Page 40 of Accidentally Forever

"Yeah, you don’t exactly scream ‘big brother energy.’"

"Thanks," I deadpan.

She tilts her head, eyes narrowing just a little, still studying me. "So, what’s the business? Is that why you never came into Ash & Ivory?"

I never stepped foot in that goddamn gallery. Not once. Despite knowing it existed, despite being in the same fucking industry, I never went. I should have. I should have walked in, found her, figured out what the hell had happened between then and now. But I was so focused on everything else. My tongue swipes across my lips, the grip on the steering wheel tightening as I force my voice to stay even. "I help design spaces."

Violet’s unimpressed look makes it clear she wants more.

A sigh pulls from my chest. "I help customers envision or prepare setups for parties. You know—matching art they buy or rent with their event aesthetic. Sometimes from a gallery, sometimes from Puma’s private collection."

"So, you’re a glorified party planner?"

I groan, dragging a hand down my face, already regretting giving her anything. "It’s not—Jesus, you make it sound like I coordinate table settings and balloon arches."

That’s it. That’s what does it. She throws her head back and fucking laughs, the sound shaking through her whole body, spilling into the car like sunlight cracking through storm clouds. God, I missed that sound. "Fine, fine," she says, grinning as she looks at me. "You’re a high-end, luxury, artistic visionary."

I side-eye her, unimpressed. "That sounded sarcastic."

She shrugs. "A little."

The rest of the drive is comfortably quiet until the car rolls to a stop in front of a monstrosity of a house. The front door is massive, oversized to the point of absurdity, the kind of thing that probably weighs more than my entire car. The kind of door that exists solely to make a statement. I understand Puma’s estate. It has history. It makes sense.

Money lives here. Power too. But taste? Questionable.

“This is one of your best clients? The whole house is… so much.”

A chuckle slips from my lips, shaking my head because yeah, she already knows the type. “It’s not all bad,” I continue. “They pay well and they actually give a shit about the art. Just—” I pause, a smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth. “Expect some passive-aggressive comments about how your shoes ‘aren’t Italian leather’ or some shit.”

“Figures.” Silence creeps into the car before she turns to face me. “Puma said something about how hard you work.” The words catch me off guard, punching through whatever lightness was left hanging between us.

A slow exhale leaves my lips, fingers running through my hair before resting back against the wheel. “Yeah, well… had to do something, right?” I try to shrug it off but there’s no question that I was lost for a little bit. “It felt like something was missing for a while. So, I just kept filling the time with more projects. Spending time at home wasn’t enough.”

I don’t say what was missing but I think she knows.

Because before I can look away again, before I can retreat behind something safer, she reaches out, fingertips tracing along the edge of my jaw, the softest touch dragging my attention back to her. And then she kisses me.

It’s not hurried. Not desperate. Not the kind of thing meant to pull me under and leave me breathless. It’s the kind of kiss that sinks into your bones, that makes your chest ache because you forgot what it felt like to be kissed like that. My breath catches, the tension in my body melting for just a second, just long enough to let it happen, let it take hold.

Then I pull back, just enough to press my forehead against hers. “Fuck. You’re dangerous.”

Violet smiles, the tips of her fingers still pressing lightly against my jaw. “You’re just figuring that out now?”

A quiet laugh rumbles through my chest, shaking my head. Another quick kiss, a stolen moment, then I force myself to pull away, to focus. “Let’s go inside before Nolan decides to come out here and see us making out like teenagers.”

A soft giggle comes from Violet as she slips out of the car and follows me to the entrance. I don’t even knock, the door opening as I punch in the code. It’s one of the many perks of having the job I do. The second we step inside, Violet lets out a low whistle.

“Wow.”

A smirk tugs at my lips. “Told you.”

The place is fucking ridiculous. Polished marble floors stretch out beneath blindingly bright chandeliers, so pristine it almost doesn’t feel real, like a showroom instead of a home. Sculptures sit on pedestals in carefully curated displays, lining the walls like we just stepped into a museum. A staircase dominates the room, sweeping upward in a dramatic curve, the kind of thing you see in period dramas or those over-the-top romance movies where someone always runs down the steps in a ball gown.

Violet turns in a slow circle, taking it all in, lips parted slightly as her gaze drags over every gaudy, excessive detail. “You sure this isn’t a hotel?” she mutters.

A quiet chuckle slips from my lips, hands tucking into my pockets. “Wouldn’t surprise me if they charge guests at the door.” Nolan would be appalled at the idea of renting out what he calls his ‘goddess’ and I don’t blame him. I might be stingy with this place too if I owned it.

Everything in this house screams wealth. Not quiet, generational wealth—the kind that settles into old estates and private islands like Puma’s—but loud, new money wealth, the kind that needs to be seen, acknowledged, envied.

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