Maybe his fame too, and they never get brought around more than once—twice if they’re lucky. More like cling-ons, and I don’t know where they come from, but they’re not long-term material. Inevitably, these guys all end up with them at some point, and Buzz has gone through his fair share, too.” She takes a sip of the water she’s already poured for herself. “Like I said, I’m not knocking those girls—they could be very nice people. All I’m saying is these guys get used, and Buzz has been no exception.”
“So you’re saying Buzz has brought groupies around?”
“Just a few.” She pauses. “To be honest, I’ve only ever seen him with one other person, and it wasn’t at a private party—it was at a nightclub. I think everyone was pretty shocked to see him show up with you today.”
Oh, I just bet they were.
“Where did y’all meet?”
I decide to be honest since she’s going to find out who my father is one way or another, and since I never plan on seeing Buzz again after today, there’s no harm in it. Anyway, Miranda seems like a really great person, and I hate lying.
“I met him at the stadium this week. He…hit on me when I was there visiting my dad, after I got off the elevator on the wrong floor.” I chug my water. “Then I bumped into him yesterday at the fundraiser, and he… Okay, real talk? I sort of briefly kind of dated Marlon Daymon last year by accident.” Miranda’s brows shoot up at that fun fact. “Marlon wouldn’t leave me alone yesterday, and Buzz must have seen him giving me a hard time, so he came over and rescued me. Pretended to be dating me so Marlon would buzz off.” Jesus, listen to me, now I’m using his name as a pun. “To do that, he invited me here—in front of Marlon—and now here we are.”
Miranda says nothing, and I squirm. Shit. Did I reveal too much? What would Buzz say?
I open my mouth to apologize, but,
“I have sooo many questions.”
“Okay.”
“First of all—does your dad work at the stadium?”
“Yes. He’s the general manager.”
The brows shoot up farther. “Does Buzz know that?”
“Yes.”
She nods. “So you’re not actually dating him?”
“No.”
Her face drops, disappointed. “But you dated Marlon?”
“Sadly, yes.”
“I’m sorry.” We both laugh, and Miranda looks outside again. “You’re sure you don’t want to date him for real? He’s a really good guy.”
“I’m sure. I’ve had my fair share of athletes for the decade. I’ve filled my quota.”
“But Buzz isn’t anything like Marlon. I would hate for you to compare the two—not that it’s any of my business, just saying.”
I appreciate that. “I know, but…”
“Okay, okay, I won’t harp on it. Just think about it.” She comes around the counter to my side. “Meanwhile, we should probably…” Her head tips toward the backyard and the party outside.
I follow her back out, water in hand, returning to the group we left not ten short minutes ago. Buzz automatically flocks to my side, and if this were an actual date with actual potential, my heart and stomach would be doing flip-flops at how attentive he is. My stomach would tighten into a knot at the sight of his toned arms and wide shoulders, and the way the sunlight makes his hair look a bit brighter.
His teeth are blinding when he smiles down at me.
Nope.
My stomach isn’t tightening from nerves. It must be something else—that’s the only way to explain it.
I rest a hand there, on my abs, pressing down.
He notices.
“Is the baby kicking?”
A laugh bursts out of me—I cannot help it—and I smack him out of sheer panic and mortification. “Oh my god would you shut up!” I nervously laugh again and tell the group, “I am not pregnant.” Turn to Buzz. “Please stop telling people I’m pregnant.”
“Guys, don’t say anything. It upsets her,” he tells his friends. “It’s not good for the baby.”
I smack him again with an eye roll. “Knock it off.”
No one knows what to say.
Except Buzz, of course. “Just kidding. She’s not pregnant.” Pause. “Yet.”
I can’t do anything but shake my head, and if anyone knows what to say or do, they’re not saying or doing it, which is making this entire scene uncomfortable.
So awkward it’s awful, and I’m not sure if I should laugh nervously or throw myself into the deep end of the pool.
“Hollis, is it?” our host asks. “Where did the two of you meet?”
I open my mouth to reply, but Buzz beats me to it. “We bumped into each other a few times, and I conned her into coming with me today.”
I wonder why he isn’t telling the truth. Considering these are his friends and not mine, I don’t add to his story, just corroborate it with a nod.
“Yup. He definitely had to bribe me into going out with him.” Ugh, I just made it sound like we’ve been out before.
“Have you seen him throw back tacos yet?”
I look at Buzz. “Tacos?”
“Taco Tuesday is my favorite.”
A giggle escapes my lips. “What does that mean? You’re one of those people who actually pounds back tacos once a week?”
“Basically. And that’s a deal breaker. Answer this question: hard shell or soft?”
I mull over my answer. “It depends. If the meat is nice and greasy, I love a hard shell. I love it when the bottom gets soft and the outside is crunchy. Otherwise, I love soft shells—if it’s stuffed full and has beans and lots of sour cream.”
Yum.
“I present to you: my dream girl!” Buzz obnoxiously announces to the entire backyard. I glance at the pool, calculating how many steps it would take to get to the edge and dive in versus scaling the back wall and fleeing.
The thing is, while it sounds like he’s making a joke, he looks dead serious. But that can’t be right, can it?
From what I can see, this is a guy who doesn’t take anything seriously, so I can’t imagine being in a relationship with him. Can’t imagine him being faithful, or attentive, or—
“…not like a vertical taco or anything. Legit, with beef.”
I snap out of my daze and try to focus on what they’re saying. Vertical tacos? What on earth is he going on about?
I mean—these people think I’m with him with him, so even though this is all fake, I still want to strangle him for talking stupid! I still look bad for being here with him!
One of the wives—girlfriends?—takes pity on me and changes the subject, but it’s back to me, and I squirm.
“What do you do, Hollis?” Curious, she tips her head and waits for my reply, her blonde hair glistening in the sun, parted down the middle and curled within an inch of its life, probably extensions.
“I’m an editor.”
“Like, for a newspaper?”
“No one reads the newspaper.” Her husband/boyfriend rolls his eyes at her, which I think is rude. I recognize him as one of the outfielders on the Steam, Kevin something-or-other. Clearly he’s a self-absorbed prick if he’s going to belittle his significant other in public.
“Actually they do read the paper, but no—I’m not an editor for a newspaper. I’m in publishing. So, books.”
I wait for the questions to come.
“What kind of books?”
I shrug. “Fiction, mostly. Contemporary fiction.”
“Have I read anything you’ve edited?”
I think for a few seconds. “I edited As I Die Slowly which was on the New York Times best seller list for two weeks last year.” The author just sold the film rights to a production company.
“Never heard of it,” Kevin drawls, and I want to wipe that smug expression off his face by telling him who I am, but I haven’t name-dropped my father in years and am not about to start now.
Still. It’s chapping my ass that he’s being such a…such a…
