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Elsy

“It’s not that bad,” Bex says, glancing around.

Not that bad?

Totes clutter every corner, stacked in daunting towers. And the maze of unopened boxes is a definite fire hazard.

Sighing, I stare up at the ceiling. The last thing I need is to trip over one of these endless cardboard death traps and break my neck—or worse, my hands.

Bex and I 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 three of us became a tightly knit trio in our short time together. I’m going to miss them. A lot. I feel bad for leaving, even though I know it’s the right thing for me.

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

Austin will be a fresh start—one I desperately need.

A knock raps on my door, sparking my curiosity. The property manager already came by, and considering I don’t know anybody else, I’m not expecting anyone. Maybe it’s a friendly neighbor? Swinging the door open, I keep my fingers crossed that they’re 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?”

A bitter laugh rips from my throat. “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 getting tripped up over the mess.”

Only then do I see Wyatt’s 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—long 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 watch him in Ottawa for the World Juniors Championship, then 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 Wyatt 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 was prepared to move on with my life. It was a great night, sure. But he was a hotshot hockey player at a college halfway across the country. The last thing I expected was for us to fall madly in love and have a happy ever after at nineteen years old.

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 exactly 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 several years later in grad school, 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.

Since then, 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 not from hunger. I hate eating in front of him. Over the years, we’ve only shared a few meals together, and always with his sister chaperoning. It makes me remember the sick feeling in my stomach that morning after we hooked up. I’m fat. I know I’m fat. I don’t need it pointed out to me. Especially after a man 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 I don’t have stools yet, so we stand around the peninsula. Even though I didn’t bring much furniture with me, I have enough stuff to clutter the place. It sets my teeth on edge and pricks at my skin like a million bee stings.

That reminds me; I need to take my meds. Fishing the bottle out of my purse, I take deep, calming breaths, then tap a tablet into my palm and wash it down with a gulp 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 tuna salad is my favorite. Everyone else hates it, which 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.”

“Eliza doesn’t like pizza.”

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

“And exactly how do you know I don’t like pizza?”

I mean, I don’t. Red sauce is so not my thing, and it always gives me heartburn. Pepperoni is great, 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 people usually make fun of me or tell me it’s impossible that I don’t like it. I 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, 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 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 crisscross the country on multiple occasions, this one is hitting the hardest. I loved my life in Boston. I have a large 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, my life in Massachusetts was perfect. It was my favorite of all the places I’ve ever lived. I was promoted to the symphony’s first fucking violin chair before I turned thirty. Now, at thirty-two, I was being tapped for major solos, and my music teaching gig was thriving.

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

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

Luckily, the Austin Symphony 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, and 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—has nothing.

I have nothing.

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

“Have you figured out what 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, his disdain clear as day. “Want me to go with you?”

A frown twists my lips. “Why?” He doesn’t like me—why does he want to willingly spend more time with me?

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.” The distaste on his face sings another tune.

“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 it 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 book club 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. Is he saying that because he doesn’t want to help?

Not that I want him to. 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 dart up when he sees I haven’t eaten my sandwich.

“Was tuna the wrong choice?”

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

Tilting his head, 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?”