Page 9

nine

Elsy

Wyatt is wearing a tuxedo. This is not a drill. Tall, wide, built, gorgeous Wyatt Whitney is standing on my doorstep in a fucking tuxedo, holding a corsage with a deep-red rose at the center. His strawberry-blond hair is slicked back away from his ruddy, freshly shaved face.

His mouth hangs open, his face slack as he stares at me. “Elsy…”

My stomach falls. Fuck. I can’t wear this dress. Clearly, it was a mistake. I thought being a little adventurous with the sequins would be a fun change, but I should have put on my boring, boxy black dress.

“Let me go change,” I mutter, turning away from the door.

“Don’t change,” he blurts out. “Don’t ever change.”

It’s my turn to stare at him. “What’s gotten into you?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing. Just—let’s go. Are you ready?”

I grab my shawl and my clutch in one hand, my violin in the other. My hand shakes as I go to lock the front door and gently, his touch so light on mine, Wyatt takes the key and locks up. He grabs my hand in his, pressing the key to my palm, and then slips the corsage onto my wrist.

“What’s this?” I touch the flower petals of the three roses. They’re soft as silk. The dark red looks good against the navy blue of my dress, with pops of white baby’s breath and greenery to fill out the corsage.

“I thought you needed it,” he says with a bashful little grin. “You look great.”

“Thanks. You clean up pretty well yourself.”

I mean, it’s not a hardship to look at him on a good day. Add in the tuxedo and the heady cologne… whew, it’s a pretty powerful package.

Then again—a tuxedo on any halfway good-looking man is enough to turn up the attraction level. That Wyatt is already a solid ten on a good day…

If only he didn’t have to open his mouth. Then he’d be an eleven on a scale from one to ten.

When we reach his car in the guest parking lot, he opens the door and waits for me to get in before closing it gently. He tugs at his bowtie as he climbs into the driver’s seat.

“You ready?” he asks, turning to look at me. For once, he doesn’t look at my boobs.

“Let’s get this over with,” I mutter, edging away from him and closer to the car door.

Wyatt frowns. “Okay.” Is that disappointment in his tone? I can’t imagine why. He probably wants this night to be over with as much as I do.

He’s the one doing me the favor, and I’m already dreading what he’s going to ask me to do in return. Because if I know Wyatt, he will always make sure I repay the favor—with interest. Going to his game the other night wasn’t enough. With him, nothing ever is.

Instead of valeting the car, I direct him to the employees’ parking lot. Nerves swirl in my stomach, and I’m already regretting bringing him to this thing. I could have come alone. It’s work. And I have to mingle with the patrons and prove that the symphony is worth donating to.

Wyatt’s hand is on the small of my back as we navigate into the building. He offered to carry my violin, but he’s lucky I even let him breathe near it, so he’s carrying my purse with his head held high.

Hilary, the admin in charge of corralling all the musicians, directs me where to leave my violin. My ensemble isn’t performing until later this evening, so I have time to schmooze the patrons.

I love patrons. I hate schmoozing.

Small talk doesn’t come naturally to me. It feels disingenuous. Yes, I care about how the person I’m talking to is doing, but I don’t know them. It’s all surface level. There’s no time to actually get to know them. It’s all a plea for them to open their wallets on the symphony’s behalf.

It’s not like I can use Wyatt as a buffer. He’s a sports guy. Somehow, I doubt the people who come to our performances are the same type of people who go to his games.

But when we approach the first couple, who look to be in their mid-fifties, the man smiles wide.

“You’re Wyatt Whitney,” he says.

“Yes, sir, I am,” Wyatt says, offering his hand for a shake. “This is Elsy Alexander. She’s a violinist with the symphony.”

“Oh, how lovely,” the wife says. She’s wearing a red velvet gown and enough diamonds to fund several small countries. Her bleached-blond hair is teased high. I guess when they said everything is bigger in Texas, they meant everything . Even her boobs, which, from how high they sit on her chest, have been artificially enhanced.

Hey. Live your truth. There’s nothing wrong with getting a breast augmentation. Sure, if I were to do so, it would be a reduction rather than an increase, but I have no way of knowing what she looked like before.

