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.