Page 111 of Wallflower
Chord leans in, hovering over my mouth, blue eyes drinking me in as he traces every line of my face like he’s been waiting for this moment the way I have. The warm caress of his lips on mine is excruciatingly perfect, and the taste of his tongue mingles with the salt of my tears. It’s soft. Sweet. Sacred.
I latch onto his shirt and hold on tight to prove he’s not a hallucination. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to tell you I love you, Violet, and that I was wrong. Thisletting you gothing isn’t going to work.” His thumbs caress my cheekbones as he sinks into my gaze. “I don’t want that to get in the way of all the opportunities and experiences you’re supposedto have in this life, but I miss you, Wallflower. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I can’t think straight enough to get the fucking puck in the net, and I can’t win. Not in hockey. Not in life. Not at all. Not without you.”
“Chord—”
“I don’t care how we do it, but we’ll find a way to make this work.” His fingertips twist harder in my hair, and his glassy eyes burn into mine. “I’ll take you home right now if that’s what you want. I’ll go back to California if this is something you need to do alone, but I’m going to fly back and forth every chance I get so I can be with you. I’ll get you a jet whenever you’re homesick. I’ll call every day just to hear your voice, and I’ll dream about you every night until you’re back in my bed.”
He presses a kiss to my forehead, and I clutch his wrists as his lips move against my skin. “The only thing I won’t do is let you go. I’m sorry if this makes me the selfish asshole everyone thinks I am, but I can’t live without you. I don’t know how.”
“Chord, I—”
He cuts me off with another kiss, twisting us until my back is pinned against the door, his mouth so insistent I give up on talking and give myself over to him.
“Please,” he whispers, nose in my hair and mouth at my ear. “Find a place for me in your dreams, and I won’t rest until every one of them comes true.”
“Chord.” I twine my fingers in the edges of his hair, breathe him in, and release all my inhibitions with a trembling sigh. My thoughts slow, and my worries float away, and I finally surrender to what feels right.This. This feels right.
“I left California because I was too busy doing what I thought Ishoulddo instead of what Iwantedto do. My life in Milan and the dream it represents—it doesn’t fit anymore. It’s too small, and I don’t want it. I want something bigger and brighter and infinitely better. I want to create dresses with my name on them.I want to stand in the spotlight with you. I want to be there when you win the championship Cup and be the woman beside you every hour, every day, every year after that. I want you to trust me and believe me when I tell you:youare my dream. You and me together, whatever the future has in store. You make me happy, Chord, and I just want to be happy.”
He smiles that bright boyish grin that lights up his cobalt eyes and makes my body pulse with wild, needy heat. “Do you mean it?”
“I mean it.” I tighten my grip on his hair to prove how serious I am. “Let me be the selfish one this time. Let me do what I want. I want to get on that plane and go home with you now. Tonight. Forever. Please?”
Chord closes his eyes and exhales with a sigh, brushes a barely there kiss across my lips, then the tip of my nose, then rests his forehead on mine with a crooked, satisfied smile.
“When will you learn, Wallflower? You never have to beg me for anything.”
forty-two
Chord
7 DAYS AFTER MILAN
The Slippery Tipple isat capacity with a rowdy crowd that includes half of Aster Springs, my brothers and sisters, and my Fury teammates. Twenty-four hours after our win against Calgary and forty-eight hours until we’re in San Francisco for our next game, it was my idea to bring the boys back to Aster Springs for a long overdue round of drinks and a slow dance with my girl.
For now, Violet snuggles contentedly under my arm, her earnest face lit up by her phone as she checks her appointment schedule.
Soon after we landed in San Francisco last week, Violet reached out to the people who inquired about her couture while she was stuck in Milan. She’ll officially open her books and her studio next week—quietly and under the radar the way she wants it, even though I suggested a blowout launch party.
It’s a fucking rush to watch her breathlessly and beautifully build her brand-new business. If I didn’t believe it when she toldme she was happy before, I’ve got too much evidence to doubt it now. My wallflower is in her element—vibrant and confident. In breathtaking bloom.
“Everything okay?” I ask as she tucks her phone into her new leather bag.
“Mm-hm. Just confirming my bride for Monday morning.”
“Your first client, Wallflower. I’m so proud of you.”
“Thank you. I’m kinda proud of me too.”
Her cheeks flush from what I suspect is part exhilaration at her new couture label and part the half-glass of Mona’s white wine sangria in her system. Tendrils of her dark curls have pulled free of her ponytail, and I twist one around my finger as I lean in for a kiss. How can it be that only a week ago I was on a plane to Italy, hoping that one day, three years from now, we might have a life made of moments like this one?
And here we are, back in California, Violet in my arms where she wants to be. Where she belongs.
She eases away from my mouth with a satisfied smile, then takes a sip of her sangria and lifts her eyes to the oversized television mounted above the bar.
The screen flashes with a replay of the Fury’s game against Calgary last night, and because I know what’s coming next, I grin around the neck of my beer and tighten my hold on Violet as she flinches at a violent hit she’s already seen three times—once at the game and twice more tonight. We’re on the third replay, and the drunk commentary from all corners of The Tipple just keeps getting better.
