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Chapter 1 - Elsy

Surrounded by a million boxes, I look around the tiny, cluttered apartment and sigh.

“It’s not that bad,” Bex says. She helped drive my U-Haul from Boston to Austin. I don’t know what I’m going to do without her.

It took us four days to drive across the country. Despite living together for three years and being friends for two more, I think those four days might have permanently damaged our friendship.

I feel bad for leaving, even though I knew it was the right thing for me.

We met in grad school at Stanford, keeping in touch over the years, and when I accepted the Boston Symphony contract two years ago, it made sense for me to move in with her and her roommate, Vanessa. She had an extra room. I needed a place to stay. It was perfect.

The trio of us became a tightly knit trio in our few short years together. I’m going to miss them. A lot.

When things went south for me in Boston, I knew I had to get out, and fast. It was only a few weeks later that I packed up all my things and drove across the country.

Austin will be a fresh start. I need it.

There’s a knock on my door and, curious, I open it. I’m not expecting anyone. The property manager already came by. Maybe this is a friendly neighbor? Hopefully, they’ll be my age and single.

A tall, built, light-haired man stands on my doorstep. Wyatt Whitney, professional hockey player and the bane of my existence, props an arm on the doorframe and scowls.

“Elsabeth.”

“What are you doing here?” I snap.

He arches an eyebrow. “That’s how you thank me?”

My laugh is bitter. “Thank you for what?”

“I invited him over,” Bex calls from behind me. “Come on in, Wy.”

I glare at her. “Why’s he here?”

“Because you have ten thousand boxes and I want to get you unpacked sometime before next year,” she says with a grin. “By the time I board that plane tomorrow, I want to be confident you’re not going to starve or break your neck tripped up over boxes.”

It’s only then that I see Wyatt holding a toolbox, a bag of takeout in his other hand.

It’s not my best friend’s fault that I hate her brother. She doesn’t know I slept with him—years before I knew they were related.

It is his fault that he doesn’t remember we hooked up. He’s always treated me like I’m nothing more than the scum on his shoes.

And yeah, I know it was only ever supposed to be a one-night stand, but for him not to remember me after?

My best friend Mitch invited me to go with him to Ottawa for the World Juniors championship and took me to a bar to hang out with his hockey buddies. Wyatt came up and flirted with me, obviously trying to steal me away from Mitch. It’s never been like that with us; we’ve always been strictly platonic, but he didn’t know that.

He was cute; I was drunk and lonely, so I went back to his hotel room with him. I snuck out in the morning before he woke up and went about my day.

But then I saw him in the hotel lobby with a few of the other hockey players. They were teasing him about going home with a “tubby butterface with good tits.”

Hey, I was drunk, Wyatt said. At least she put out.

My stomach sank. The sweet, charming guy I’d seen glimpses of turned out to be a pig in his natural environment. What a disappointment. He was just like every other guy I’d met.

Our eyes met.

He saw my face.

He knew I heard.

And I’ve never been able to forget that.

I met Bex two years later, and it was another year and a half before I had a reason to meet her brother.

And when we met up in that dirty college dive bar, it was clear from the blank look on his face that he didn’t remember me. He introduced himself with a disinterested handshake and immediately started hitting on another woman.

In the years since, he’s always treated me like any of Bex’s other friends. Distant. Sometimes cold. Never cruel. It’s clear he has no idea why I dislike him, but he’s always given it back just as good, so evidently it doesn’t bother him.

Wyatt sets the bag of takeout on the counter. “What do you want first, building furniture or lunch?”

“Lunch. Definitely,” Bex answers for us.

My stomach lurches, and it’s definitely not from hunger. I don’t like eating in front of him. We’ve only shared a few meals together over the years, and always with his sister chaperoning. It makes me remember the sick feeling in my stomach that morning all those years ago. I’m fat. I know I’m fat. I don’t need it pointed out to me. Especially after a man has just had me naked in his bed.

Eating in front of him? That’s a level of vulnerability I’ve never been able to get over. Almost as big as taking my shirt off in front of a man.

The apartment has a high counter with a bar area, but we have no stools yet, so we stand around the counter. Even though I didn’t bring much furniture with me, I have enough stuff to clutter the place. It sets my teeth on edge. I don’t like clutter.

That reminds me; I need to take my meds. Fishing the bottle out of my purse, I tap a tablet into my palm and wash it down with my can of Coke. The carbonation makes it not the most pleasant experience, but one I’m well used to. Water is for the weak.

Bex grabs the bag of food, handing me the tuna salad sandwich and giving Wyatt two turkey clubs, keeping the roast beef for herself. She must have told him that tuna salad is my favorite. Everyone else hates it, which just means more for me. There’s even a container of potato salad. Score!

“This place is right around the corner,” Wyatt says.

I arch an eyebrow. Why is he talking to me?

“I snagged their menu in case you want to order from them again.” He practically unhinges his jaw and shoves a club triangle into his mouth.

“I’m surprised you didn’t get pizza,” Bex says. “That’s the classic moving food.”

He lifts a massive shoulder. “Eliza doesn’t like pizza.”

The hairs on the back of my neck prickle. I hate when he calls me pet names. But also—

“How do you know I don’t like pizza?” I demand.

I mean, I don’t. Red sauce is so not my thing. And it always gives me heartburn. I love pepperoni, though—on its own, or in a sandwich, or even on a salad.

