Page 17 of Tripped Up

My chest pangs.

“Is that what you think I want?” I can hear the pain in my voice. Can she? I hope not. “Do you really think this is only a game to me?”

“Isn’t it?”

The call disconnects.

Fuck. I messed that up. Hell, I’m messing everything up.

Darting inside the deli, I pick up the order and drive the short distance to her apartment.

Her building is gated, a squat five floors centered around a resort-style pool with cabanas and loungers. There are pickleball, tennis, and basketball courts. It’s the kind of bougie place my sister would love, but I didn’t think Elsy would go after all these upscale amenities.

Someone is leaving as I walk in, so I nod and they hold the door open.

Making my way up to the fourth floor, I shake out my shoulders and take a breath to steady myself. It’ll be okay. Although I have no idea why I’m here. This is probably a terrible idea, but it’ll all work out.

I just need to get my head in the game.

seven

Elsy

The knock on my door startles me, making me knock over my nail polish onto the vinyl flooring.

“Just a minute,” I call, as I frantically reach for the tissues on my coffee table. I do my best to mop up the blood-red polish before it can stain, then hobble with wet toes to the front door.

I’m expecting a delivery, or maybe my cute neighbor with more of my mail that keeps getting delivered to his box.

Instead, I find the hulking form of Wyatt, devil incarnate. He’s wearing an Aces T-shirt and is probably fresh from the arena. He smells good, too. Fuck. Why does he always have to smell so damn good?

“What are you doing here?” I demand.

“Brought you dinner.” He holds up a bag from the deli—the same one he brought food from the day he helped me move in.

My eyes narrow with suspicion. “Why?”

Especially after I hung up on him. His showing up here is the last thing I expected.

His bulky shoulders jump with a shrug. “You need to eat.”

Is that a dig at my size? I know I’m fat; I don’t need him to point it out.

“Come on,” he says, more softly now. “Let me in, Elspeth.”

I grunt. “Don’t call me that.”

Against my better judgment, I step aside and let him into my apartment. He looks around with interest. I’m almost fully unpacked and have started decorating. There are stools for my kitchen counter now, along with throw pillows and blankets on the couch.

Wyatt beelines to the counter, unloading the bag of takeout. He rummages through my cabinets, too, pulling out plates and finding forks in the drawer. I’m surprised by the care he takes as he plates our food.

“What are you doing here?” I ask again.

Instead of answering, he slides a plate across the counter for me as I sit.

“I got you tuna salad on a croissant,” he says. “I thought maybe you didn’t like their sourdough.”

“Croissants are… good.” Why is it I’m always so tongue-tied around him? I can hardly think straight.