Page 24 of Tripped Up

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.”