Page 22 of Wallflower
“Um. Yes. Thank you.”
“No problem.”
I suppose I could put on my shirt, but I’m not going to. And I don’t ask if she wants company either because I’m not going to risk her saying no.
When Violet realizes I intend to escort her the rest of the way, she blinks a few times before plucking the pods from her ears and stuffing them in the pocket of her hoodie.
We walk for a short time in silence while I study Violet from the corner of my eye. Her plump pink lips part occasionally, diverting me to interesting,distractingthoughts that I refuse to entertain. I get the impression she’s searching for the courage to start a conversation, and on her third failed attempt, I save her the trouble of trying again.
“So,” I say, “have you spent much time in Sonoma?”
Her throat moves before she answers. “None.”
“None?” I ask with surprise. “How long have you lived in San Francisco?”
She goes from looking straight ahead to watching the dusty ground disappear under her feet. “Ten years.”
“Ten years,” I echo. “And not a single visit?”
She shrugs and folds her arms over her chest. “No. This is my first time.”
“You’ve never wanted to explore the area?”
“I guess… I mean… I suppose I wanted to visit but never really had the time.”
I take note of the curve to her shoulders, the stoop in her back, and mentally kick my own ass for coming off as a judgmental prick.
“Does that mean you like wine?” I ask.
Her brows pull down, and she casts me a wary sidelong look. “Sure. I like wine.”
“How about farmers’ markets?”
“Yeah.” Violet’s mouth turns down a little as she thinks about it. “That sounds fun.”
“Botanical gardens?”
She drops her arms as a small smile—a hint of potential ease and confidence—flits across her mouth. “Of course. Who doesn’t like flowers?”
Why the fuck does it feel so good to see her open up a little?
“And art?” I ask. “What do you think of galleries?”
Her eyes light up, and she forgets herself long enough to turn toward me. The unguarded joy on her face makes her so damn pretty I forget to watch where I’m going and stumble over nothing.
“Shit,” I mutter as I right myself. Violet stretches out a hand to help me, but I’m an embarrassed idiot who steadies himself too quickly, and she pulls back before making contact.
Violet clears her throat as we continue walking, the house coming into view up ahead. “Iloveart,” she says. “Is there a local gallery nearby?”
“Yeah. Great restaurants and wineries and coffee too. There are some tourist brochures up at the reception house. Feel free to take off an afternoon while you’re here and do some exploring.”
I slow as we approach the house, not ready for our conversation to be done, and Violet keeps pace at my side.
“That’s nice of you,” she says. “Thanks.”
“No problem.”
We climb the front porch steps together and reach the front door at the same time. I punch in the code and swing it open. “After you?”
