Page 47 of Wallflower
“Whydo you like me? I don’t understand.” Her eyes ping open, and she pins me with a wild but glassy stare. “Is it because you saw my boobs?”
I laugh. “No, that’s not it. You’re smart. And strong. And thoughtful. You don’t ask for anything, and you give so much. You put your family first. And you don’t know how beautiful you are.”
Her face screws up like she’s trying to understand and failing, so I go a step further with a confession that’s been teasing theedges of my mind, something I haven’t had the guts to look at head-on yet.
“And I don’t think you care that I’m a hockey player, or that I’ve got money. You don’t care that I’m Chord Davenport, the star athlete.” I risk another glance at her, and she appears to be deep in thought. “In fact, I think maybe this thing between you and me would be easier if I wasn’t any of those things. Maybe you’d like me, too, if I was just an ordinary guy.”
“Yeah. You’re right.”
She nods the sluggish nod of a drunk person, and the fact that she agrees with me sends pain lancing through my chest. But then she goes on.
“I don’t like Chord Davenport the hockey player,” she mumbles with her eyes closed, head lolling against the headrest. “Or the rich man. Or the guy with the big house and the big attitude, and the cars and the pool and the gym and blah blah blah…”
She drags her eyes open, reaches over and pokes my cheek, pushing until my lips curl into a smile. “I like the Chord Davenport who wears jeans and boots covered in dirt. The one who makes his niece giggle and gives her great hugs. The Chord Davenport who scarfs down Pretzel M&M’s when he thinks I’m not looking, fixes broken fences with his hands, saves me from scary mice, and is such a gentleman he’s spent the last week pretendinghe didn’t see me naked.”
She whispers the last words, and I laugh again.
“And I like the way you make mefeel,” she adds with a cute little shiver.
“Oh, yeah?” I watch her from the corner of my eye. “And how’s that?”
She closes her eyes again, slumps in her seat with a happy sigh, and replies like she’s halfway to sleep. “Warm. Excited. Like my body is filled with butterflies and light.”
I blink at the road and try not to let the whir of my heart distract me from the task of driving us safely home.
“I like the way you see me,” I say, not quite loud enough for her to hear. “I think I like that Chord Davenport too.”
I pull the truck into the garage, get out, and walk around to open the door for Violet. She sits with her head rolled back, belt still on, and toes wiggling inside the sheer ankle socks she had on under her boots.
I wait for her to step out, but she stretches her arms toward me and twitches her fingers.
I give her an amused frown. “What?”
She thrusts her bottom lip into a pout as her perfect dark brows crinkle over brown puppy-dog eyes, and she makes grabby motions with her hands.
I dip my chin. “You want me to carry you?”
She nods pathetically. “My feet still hurt.”
I shake my head with a smile and reach around to unbuckle her seatbelt. She throws her arms around my neck immediately and sticks like a barnacle as I straighten out of the car. It’s so fucking cute that I hold her close and never want to let her go.
“I wonder what you’re going to think about all this tomorrow,” I mumble, breathing in the scent of her hair again as she nuzzles her cheek against my chest.
She sighs and relaxes in my arms. “I’m going to think this was the best night of my life.”
twenty-one
Violet
DAY 19 AT SILVER LEAF... ONLY 67 TO GO
I wake up withmy contact lenses in, a pounding in my skull, a mouth that feels stuffed with cotton, and a sinking sense of regret. About what, I’m not sure until I replay what I can remember about last night and, with sudden panic, realize I forgot to call my dad.
Iforgot.
Nausea rolls high enough to tickle my throat, and I grope on the nightstand for my phone. It’s dead, so I attach it to my charger, then fling back the bed covers with a groan. I want to stay in this bed forever. I also want water and painkillers and a shower and… something salty?
Once I’ve taken out my lenses, brushed my teeth, and scrubbed the makeup from my face, I step under the hot spray of the shower, sink down onto the tiled bench built into the wall, press my cheek against the cool side, and let the water loosen my muscles. When I feel half-human again and can open my eyeswithout squinting, I dry off and dress, pick up my phone, and dial Dad’s number while heading downstairs.
