Twenty-Two – Morgan
Twenty-Two
Morgan
T he coast was clear. No Redmonds or happily mated obstacles stood between me and the elevator.
Shutting off the security camera viewing panel, I turned—only to find Kelsey standing in the doorway of the Beaufeather’s stockroom, arms stacked with packages ready for shipping, a roll of packing tape sitting on her wrist like a bracelet.
“Aren’t you a little old to be terrorizing boys?” she asked, padding across the wood floor toward the dining table.
“How does avoiding them qualify as terrorism?” I countered, adjusting my glasses.
“Because you’re toying with them. And Alijah, at least, is too nice to deserve this.” Setting down the last mailing envelope, Kelsey spun to face me, hands on her hips, her expression downright challenging. “Why can’t you just be honest?”
“Because it’s complicated,” I said, collecting my work bag and travel mug of tea from the entry table. “And I don’t have time for complications.”
“But you had time to explain the neighbor situation to your pheromone stud?”
“That’s different. Cal figured it out on his own.”
“Oh,” she said, dragging out the word to an absurd length. “That’s why Cal’s different—not because you have feelings for him.”
I shook my head and turned the camera interface back on. “Mm, sorry. No feelings here. Jacobi doesn’t call me a heartless bitch for nothing.”
Kelsey ripped off a piece of tape with a loud, sticky screech, flashing me a pert grin. “Whatever you say, sister dear.”
***
“Say that again?”
Ethan’s amused laugh crackled through my car speakers. “The front desk got another complaint about a strange odor in the gym today.”
“Strange,” I asked, pressing my forehead against the steering wheel, “or shrubbery?”
“The exact phrasing was, ‘like trying to lift weights inside a compost bin,’ but shrubbery works, too. How’d you know?”
I peeked over the steering wheel at the entrance of the women’s gymnastics training center, where yet another swarm of adoring young girls surrounded Wyatt. Whatever brand of scent-canceling spray he was using owed him a refund.
“Because,” I muttered, “I think I know what’s going on.”
“Do tell,” Ethan said, not bothering to downplay his interest.
“Are you asking as my brother or as the property manager?”
“Ooh, now I really want to know.”
I heaved a sigh. “Can this stay between us?”
“Of course, especially if it saves me from calling in a ventilation tech.”
Ethan and his packmates ran the property management arm of the real estate firm our parents owned. Mom was semi-retired now, only selling the occasional property here and there, so she could spend more time with Papa and our nieces, but Dad was still firmly at the helm.
Tolliver Yards wasn’t Ethan’s largest or most profitable client, but he liked to handle our affairs personally. Not because of my ownership stake, but because two of his sisters lived there.
Once, he’d been the worst kind of overprotective alpha big brother. Over the years, he’d mellowed into a solid, nonjudgmental rock, which was a relief because I didn’t have time to manage things.
That used to be Jacobi’s very part-time role—strolling into the management office with holiday treats, handing out anniversary bonuses to the staff, and personally awarding prizes for the most festive balconies or spookiest door decorations.
Another collection of his favorite things—abandoned in favor of Hugo .
Thankfully, Ethan’s handpicked building manager and concierge team had stepped in to fill the void, making the current conversation even more awkward.
“I think a new resident might be having an issue with pheromone management.”
“A new resident?” Ethan’s pause was brief but pointed, making me feel even worse about glossing things over. “Or that new resident?”
I buried my face against the steering wheel, resisting the urge to groan. “Yeah, it’s him. Bumped into him on campus a few times, and from how some students reacted… He knows it’s an issue. I’ll talk to him.”
How the hell was I supposed to break the news to Wyatt that his pheromones were offending the neighbors? It’d crush him. He already had enough insecurities about having a divisive pheromone signature—boxwoods weren’t everyone’s cup of tea—and the last thing I wanted was to make him feel self-conscious in what was supposed to be a safe space, his home, no matter how temporary.