I’ve considered lip fillers over the years, since mine are so narrow, but I’ve chickened out both times I sat in the exam room. The closest I’ve gotten is microneedling my brows and eyelash extensions, semi-permanent modifications that I know will fade away or can be reversed if I regret them too much. I can’t wear long nails because of the violin, so I’m limited to fun polish colors, even if I almost always end up with my same color: Ruby Pumps.

Wyatt squeezes my arm, and I glance up at him, confused. He lifts one blond eyebrow.

Oh. Yeah.

Schmoozing. Patrons. Wahoo.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of a man in a tuxedo. He’s maybe five foot eight, with dark brown hair and a short beard, and?—

Adrenaline courses through me, raising my heart rate with each pounding beat and flooding my system with an unwanted chemical reaction.

Oh, no.

No. Not now.

I thought I was getting better. I thought I was over this.

“Would you excuse us for a moment,” I say politely, then drag Wyatt away before they can speak.

He removes my hand from his elbow and sets his palm on my back.

“What’s going on?” he mutters as I stalk across the room.

“Not here.”

“Elsy—”

“I said, not here.”

Yanking open the first door I see, I scan the small closet. I throw myself inside, and Wyatt follows at a more sedate pace, closing the door behind us.

“What’s going on?” he asks.

My throat constricts like it’s closing. I reach for the necklace I’m wearing, fiddling with the clasp, but my fingers feel thick, clumsy.

“Can you take this off?” Panic laces my voice.

“Elsy, what’s going on?” Wyatt asks. His voice sounds far away.

“Take off my fucking necklace,” I snap. “I can’t breathe.”

His big, warm body moves behind me. It takes him a few tries, but finally the dainty silver chain falls away, and I catch it in my palm.

I take in a ragged breath, trying to work air into my lungs. It’s not enough. Bending over, I set one hand on my knee, the other on the wall to brace myself.

My hair is tied up in a sleek bun that took fucking forever to do, so at least it’s not loose and getting in my way. The fabric of my dress is breathable, so I don’t feel too confined—not any more so than usual in my shapewear, at least. I kick off my uncomfortable heels and try to breathe.

Wyatt sets a hand on my shoulder. “Elsy, you’re scaring me.”

“I’m scaring me, too.” I sound drunk. Or maybe high.

“Are you okay?”

A dark laugh spills past my tingling lips. “I’m on the brink of a panic attack and you’re asking me if I’m okay?”

“Is that what this is?”

I glance up at him. He has his hand in his pocket, concern sketched on his face. Calm, cool, collected. Nothing fazes him.

“Yeah. They happen sometimes,” I mutter.

“How can I help?”

“There’s nothing you can do.”

He hums, reaching for me. I’m surprised when he pulls me upright, then grabs my hand and places it over his heart.

“Can you feel that?” he whispers.

I nod. The thump, thump, thump of his heart is steady and strong.

“Just focus on my heartbeat. Breathe in.”

Inhaling, I let my lungs expand.

“And out,” he murmurs, and I exhale through my nose. “That’s it. You’re doing so good.”

Something in me lights up at his praise, cutting through the panic tingeing my every thought.

“Breathe in again.”

I inhale.

“And exhale.”

I release the breath.

“You’re good at this,” I mutter, my eyes focused on the column of buttons lining his shirt.

“I used to get panic attacks,” Wyatt admits in a calm, quiet voice. His stormy blue eyes are locked on mine.

“What?” I had no idea. Bex never mentioned anything.

He nods, holding my gaze. “Before every game. Sometimes between intermissions.”

“How—but you’re a professional hockey player.”

“Took a lot of work to get there. Spent a lot of time with a sports psychologist. She gave me some tips.” He gives me a sad smile. Then it fades. “It’s hard, especially when you’re in the thick of it. It feels almost impossible to overcome.”

“Yeah.”

“But you can overcome this,” he says firmly. “This doesn’t have to define you, it doesn’t have to limit you. You can find a way to work with it, instead of against it.”

“I’ve had panic attacks before,” I snap.

He squeezes my hand, still pressed against his pec. “And you’ll probably have them again. We just have to work on whatever triggered it.”

I look away.

“Do you know what triggered it?” There’s no pity in his voice, only concern.

“I thought I saw my ex,” I mutter, looking away.

His sharp inhalation is enough of an answer.

“I’m pathetic. I know.”

“Elsy, you are many things,” Wyatt says. “But you are definitely not pathetic.”