“Hi, Tyler. I’m Eli.” Elijah holds out his giant hand and Tyler shakes it vigorously with a wide grin. “Fine handshake you’ve got there. Now, unfortunately I can’t give you a ride today. But, if you ask Ms. D really nicely, maybe she’ll let your class come to the fire station for a visit some time.”
Tyler gasps in unbridled excitement, hopping around like a kangaroo on crack. Elijah laughs. I groan.
“Can we? Can we? Can we?” Tyler asks me, his eyes as big as the moon.
“We’ll discuss it later.” I shoot daggers at Elijah. He’s won this round. Even my students think he’s cooler than me. “Go play. Recess is almost over.”
Tyler runs off, screaming to his friends, “We’re going to a fire station!”
“Thanks for that,” I quip.
“My pleasure,” he coos. “See you at dinner, Short Stack.”
I watch Elijah walk back to his stupid firetruck, desperate to think of something to say, hungry for the last word. The parting blow. I’ve got nothing. I hate him.
Athena, a young bundle of trouble, comes running over as soon as Elijah walks away. I met her yesterday at our program orientation. She’s what you’d call an exotic beauty. With her almond shaped eyes, jet black hair, shapely curves, and sun kissed complexion, she belongs on a Tahitian beach in a bikini. She’s gotten away with a lot in life using her looks and it shows. Fifteen minutes into the presentation she asked me if there was going to be a drug test. This is who's looking after your kids, folks. Naturally she assumed we're going to be best friends since we're the only ones in the program under fifty. I've been struggling to convince her otherwise ever since. If there's a bad decision out there, you can be sure she is going to make it, including chasing after a fireman almost a decade older than she is.
“Who was that beautiful slice of man?” she hums into my ear. Nineteen-year-old Athena is like a walking after school special. “No, Athena. That's not for you,” I warn her.
“Is he gay? All the good ones are gay.” She pouts. I snicker.
“Not gay. Just trouble.”
“I love trouble.” She gives me the most unsubtle wink of all time, the entire right side of her face contorting into a Popeye-like travesty.
“Of course you do.” I sigh. She giggles, completely unaware that wasn't a compliment. Oh, to be young and stupid. She asked for it.
I lean into her, whispering conspiratorially, “That is the one and only Elijah Monroe. Local heartthrob. Known to his friends as Eli. One of the infamous four horsemen of Weaverton. Famine to be exact, because he always leaves you hungry for more.”
She devours every word. I can hear her ovaries exploding. Good. I hope she stalks him like a lion on a wounded hippo.
Eight years ago…
I give my heart to Elijah Monroe the first moment I lay eyes on him.
No. That’s not right.
That makes it sound like I have a choice. I don’t.
He doesn’t steal my heart, either. You’d have to want something to bother stealing it and the begrudging look on Elijah’s face says he doesn’t think I’m worth the bother. I smooth down my T-shirt with the hope fixing my appearance will calm the discombobulation in my heart. It doesn’t. My insides feel like a lava lamp someone shook up until it’s just an unrecognizable cloudy mess. Nothing but time and space is going to settle me. On the first day in my new home with my dad’s soon-to-be wife, I’m not likely to get either of those anytime soon.
I breathe in deep through my nose and take in the room. It’s like something out of a Mad Men episode. A time capsule. The wallpaper is a soft yellow with delicate roses climbing up to the ceiling. The gray couch and matching loveseat are covered in lacy throw pillows. A bookshelf nestled in the corner is loaded down with chubby pastel figurines. Oil paintings of rustic scenes litter the walls. A fox hunt. A picnic by the lake. A carriage ride. The far wall is dedicated to pictures of Elijah. They span his entire life, baby pictures up to a recent school photo. Each proudly hangs in matching gold frames.
“Elijah was such a cute baby,” Beverly chirps. In her pale pink button-up blouse and full knee-length skirt, she belongs in this room. This time.
Stepping closer, I shamelessly examine each photo, memorizing the details of his features. I study them like an archaeologist, desperate to know his past so I am prepared for my future. In all of them he’s smiling. Something I’d love to see in person.
