Page 67 of Wallflower in Bloom

He thought back to their last conversation. He was sure he didn’t hallucinate her incredibly sexy want-to-try list. He’d fantasized non-stop for the last 72 hours, imagining what was on it. Imagining them completing it together.

This was dangerous. It was getting harder to keep her in the wholesome fake girlfriend box.

The things he imagined on that list were the furthest thing from wholesome.

He finally felt well enough to wrestle with the second self-tape he’d yet to submit. The mafia show producers had a new script they’d wanted him to try. He remembered why he loathed auditioning: he was rubbish at it.

Jack meandered downstairs, needing a break before trying again. He looked around the corner to see Violet in her overstuffed chair, comically propped up with an industrial-sized can of coffee underneath one arm, another pillow at her back, and what looked like a giant stuffed teddy bear under her other arm.

He felt that jolt of happiness at seeing her face for the first time in two days.

“Oh, hello! I didn’t know you were home,” she said brightly, looking up from her laptop.

Her sunny smile hit him right in the stomach. She was so fucking genuine. So kind.

And looked to be in some sort of pain. “Is everything okay?”

“Oh, yeah. My back was spasming,” she said nonchalantly as if it was normal.

He peered over her screen and saw the words ‘Apple Festival Email Campaign.’ “Perhaps because you’re working too much.”

“Oh no, it’s fine.” She shrugged, returning to her typing. “This happens all the time.”

“Your body is literally telling you to slow down, Violet. You deserve rest.”

“But I told Jennifer I would have this to her today.” She shoved at her hair in frustration.

As if her time wasn’t the most precious thing in the world. As if she wasn’t the most precious thing and should be protected at all costs.

“The she-demon can be disappointed. Here, let me help you.”

“The heartthrob of a romance TV show is going to organize the end-of-summer Apple Festival?” She shot a sarcastic eyebrow up at him.

He much preferred this side of her versus the woman who hadn’t been able to look at him a few weeks ago.

“Of course not. I don’t know the first thing about apples,” he joked. “Never eaten one on principle.”

She threw her head back and giggled. There was that same tinkling, fairy-like sound that had haunted his first concussion dream.

And oh, how he’d dreamt.

“Let me help you with your back.” He lifted the laptop from her hands and pulled her up to stand as she groaned.

“I might suggest using a cart instead of hauling 40 pounds of dirt on your shoulders.”

“I’m fine. Honestly,” she said, even as she stumbled forward.

“You are most certainly not fine. You conscripted that teddy bear into your servitude.”

“He’s used to it.”

His mouth quirked as he guided her to the couch. “Now lie down.”

She grumbled but lay face down on the couch. “I should book time with Nick, Aaron’s husband. He was a massage therapist and sometimes still does it for friends.”

He perched next to her hip on the deep couch and placed his hands on her back. “But then I wouldn’t get to do this.”

“You wouldn’t have to do this,” she murmured into the pillow.

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