Wyatt shrugs again. “You’ve mentioned it.”

“No, I haven’t.” Because usually people make fun of me or tell me it’s impossible that I don’t like it. I just haven’t had a good one. I haven’t tried it enough. It’s like sex. When it’s good, it’s good. When it’s bad… it’s still sex, so it can’t be all bad. Right?

Sadly, just like pizza for me, sex has always been bad.

Including sex with this asshat.

Well—the actual time we were in bed was fine. Decent. Above average. It’s just what happened afterward that’s ruined my opinion.

“Sure, you have,” he insists.

My eyes narrow. “When have we ever had pizza together?” I don’t know why I’m pushing this. It’s weird that he knows this about me when most people don’t. Hell, I don’t think Bex even realized I don’t eat it. Usually, we order Thai or Mexican.

Past tense. Ordered. Because we won’t be living together anymore.

Blowing out a breath, I pick at my sandwich, my appetite evaporating at the reminder. Even though I’ve moved criss-cross the country on multiple occasions, this one is hitting the hardest. I really liked my life in Boston. I have a good network of friends there, good friends. I have a job I loved.

Had.

Before things with Stephen got so tense it bled over into work, I really liked it there. I was the symphony’s first fucking violin chair. I was tapped for major solos, and my music teaching gig was thriving.

And because my ex is an insecure asshole, now I have none of that.

Well, I’ll still have my friends, even if now our friendship has to be nurtured from a distance.

Luckily, Austin wanted me. They even gave me a raise over what Boston was paying me, and with the lower cost of living, I’ll finally be able to save a little. They liked me, just not enough to pay moving expenses, and even bootstrapping most of it myself, it hasn’t been cheap. Plus, now I’ll have to buy a car. I didn’t need one back in Boston, but here in Texas, everything is driving distance.

Wyatt shakes his head, drawing my attention back to him. He always has to be the center of the fucking universe. His strawberry blond hair is a little longer than usual. There are red flecks in his light scruff. I bet if he grew it out, it would be red.

Why the fuck does he have to be so fucking hot? It’s like the universe is taunting me, reminding me that the pretty people have everything and everyone else—the fat, the ugly, the boring—have nothing.

I have nothing.

“Fuck. I have to buy a car,” I announce, and Bex winces.

“Have you figured out what car you want yet?” he asks.

“No. I figured I’d go to a used lot and find whatever’s cheap and reliable.”

If Mitch were here, he’d be able to talk the car salesperson into giving me a deal. As it is, shopping as a single woman, I’m sure they’ll try to upsell and overcharge me on everything.

Wyatt makes a face. “Want me to go with you?”

I frown. “Why?”

He shrugs. “Moral support?”

“Seriously?” I laugh, and when he doesn’t crack a smile, mine falls. “You’re serious?”

“I have some free time tomorrow after I drop Bex at the airport.”

“You’d do that for me?” I’ve never hidden my dislike of him, and even if he doesn’t know why, he’s never backed down from a fight.

And we fight. Constantly.

“You’re my little sister’s friend. Sure.” He can’t hide the distaste on his face, though.

“Don’t act like I’m twisting your arm.”

Bex looks between us. “This is perfect. You’ll look out for her, won’t you, Wy?”

He grunts.

“I don’t need anyone to look out for me. I’m fine.” Crossing my arms over my chest, I nearly knock over my Coke can.

Quick as lightning, Wyatt’s hand darts out and stabilizes the can before it upends. He raises a brow, triumphant.

“Thanks,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. So he has good reflexes. Whatever. He’s a professional athlete. It’s part of the job description.

“You’ll invite her out, right?” Bex pushes. “I don’t want her hiding away because she doesn’t know anyone in town.”

“I’ll be fine. I’ve done this before,” I remind her.

“Yeah, but it’s different. With everything with you-know-who…”

My face pinches at the mention of my ex. “I won’t be a hermit.” Not any more than usual. I’m an introvert and a homebody by nature. “I’ve already got a lead on a bookclub and I’m sure I’ll make friends at work. Besides, I have to get some teaching gigs lined up. I’ll be too busy to go out much.”

Bex laughs and pats my arm. “Yeah. Okay. Keep telling yourself that.” She turns to her brother. “Make sure she doesn’t bury herself in work, too.”

Wyatt rolls his eyes. “She can take care of herself.”

Yes! That’s exactly what I’ve been saying.

Wait. I frown. Is he saying that because he doesn’t want to help?

Not that I want him to help. I don’t need it—from him, or from anyone else.

Bex glares at him.

“Fine,” Wyatt sighs. “I’ll invite her to hang out.”

Great. Now he’s talking about me like I’m not even here. I don’t know what’s worse, the infantilization or his ignoring my presence.

He throws his to-go container into a bag and reaches for mine. His eyebrows go up when he sees I haven’t eaten my sandwich.

“Was tuna the wrong choice?”

I shake my head. “It’s fine. I’m just not hungry, I guess.”

Wyatt hums. “I’ll put it in the fridge. You can eat it later.”

That’s… surprisingly thoughtful.

Damn it. Why does he have to be anything other than the two-dimensional caricature of a villain I like to remember him as?

He deals with the trash, then lifts his toolbox.

“What do I need to build?”

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Read more in Tripped Up , a best friend’s brother, enemies to lovers romance.