“Not saying you’re wrong,” Ethan countered gently, “but the gym ventilation system is top of the line. Nothing’s supposed to linger for more than a few minutes. We’re talking about a stench that lingers for up to thirty. That can’t be blamed on just one guy… Unless he’s in a bad way.”
“A prescription-strength scent-blocker should solve the problem.” My response was purposefully vague. Wyatt’s pheromones were off-limits for discussion, no matter who brought them up—Kelsey, Jacobi, but especially Ethan.
“Wonder if the kid’s still scared of me.”
“He’s thirty-one.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Ethan let out a dry laugh. “He’s still a punk kid as far as I’m concerned.”
“Ethan, honestly…”
“Do you blame me?”
I studied the distant outline of Wyatt’s bashful face. “No, of course not. It’s not… Not about that.”
“That first year was brutal. None of us handled it well. Certainly not me. The only person who didn’t fuck up was Kelsey.”
The sun dipped lower, illuminating the water beyond the riverfront dormitories with a hazy orange glow. I needed to leave soon, or I’d be stuck navigating bridge traffic at dusk—my least favorite time to drive, even before the accident.
Now, with my depth perception skewed and headlights turned into headache-inducing sensory weapons, it was downright unbearable. And dangerous.
“So, you’re asking me to—to what? Forget even more than I already have?”
“No, but you should hear him out. You owe it to yourself.”
I dropped my aching skull against the headrest, closing my eyes as I forced two deep, centering breaths. “Can we go back to talking about property taxes?”
“Fine, fine, I’ll shut up now. But you better talk to him about the stench fast, or I’ll do it myself.”
“Okay. Tell the guys I say hi.”
“Will do—drive safe. Love you, sis.”
“Love you, too.”
As I pulled out of the parking lot, I decided to ask Kelsey if she had any ideas. At the very least, she could be my surrogate nose.
She wouldn’t be offended if I asked her to sniff around the gym downstairs. Over the years, I’d asked her to smell plenty of weird things for me.
But my almost-boyfriend’s decaying pheromone signature? That was a new low, even for me.
***
By the end of my morning workout, I was no closer to figuring out how to approach Wyatt. Kelsey couldn’t think of anything that didn’t involve honesty. I wasn’t in the mood for that.
My singular bright idea? Arranging for Wyatt and Cal to cross paths. Surely, the honorable pheromone wizard would swoop in and save Wyatt from his problematic scent.
There was just one teensy hiccup in my plan. How was I supposed to orchestrate a meeting between two men I wasn’t exactly on speaking terms with?
Once my morning routine was finished, it was time to head to the sports medicine clinic. I gave Kip a final belly rub on the kitchen island and waved goodbye to Tenny, snoozing on the cat tree in the far corner of the living room.
Opening the front door, I nearly stepped on a to-go coffee cup and a red gift bag with my name scrawled across it in messy capital letters. The handwriting sent a rueful pang through me. I knew it. Would have known it anywhere. I had seen it countless times before—on the tags of other gifts, and on the sides of other drinks left outside my hotel room during high-level gymnastics events.
I glanced at the opposite door, wondering if Wyatt was watching as I knelt to pick up the cup and bag before withdrawing into the loft. The items were unexpected, but the fact that Wyatt had figured out we were neighbors first? That didn’t surprise me at all.
After setting the gifts and my work bag on the entrance table, I removed the cup lid to reveal perfectly steeped hibiscus tea. My go-to drink before competitions because it helped to prevent muscle cramps and gave an electrolyte boost.
He remembered.
My gaze shifted to the gift bag. Red used to be my favorite color—my lucky color—before I’d lost the ability to look at anything brighter than a mild green without wincing. It’s why most of my leotards were red. And it’s why I suggested Grace and I wear scarlet the night of the accident. Even the hibiscus tea was red.
With my heart lodged in my throat, I opened the bag and peered inside. There were a handful of protein bars from my favorite brand when I was competing and two hardcover books. I pulled them out, surprised to find they were recent titles from fantasy authors I used to love—authors I must have told him about, once upon a time. We used to talk about everything.
