Page 24 of Violet

EIGHT

Stephan

“Kill me now,” I mutter into the finest Sabine Summer Ale.

I’ve been here a handful of days, and apart from the pretty girl in the boathouse, the quaint beauty of Sabine is already under my fucking skin.

I’m a man who’s got it all. Emporia movie star, check. Famous, check. Rich as fuck, check. Pick of the girls, check, check, and check.

Not that anyone at McNally’s bar would care.

For the billionth time, I check my phone, waiting for fucking Heath Gardener to text or call me back. We had caused quiet a stir in college, over on the mainland. But that feels like ages ago. I’m a very different man than I was then. And from the little bit I saw of Heath at the picnic, so is he.

I take another swallow of my drink and listen to the music as it rolls over me. My phone lights up.

Heath

Busy, man. But I’m at the townhouse. Come by.

Booze?

Heath

You know it.

I finish my drink, get up, and leave.

Sabine’s big city is full of parks and old buildings. Once you get out of the lower end and the business and shopping districts, then it turns into a pretty, leafy neighborhood, close to the biggest park and the glittering Council building that’s like a fucking castle.

When I reach Heath’s place, I go through the high front gate and past the small, private garden, a place of memories from college when we’d occasionally have it to ourselves while his family was away visiting the mainland.

He’s sitting outside, glass of whiskey, his preferred drink, in one hand.

“Gardener,” I say.

“Famous asshole.”

I grin. “Only my friends get to call me that.”

“Dickwad?”

“Mr. Ashford to you, Gardener.”

I throw myself onto the chair opposite him. The garden hasn’t changed much, perhaps not as well-kept as I remember, but I prefer rougher edges to crisp manicuredfoliage. It gives the impression that wilderness might burst free at any moment.

There’s a bottle on the green-painted ironwork table between us, and I sigh. “That bad?”

“Not great,” he says. The muscle in his jaw works, and I know Heath well enough to know he’ll talk when he wants and not before. He’s a stubborn Alpha.

I pour myself a shot into the glass he thoughtfully provided for me. “No luck prowling the streets of Sabine for a mate?”

His eyes cut to me. “Fuck no. I don’t have time for that.

“Not even sex?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

Of course, he stepped up when his father died. Maybe the rumors I’ve heard of money issues have some merit. I’m almost afraid to ask.

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