Page 56 of Wallflower
Violet makes smart, sensitive suggestions, and we volley a few ideas back and forth, but the further we drive from the city, the more I get the sense something is off. Violet grows quiet and reflective. Withdrawn. She carries her phone in the hand not holding mine and checks it constantly, and her knees bounce in a way I’ve come to recognize as nerves.
She was into the kiss. I know it. We were both into it and fuck if it wasn’t the best kiss of my life. She keeps glancing at our intertwined fingers with a small, disbelieving smile, tracing her thumb over the blue veins of my hand in a way that makes it difficult to swallow. But when she isn’t doing that orstaring at her phone, she’s gazing out her window. And when our conversation fades away to nothing, I know something isn’t right.
I pull the sports car into the garage, shut off the engine, and get out, but before I can round the hood to open Violet’s door, she’s already out and inside the house.
“Are you hungry?” I ask as I follow her down the hall from the garage. “We could go to The Hill for dinner or find somewhere in town?”
Our first official date. I like the sound of that.
“Um.” She stops in the kitchen and looks around like she’s searching for an exit. “I’m sorry. What?”
I’m trying to understand and not worry, but the change in her is odd.
“Are you hungry?” I ask again. “Do you want to change and—”
“Oh, no. Thank you.” She nibbles her lip, checks her phone, and glances toward the hallway, then the stairs. “I’m a little tired, so I’m just going to go to my room. I’ll, uh… I’ll see you later?”
I don’t get a chance to reply before she’s gone.
She’s tired?
I stand there, staring at the now-empty staircase. I didn’t get atiredvibe from her. I got nervous and uncertain, maybe a little uneasy…
Oh, shit. Does Violet think I expect to sleep with her tonight? I pray that’s not the case, and I rack my brain for another explanation, but this is the only thing that makes sense. The closer we came to the ranch—to this house and to nightfall and the possibility of taking our kiss to the next level—the more introspective she grew.
I would gladly drop to my knees right now and show that woman what she does to me. I would bury my head between those smooth thighs, palm her heavy breasts, and make herscream my name so loud everyone within a five-mile radius would hear the echo for days. But I was pretty fucking happy with her hand in mine today. Pretty fucking pleased with the way she kissed me.
It took me three weeks to get over myself enough to get this far, and when a little voice reminds me that my world needs to be all about hockey and women are distractions I can’t afford, I shut it down. Hard.
Violet isn’t a fuckingdistraction. She’s so much more than that. And if she wants to go slow, that’s what we’ll do.
I deliberate in the kitchen for too long, pacing and scowling at the clock, before I head to the gym and lift weights to pass the time. I shower. I call Dylan to arrange for food to be delivered when dinner service starts.
When enough hours pass that the sun is almost set and Violet still hasn’t emerged, I’m agitated enough that I climb the stairs and ease my way down the hallway, then hover outside her bedroom door. It’s closed, and because this is as far as my genius plan went, I’m trying to decide what to do next when I hear a muffled sound through the timber.
I freeze, waiting for another, going so far as to lean close enough that the shell of my ear brushes the door, and I hear it again. There’s no mistaking it now.
Violet’s crying.
And then I’m knocking. And opening the door. And pushing my way in without an invitation because Violet is crying, and every cell in my body needs to know why so I can make it better.
“Wallflower?”
The light in Violet’s room is a mix of pinkish gold and shadow. She sits on the bed, wet hair falling around her face and down her back and leaving damp circles on her silky dark pink camisole. The bed linens cover her bottom half in a way that gives me a glimpse of bare thighs underneath, her headphoneslay discarded next to her glasses, and her sketchbook with pencils and shavings has been pushed to the foot of the bed.
Violet dashes at her cheeks, then tugs at the sheets to make sure she’s covered. “Oh, hey.”
“Hey.” I take another step into the room. “You’re crying.”
Okay, so I’m not the most tactful person on Earth, but the sooner she tells me what’s wrong, the sooner I can fix it.
“No.” She offers me a watery smile as tears spill down her cheeks. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. Talk to me.”
I take another step closer just as the front doorbell rings. It’ll be our dinner, and I glance over my shoulder.
“Are you hungry?” I ask.