He didn’t even like to read, especially not fiction. History books and sports statistics were more his speed, and he preferred biographical audiobooks when traveling.
Complicated names with extra vowels and silent letters? Forget it. His dyslexia had no patience for them.
Wyatt’s shiny new business card was paperclipped to one of the book covers, his cell phone number written at the bottom in forcibly legible digits. A sticky note hung from the edge of the card. Its message was simple yet devastating.
Ten years of triumph. Proud of you. – W
A schism opened in the base of my skull, running from my once-fractured vertebrae straight into my central nervous system. It hurled me through space and time, back to that terrible moment when my scrambled brain rebooted.
I understood something was wrong but couldn’t grasp what it was. My head throbbed, my vision blurry, and the world seemed nebulous. Unreal. Yet even through the haze, I could tell my parents were thinner, ragged. My hands seemed to be attached to someone else’s body. Nothing moved how I wanted. I just didn’t feel right .
At least I knew the date—October eighteenth.
Except it wasn’t. It was late January of the following year. And nothing would ever be the same.
Today wasn’t October eighteenth. It couldn’t be. I would have noticed. Sensed its approach with creeping dread, fending off interview requests and ignoring unknown phone numbers, the same as I did every year. Ethan or Kelsey would have said something last night. Jacobi would have called.
Didn’t I have another week to prepare myself?
Ignoring my shaking hand, I pulled my phone from my work bag. The screen lit up, displaying the one date I didn’t need a calendar reminder for. Or so I’d thought.
There was a text from Grace, hoping the day landed gently and promising she’d call later.
Then a message from Rory popped up, overflowing with heart emojis and a picture of the misty autumn morning outside his dorm room window.
They’d remembered. Even Wyatt had remembered.
But I hadn’t.
I was the problem. Me.
How could someone forget the tenth anniversary of the worst day of their life?
A single tear hit the phone screen. Just one. I couldn’t afford to let a second one escape. If I did, my head would split apart within the hour.
“Are you okay?”
Kelsey stood at the top of the stairs in her pajamas, worry etched into her features.
I shook my head and pulled off my glasses, digging my palms into my traitorous eyes.
“Need to call out?” she asked gently.
“Can’t. Just need a minute.”
“Are you sure?”
I would have lied to anyone else. Told them I was fine, all systems normal, nothing to worry about. That my control wasn’t unraveling before I’d even made it out the door.
“No,” I said, choking on the word as I tried to catch my breath. “But there’s too much to do.”
Not wanting to worry her further, I grabbed the gift bag and retreated to my wreck of a nest, untouched since my most recent detonation. I dropped everything but the business card on the nearest flat surface, stashing Wyatt’s thoughtful gesture in the darkest physical recess I possessed.
When I returned to the foyer, Kelsey sat on the bottom step with Kip in her lap.
We regarded each other for a tense moment, each waiting for the other to say something—probably the wrong thing—and upset the tenuous balance that my accident injected into every aspect of my life.
Kelsey defaulted to her characteristic tact. “Call me if you need anything.”
“Don’t I always?” I recapped the hibiscus tea and picked up my work bag, slipping my phone and Wyatt’s business card into the front pocket.
As the words hung in the air, I tried to convince myself that I hadn’t just said the brattiest, most ungrateful thing possible.
Kelsey looked down at Kip, stroking his back as he purred softly, exposing the bruise-like shadows beneath her eyes and the deepening lines around her mouth. Weariness weighed down her shoulders.
Pretending she’d been up late, packing orders and restocking inventory would be easy. But I knew better.
I’d done that to her.
All the stress and worry of keeping me properly medicated and in operational shape had eaten away at her day by day, year after year, for a thankless decade. Kelsey was exhausted—because I was an exhausting person to deal with.
She deserved so much better.
I’d stolen my sister’s youth, and I could never make it up to her. Ever.
“Thanks for putting up with me, Kels.” I bent to wrap an arm around her shoulders, pressing my cheek against her mussed blonde hair. “I’d be lost without you.”