Page 25 of Wallflower
Chord takes a step like he’s going to pick them up, but I dash forward before he gets the chance. Of course, when I lean over to collect them, half a dozen other pieces tumble out of my basket onto the floor at his feet.
He takes a step back as I keep my head bowed, gathering everything with superhero speed and super-loser clumsiness, blinking back tears and shoving bras and panties into my basket as more fall out.
Finally, I’ve collected it all, and abandoning any hope of regaining my dignity, I bolt from the room and Chord’s cool blue stare.
I maintain speed until I’m safe in my room, door closed against my back, chest heaving with deep, dazed breaths. That was possibly the most humiliating, cringeworthy thing to happen to me ever before and—dear God, please—ever again. I’m not usually that clumsy, even on my worst days.
How on Earth am I supposed to face him afterthat?
You don’t, I remind myself.He wants as little to do with you as you want with him. Just stick to the plan and stay out of his way.
My earlier daydreams of accidental meetings with my boss now feel more like schoolgirl infatuation. Chord Davenport is way out of my league, but after today it’ll be all that much easier to stay out of his way.
If he wasn’t already trying his hardest to avoid me before, he’s certainly going to up his game now.
twelve
Chord
77 DAYS TILL HOCKEY SEASON
I can’t sleep, soI sit at the far end of the long, twelve-seater outdoor dining table on my back porch, staring out over the ranch while it’s lit by the pool lights below and the half-moon overhead. I welcome the touch of the cooler night air, breathe in the comforting scent of earth and vines, sip a mug of hot cocoa, and stare up at the midnight sky. And I think about my mom.
A lot about my daily life reminds me of my dad—games, training, travel. He was there for all of it when I was a kid, stayed involved in my career until I was well into my twenties, and in some ways, hockey keeps my memories of him bright and close. Rarely a day goes by when I don’t think of him, even if it’s fleeting.
I can’t say the same about my mom, which kills me to admit. It’s just that my life now rarely reflects the moments I spent with her then on the ranch. Reminders of her—her sandy hair and sapphire eyes, her warm sugar-cookie skin, her full-heartedlaugh and her long, hard hugs—are rare and unexpected, and when they come, they hit harder than recollections of my dad.
Here at Silver Leaf, however, I’m surrounded by reminders of both my parents. The way they worshiped each other. The satisfaction they found running this place, building it from nothing, sharing their victories and overcoming their setbacks. How they molded their dreams around their five children. The lifetime of joy they experienced just by loving one another honestly and intensely and selflessly. They were lucky.Wewere lucky.
I set my cup on the table and pull Violet’s thank-you note from the pocket of my shorts, and my thumb involuntarily brushes the perfectly formed letters written in black ink. It’s just a piece of paper. I should throw it in the trash. Instead, I trace the sweep of her name one more time before tucking it away and returning my attention to the patterns in the sky.
My mom loved handwritten notes in lunch boxes or jacket pockets, under pillows and on bathroom mirrors. She loved late-night conversations and hot cocoa with marshmallows, and she loved the stars.
Light bursts inside the house, spilling out of the open kitchen window at the other end of the porch and interrupting my thoughts. I scramble to feel even a shred of irritation that Violet is once again in my way, but the only feelings within reach are curiosity and expectation as I listen to her move about inside.
The fridge opens and closes. A saucepan is retrieved from a cupboard and, a moment later, lands on the stovetop. A gas burner jumps to life with aclick-click-clickbefore she rustles in the pantry. A spoon hits the inside of a mug.
I debate the wisdom of going in to… What? Say hello? Tell her I couldn’t sleep because I was thinking about her? Ask her if she’ll lift her chin for me, just once, because I’d like to get a better look at her pretty pink blush?
But the moment comes and goes before I’ve made a decision. The light goes out again and I blink to adjust my vision, bristling at the unwelcome disappointment.
Then the tall glass door to the porch slides open, and Violet slips out onto the decking.
Jesus Christ. She should have stayed inside.
Out of my reach at less than a dozen paces away, with bare feet, long legs, and skin glowing silver in the mixed light from the pool and the moon and the stars, Violet’s dark hair is in a loose braid over one shoulder, her glasses are on her nose, and she’s wrapped in a long-sleeved, short-hemmed silk robe leeched of color in the darkness.
She paces across the porch to the balustrade and sets her elbows on the rail, leaning over to blow the steam from her mug. The action makes the hem of her robe ride higher on the backs of her pale thighs and hints at the soft curve of her ass underneath.
My dick lifts a little, like he’s trying to get a look, and I resist the urge to shift in my seat.
I shout silently at myself.Speak, asshole, but I don’t. Not yet. I just want to watch her a moment longer. Behold this version of Violet, without her self-conscious defenses.
She takes a swallow from her cup, hums with appreciation, then turns her face toward the sky. Her eyes drift closed like she’s praying or wishing, and my mouth is suddenly dry.
She’s so exquisite with starlight kissing her cheeks, mouth curved in a secret smile, calves tight while she’s pushed up on her toes, long fingers wrapped around her cup. Her lips move like she’s talking to herself, and I have a desperate longing to know what she’s saying. What she’s thinking. What she’s feeling.
I wait for her to open her eyes, finish her drink, and go back inside, but when she stays in the same place long enough to make me realize I shouldn’t be here anymore, I think aboutslipping away. I consider it. I decide it’s the right thing to do. I dismiss the idea. Then I clear my throat.
