Page 40 of Wallflower
“May I?”
I follow the tip of her tongue as it darts out to swipe her bottom lip, but after only a brief hesitation, Violet sets her hand on mine.
I’m acutely aware of my own heartbeat as I place my other hand on the small of her back. With a little pressure, Violet shifts closer the way I hoped she would. My breath grows short and shallow as I take note of the featherlight touches between us at my thighs, her hips, my chest, her breasts.
Violet presses her eyelids closed as her fingers tighten, then release in my hand, before she risks a shy look up at me and drops her eyes again.
“This is what you do,” I whisper.
I move in small rocking steps from side to side. Violet’s palm is warm, and her actions are stiff and self-conscious, but shefollows my lead and stays on the beat. By the time we get to the chorus, the tension has melted from her arms, and she sinks effortlessly into our easy sway.
I dip my head to set my mouth at her ear. “You’re good at this.”
She looks up at me with a blush and a smile. “You make it easy.”
I turn us a little, angling our bodies so I can sweep my eyes over the room. Her sketchbook is open on the desk again, and her oversized felt board is covered in copies of the same dress.
After our conversation in the pool, I don’t think twice about raising the subject again. “You draw the same dress a lot.”
“Hm?” She glances over her shoulder at the board as she rocks against me, and I force myself to concentrate on her words instead of the heat of her body. “Oh, yes.”
She pauses, and I get the sense she’s contemplating how much she wants to share. I know if I keep silent long enough, she’ll rush to fill the void. I’m desperate to understand why she’s fixated on this particular design, so I’m a dick and say nothing.
“It’s my mother’s wedding dress,” she says finally. “Well, a version of it. I’ve played with the design a thousand times over the years, trying to change it just enough to make it feel like mine, but I can’t seem to get it right.”
“So, it’syourwedding dress?”
“Yes. No. Maybe?” She groans and forgets herself long enough to drop her forehead on my chest. My pulse jumps, but just when I’m about to turn my head and inhale the fragrance of her hair, she straightens with a sigh. “It’s the dress I imagine wearing if I had a different life. One where my mom stayed with me and my dad, and she gave me her gown because it meant something to our family. Hope and happiness. Contentment. Love.” Violet gives me a sideways smile, and her voice turns quiet. “But who knows if I’ll have that for myself?”
I cast an eye over the drawings as we sway together, noting that at least half of them have a groom’s tux sketched in black and white alongside the gown, but it’s the way she talks about her desires as if they’re ridiculous that fires the muscles in my jaw.
“It’s okay to want things for yourself. It’s okay to put yourself first sometimes.”
She shakes her head. “That’s a nice idea for some, but it’s not realistic for most people. That’s why they’re called dreams. They’re just pretty pictures in our heads. Things to distract us when real life becomes too hard—or too sad.”
I frown over her head, thinking about my hockey career. “Dreams come true all the time.”
“But at what cost?” she murmurs. “What would I need to give up to have the things I want?”
My frown deepens as I absently lead Violet in a small circle. What haveIgiven up for the thingsIwant? I’ve got no close friends. Never had a relationship last more than a year. I’ve got an incredible house that’s been empty since the day I built it, and even though I lived there for more than a decade, I’m not leaving behind anyone special in Calgary. My family might love me, but Charlie barely tolerates me, and everyone who matters in hockey thinks I’m a cold, arrogant asshole.
Is there any price I haven’t paid to be the best?
These aren’t things I let myself think about, let alone catalog like a shopping list, and I remind myself that this conversation is about Violet, not me. I hate the way she dismisses her desires like they’re not valid or worthy. Likeshe’snot worthy. And I’m going to change it.
I shift my hand higher up her back just so I can brush my fingertips over the indent of her spine. “How do you feel about the dancing now?”
She inhales sharply at my touch. “A little better,” she says breathily. “Thank you.”
“Good.”
Pressing her palm against my chest so she knows to keep it there, I let go of her hand and run my fingers up her arm. There are those goosebumps again, the same that erupted all over her body by the side of the pool. A pretty flush creeps above the neckline of her crew-neck tee, and I give her a tiny smile.
“I think making you blush might be my favorite thing to do, Wallflower.”
A little noise, almost a whimper, sounds in her throat, and I gaze down at her, willing her to raise her head. She does, her focus sliding up my chest to my collarbone to my eyes, her pupils dilating before her focus falls to rest on my mouth.
“Chord?”
