He doesn’t know what to say.

Good.

He’s a dick.

“Can’t a guy ask a girl for drinks without getting the third degree?”

“Most guys. Not you.”

He’s quiet again. “Why don’t you like me?”

My brows go up as I separate the Tupperware containers, popping their lids on so they remain organized. I stack them inside the lower cabinet. “I don’t know you.” Plus, I do not care to.

I tolerated him for the sake of my cousin, but now the wedding is over. He’s going to have to ask me a whole lot nicer to have drinks with him if he wants me to overturn my decision.

Hmph.

I rise, letting the kitchen cabinet door close, moving to the next box full of wares.

“I want to get to know you.”

Wow. What a liar.

Still, I can’t help wondering what the angle is, why he’s calling me out of the blue. It’s so strange. Yet that curious, nosey part of me is willing to bite, to entertain this conversation a bit longer.

Call me crazy, but I have nothing else going on.

Surrounded by cardboard boxes and totes, this is hardly anyone’s ideal night.

“Maybe I’d agree to let you feed me if you weren’t straight-up lying.”

“Who said I’m feeding you? I said drinks.”

That makes me laugh; he is such an asshole!

“I have a lot of unpacking to do.”

“That sounds a lot like, ‘I have to wash my hair.’”

I mean—he’s not wrong. “I’m very busy.”

“Busy is just an excuse.”

I agree. Not that I’m telling him that. “I get that you like winning, but this isn’t a competition.”

“Never said it was.”

“But you’re determined to go out with me.” For whatever unknown reason which makes zero sense. “I’m still not convinced this is legit. Are you asking me out so you can serve me with court papers? Or embarrass me in public?”

“Court papers for what?”

“I don’t know—crimes against athletes.” I close the cabinet and stand, stretching my calves after being in a squatting position the past ten minutes. Hands on my hips, I survey the room full of boxes. “It was great hearing from you.” Not. “Thanks for the invitation, but I’ll have to pass.”

I hear Tripp open his mouth to speak, but before he can argue, I end the call and toss my phone to the counter.

It vibrates and pings almost immediately.

Tripp: YOU HUNG UP ON ME!

Me: Sorry? Has no one ever done that?

Tripp: No, NO ONE has ever done that.

Me: You sound outraged, calm down.

Tripp: I’m just stating a fact.

Me: In all caps…

Tripp: You’re missing the point.

Me: I actually have NO IDEA what your point is…

Tripp: You hung up on me.

Me: LOL

Tripp: You’re a horrible person.

Me: You’re a spoiled brat.

Tripp: I AM THE LEAST SPOILED PERSON.

Me: Okay, well, you’re arguing because I won’t go on a date with you.

Tripp: It’s not a date.

Me: Oh, well, pardon me!

Tripp: It’s drinks. A drink.

Me: Of which I will not be partaking.

This seems to tamp him down a bit, and he leaves me alone for the better half of an hour, during which I manage to unpack the entire contents of my kitchen and begin on the living room. Throw pillows, throw blankets, decorative books, odds and ends.

I’m fluffing the couch cushions when my phone chimes again.

Tripp: Are you done being difficult?

Wow. This guy is not only full of himself, but completely out of touch with how to behave with a woman.

Me: Are you done being an ass?

Tripp: No.

That makes me laugh and I stand in the center of my living room, staring at the glowing screen of my phone, incredulous that this man is so arrogant and unapologetic about it.

Honestly.

No shame.

And believe me, growing up surrounded by pompous windbags, tolerating assholery has become second nature—nothing surprises me about the way men behave when they have too much money, too many people kissing their asses, too many people jumping to do their bidding.

Yes men, my dad calls them.

Not only are the athletes spoiled, the wives can be, too. Making demands and requests. More food in the game suite…more tickets for family…more tickets for friends…better seats near the dugout…better seats behind home plate…better food in the game suite…tickets to this show, tickets to that show. More money. More appearances. More, more, more.

I get exhausted thinking about it; the fact that I’ll be working in the offices at the stadium just takes the wind out of my sails.

A few more minutes go by before Tripp messages me again.

Tripp: I was going through a rough patch.

I look at that sentence and audibly say, “Huh?” out loud to no one, confused. Going through a rough patch…what on earth is he talking about?

Me: I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean.

Tripp: I haven’t been myself these past few weeks.

I roll my eyes, knowing that can’t be true. This man is never warm and fuzzy—he deserved to be tossed on his ass by a female.