I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, turn back to Elijah, and give him a tentative smile. His full pink lips, identical to all those pictures, are turned down into a soft frown. He stares at me blankly from across the living room. He hasn't said a word. He’s stoic in a plain black T-shirt tight across his broad shoulders and jeans sitting low on his hips.
At almost eighteen, the baby fat from his younger years is gone, beginning to give way to the muscular marks of a man. His strong jaw is littered with light scruff, a shade darker than his auburn hair. Those shaggy locks are the perfect balance of controlled messiness. His eyes are a sharp emerald green. He’s gorgeous without trying and he knows it.
He’s beautiful, but that’s not the reason I ache for him. There is something else. Something intangible. Electric. A current. An inescapable magnetism pulling me to him.
At the ripe old age of sixteen I know with painful clarity that my heart no longer belongs to me.
It’s his.
I can’t explain why, but I feel it. Like two puzzle pieces fitting together. Like a key opening a lock with a soft click. It’s blatantly obvious. Undeniable. A simple natural truth, like the sky is blue, the sun is hot, or the earth is round.
Elijah Monroe owns my heart.
“This is your future sister, Harper,” Beverly sings to Elijah.
I’m going to throw up.
Sister. Fate is a sick, twisted bitch.
“Isn’t she lovely?” Beverly continues despite Elijah barely acknowledging I exist.
Elijah shrugs. My body tenses.
“Don’t be shy. Go on. Give her a hug. Welcome her to the family.” Beverly gestures to me. I suck in a gasp so quickly my lungs burn. I don’t move. I don’t even blink.
“She’s not my family.” Elijah shoves his hands in his pockets as his disinterested expression deepens into a disgusted scowl. “And I’m not touching her. I don’t want anything to do with her.”
His unconditional rejection breaks my tender heart. Disappointment rips through my body. No heartache in the world cuts deeper than one-sided love.
This moment is the first brick in the wall I’ll build around my heart. I let blind rage and indignation kill the ache in my chest. I can’t feel pain if all I feel is hate. I turn my blood to ice. I cross my arms and glare at him. I vow to hate Elijah Monroe with every ounce of my soul and every fiber of my being from now until the end of eternity.
Beverly darts across the room and wags a finger in his face as she tuts, “Now you listen here, Elijah Jonathan Monroe. I did not raise you to be rude to guests. To family! You will go over there and welcome your new sister to our family.”
“Stepsister,” I snap.
“What, dear?” Beverly asks. She heard me fine, but she doesn’t quite understand.
“You’re marrying my dad. That will make him my stepbrother.” I obnoxiously pop the P in step.
Beverly’s shoulders slouch and her bottom lip sticks out. She’s crestfallen. I feel bad. She wasn’t the target I was aiming for. I like Beverly. She’s Martha Stewart—minus the insider trading and prison time. She bakes and knits and only says nice things about people. She’s the complete opposite of my mom, who doesn't have a domestic bone in her body and has only ever loved herself.
I’m not stoked to be moving to a new town in the middle of Nowhereville, California just in time to have zero friends my junior year. That isn’t Beverly’s fault. That’s all my dad. He chose to uproot us when he asked Beverly to marry him. But, if it makes him happy, I’ll deal with being the new girl of Nowhereville.
I do have an issue
living in the same house as my new sworn enemy. He doesn’t look too excited about it either. Elijah’s gaze drifts from me to his upset mom and back again. His scowl becomes a sneer. He purses his lips and pinches his eyebrows together. My nemesis is a momma’s boy.
“I guess you’re right, Harper,” Beverly says with a small sigh. She is quiet for half a second before her perky glass-half-full attitude kicks back in. “Still, we’re officially going to be a family next week. I can’t wait. I’ve always wanted a daughter,” she adds wistfully. Oh, God, is she tearing up? My eyes go wide.
Elijah finally takes his hands out of his pockets and steps toward her. She waves him off and fans her face with her hands to dry the tears.
“Sorry. I’m being silly. I know you have a mom. And I can’t replace her. I’m just so excited”—she reaches out and grabs both my hand and Elijah’s—“to be our own little family.”
I give her a tight-lipped smile, a little overwhelmed.
“Come on. Let me show you your room.” She drops Elijah’s hand and drags me out of the living room.
