Page 3 of The Captain's Curfew
I freeze.
She’s warm.Soft.And entirely too close.I stand there like a statue until she pulls back, grinning up at me, completely unaware that she’s thrown me off of my axis.
“Wow.You haven’t changed a bit,” she says.
I have.I’ve gotten harder.Colder.But I don’t correct her.
She glances around again.“Your place is… very clean.”
“That’s the goal.”
She laughs, the sound light and easy.I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed.“This isn’t college, Violet.There’s no dorm room welcome party.”
Her eyes twinkle.“Damn.And I was really looking forward to the icebreaker games.”
I bite back my smile, not moving as she brushes past me, dragging her luggage inside like she owns the place.She’s wearing a Thunder hoodie that’s way too big for her, probably Declan’s, with her blonde hair piled into a messy bun.She’s all sunshine and warmth, and my perfectly ordered world gives a little lurch, like it’s bracing for impact.
“This is nice,” she says, looking around my spacious apartment.“Very… you.”
Which means it’s minimalist, monochromatic, and designed for efficiency.Unlike Violet, who has always been a walking burst of color and chaos.
“Rules,” I say, making her turn toward me.“No loud music, no parties, no bringing random people over.”
She raises an eyebrow.“You really know how to make a girl feel welcome.”
“I’m not trying to.”
Her lips twitch like she’s holding back a smile.“Got it, Captain.”
I nod toward the hallway.“Guest room’s the last door on the left.Kitchen rules are on the fridge.I don’t do noise after ten.Don’t leave dishes in the sink.No shoes on the couch.”
She lifts her hands in mock surrender.“Yes, sir.”
My jaw tightens.
Declan owes me more than one favor.
By the time she’s unpacked, it’s dinner time.I usually eat in silence, protein and greens, a routine that keeps me focused.But tonight, Violet’s humming as she digs through my cupboards.
“What are you doing?”
“Making macaroni and cheese,” she says cheerfully.“Want some?”
“I have chicken and rice.”
She wrinkles her nose.“How exciting.Live a little.”
I don’t respond.I’m not here to live a little.I’m here to win.
Still, my stomach betrays me when the scent of butter and melting cheese fills the kitchen.
She slides a bowl over to me.
I eat it.
We don’t talk much, but it’s not entirely uncomfortable.She fills the silence with small chatter—how excited she is to start work tomorrow and how much she missed Maple Creek.
I grunt when appropriate.
