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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.