I can’t help myself from looking back over my shoulder at him. He’s watching me. Our eyes meet and I feel that magnetic pull deep in my stomach. My breath catches in my throat. He sticks his hands back in his pockets with a groan and looks away.
I hate him.
I follow Beverly up the stairs to my new bedroom. She flings the door open with a flourish and I freeze in horror on the threshold. It looks like a cotton candy machine exploded, coating everything in sickeningly sweet shades of pastel. I don’t think Beverly knows any colors other than pink exist.
“Oh, wow.” Beverly mistakes my terror for excitement.
“Don’t you just love it?”
No. No, I do not just love it.
I don’t own a pink anything. Not even my gum. Doublemint all the way. I’m not a girly girl. My mom has basically been out of the picture my whole childhood. She’s a “free spirit” a.k.a. deadbeat. She floats in and out of my life when she feels like it. No biggie. I’ve got an awesome dad. We play catch and watch sports.
I’ve never played with dolls. I don’t paint my nails. I don’t own makeup. Living in a room so girly it makes Hello Kitty look butch is not my idea of cozy. But Beverly is looking at me expectantly, wanting so badly to have done well.
“Yeah, it’s...amazing,” I fake my enthusiasm the best I can. I hear a muffled chuckle behind me and look in time to see Elijah’s shoulders shaking with laughter as he steps into his room. Which is right next door. Gulp.
“Okay, I’m going to let you settle in. Dinner is in an hour.” Beverly ducks out of the room, closing the door behind her and shutting me. A prisoner in this frilly. Princess. Hell.
I pull out my phone and call Alisha.
“You’re not going to believe this,” I say as I pan the camera around the room in all its fluffy glory.
“Oh. My. God. That room is insane,” is my best friend’s appropriate response.
“I know, right?”
“At least it’s big. You had to climb over the bed to get to the other side of your old room.”
“You want to live in the city, you make sacrifices. Floor space is an easy trade to be able to walk to Fisherman’s Wharf.”
“Fair point. Any good food in Nowhereville?” Alisha asks. I let out a sigh, already mourning the loss of my favorite Thai place around the corner from my old San Francisco apartment.
Disheartened, I answer, “Not that I’ve found yet. I just got here, but I don’t have high hopes.”
“I still can’t believe your dad dragged you to the middle of nowhere for some woman he just met.”
“I know. I know. But I’m trying to see it his way. He’s been single basically my whole life. Think he’s a little scarred from my mom to be honest. And Beverly is pretty awesome, decorating skills aside.” I take another look around the room as I flop down on the bed.
“So? Couldn’t she move here?” Alisha asks, as if I had a vote in the whole moving decision.
“She’s a school teacher. My dad’s a web designer.”
“They have schools in San Francisco.”
“Yeah, and apparently they have Internet in Weaverton.”
“But this is your home.”
“I know. Babe. I know.” I think she’s taking this move harder than I am.
“Take a vote. Two to one. She’ll have to move here,” Alisha says matter-of-factly.
“She has a son, so two-two. Tie game.”
“A son? What’s he like?”
My heart flips in my chest. “I don’t really know. I just met him. He never came out to San Francisco with Beverly.” I picture Elijah in his room next door, separated by just a thin wall. I wonder if he can hear me. “She talked about him a lot. But he’s different than I was expecting.”
“How’s that?”
“You know moms. They only see the good. She described him like he was the smartest, sweetest, most talented kid who ever existed. I pictured this scrawny momma’s boy. And he’s...” I think about how to describe Elijah. “He’s actually really hot. And a total asshole,” I add with a scoff.
Loud music pours through the wall from Elijah’s room. Guess he can hear me.
Eight years ago…
I stare at myself in the mirror, frozen in horror. Of course the bridesmaid dresses Beverly picked are pink and lacy. I look like a Barbie doll. Picking at one of the embroidered flowers absentmindedly, I don’t hear my dad knocking.
“Hey, slugger.” His cheerful voice drags my eyes away from the train wreck of an outfit I’ve been forced to wear today.
“Hey, Dad.” I try to sound upbeat. This is his special day. I won’t ruin it pouting over a stupid dress.
Dad looks me up and down, his eyes widening with every second he stares. He rarely sees me in a dress and never something this pink.
“You look…” His hands gesture randomly while he tries to think of the right words.
“Like a cupcake?” I say with a light smile, pulling the edges of my dress out and giving him a curtsy. Dad chuckles. It sounds nice. He does that a lot since Beverly. She makes him happy. I try to remember that as I sigh at my reflection.
“Look Harper,” Dad starts as he crosses the room to me, taking my hands in his. “I know this has been a lot for you. The move. And Beverly. She means well, but”—he glances around the cotton candy room—“sometimes she can be a bit much. We just both really want this new family to work.”
“I know, Dad. I’m happy for you. I really am.” I give his hands a reassuring squeeze.
“It means a lot to me that you’re being such a trooper. You and Eli have both been amazing.”
I swallow down a groan. The only amazing thing about Elijah is his ability to avoid me. We moved in a week ago and outside of our mandatory family dinners, which he spends silently pouting, I’ve only seen him a few times and only for a few minutes. Each time it’s the same routine. Hands in his pockets, scowl on his lips, annoyance in his eyes. It’s like he blames me for this whole thing. I’m not Cupid. I didn't set up our parents. I didn’t propose. I didn’t volunteer to move halfway across the state. I was happy in San Francisco. The only thing this town has are trees. Granted, they’d probably be more interesting to have a conversation with than Elijah.
Instead of dumping my Elijah issues on my dad I say, “Thanks. You deserve to be happy.”
“I love you.” He pulls me in for a hug.
“I love you too, Dad.” I squeeze him back, trying not to tear up.
I’m happy for him, but a part of me is mourning our old life. It was just him and me for so long. And it was great. Now, we’ve got two new people thrown into our lives. I could manage Beverly. But with Elijah I’m struggling. I have no idea where he fits in my life.
My dad pulls away and gives me a kiss on the forehead.
“Don’t worry. We can redecorate after the wedding,” he says with a wink. I laugh. “What do you think about your favorite color, Gian
t’s orange?” he asks with a twinkle in his eyes. I love him.
“Perfect.”
He ducks out of my room and I turn back to the mirror. If moving here, dealing with Elijah, and wearing this stupid dress is what it takes to make Dad happy, then that’s what I’ll do. I smile, commending myself on my adulting.
The floor creaking pulls my eyes up to see Elijah’s reflection in the mirror, staring back at me. His gaze is hypnotic. His face is gentler than usual, his normal scowl replaced with a neutral expression. His stormy green eyes capture mine and I’m lost in the connection.
“Ready?” he barks.
I shake my head, not in response, but to shake off the power he has over me.
“Knock much?” I snap. I check him out in the mirror, being careful to avoid his eyes. He’s handsome in a tuxedo. That’s not fair. I look like a cream puff and he looks like James Bond, the teen years.
“Door was open,” he retorts, shoving his hands in his pockets. I don’t know why, but it annoys the hell out of me.
“That isn’t an open invitation,” I chastise. I smooth down my dress unnecessarily, twirling slightly to catch a glimpse of my profile. I don’t know what I’m looking for. Nothing, I guess. Just making him wait for me.
“Whatever. Rick wants us to get there early.” He pulls his shoulders back, sure that invoking my dad’s name will get me to hurry up. Nope.
I take a few minutes to look at my face. Beverly took me to the salon and we both got our hair and makeup done. Our first “Girls’ Day” she said. It was kind of fun being pampered. I loved the way I looked leaving the salon. Soft curls in my hair, pink cheeks, red lips. Now I feel like a poser. It’s too much.
Elijah is still standing behind me. Watching me. I am hyper aware of his every movement. He’s a few feet away, but the air is thick between us. When he shifts his weight, I feel it across my skin and shiver. I’ve never been alone with him before. My heart beats faster. My palms are getting sweaty. I crave falling into his eyes again, but I don’t dare.
“Fine. Let’s go,” I say, using annoyance to hide how eager I am to make my escape. I spin around, walking past him right out of the room. My shoulder brushes his as I go. He doesn’t pull back. The contact sends a shot of electricity down to my toes. I bite my lip, no doubt ruining my lipstick, and practically jog to the car.
Truce?: Hating Elijah Monroe Page 2