Chapter 31
thirty-one
. . .
Violet
I’ve been skipping Sunday dinners, which in my mother’s world is basically the equivalent of staging a family coup. To be fair, I had decent reasons. Emotional whiplash. Dad pissing me off.
Still, the guilt’s been simmering. I finally cave and call her while I’m folding laundry at my condo.
“Hi, Mom,” I say, already bracing myself.
“Well, look who remembered she has a mother,” she replies, and I wince. She’s only half joking.
“I know. I’m the worst,” I admit. “Things have been…busy.”
“Mmhmm,” she says. “Too busy for baked ziti?”
“I love your ziti.”
“Then where have you been, Violet?”
I chew on my lip. This is the part where I should just say it. It’s not like it’s some guilty confession. “I’ve been spending a lot of time with Rowan,” I say, heart thumping. “And after how Dad reacted at the coffee shop…”
There’s a pause on the other end. “Your father is protective,” she says, but there’s a sigh underneath her words.
“I’m not sixteen anymore, Mom.”
“No, you’re not.” Her voice softens. “Are you happy?”
“I really am,” I whisper.
“Then bring him to dinner. Your father will behave.”
“Mom, he didn’t just say something about Rowan’s dad,” I say, shaking my head.
“He looked him in the eye and basically told him he’d end up the same way.
Like everything Rowan’s worked for doesn’t matter.
Like none of it counts.” The memory twists in my chest, anger and something softer, more protective, rising up together.
“Your father was out of line,” she says quietly.
“He didn’t just cross a line,” I mumble. “He seems to have made up his mind about who Rowan is and who he’ll always be.”
There’s another long pause, and I can almost see her pursing her lips, that expression she gets when she’s trying to find the right words.
“You can’t avoid your father forever, honey.”
“I’m not avoiding him,” I argue, though we both know that’s exactly what I’m doing.
“What if I talk to him first? I’ll make it very clear what the expectations are.”
“I don’t know…”
“Honey, your father may be stubborn, but he loves you. And I think, deep down, he knows he was wrong. He just needs a little push in the right direction.”
The idea of sitting at a dinner table with both Rowan and my father makes my stomach knot, but there’s also a part of me that desperately wants them to find some kind of peace.
“Why don’t you ask Rowan if he’d be comfortable with it?” Mom suggests. “He might surprise you.”
I let out a slow breath. “You think he’d actually want to subject himself to that again?”
“You won’t know unless you ask.”
She has a point.
“Okay,” I say, my shoulders slumping in defeat. “I’ll talk to him about it.”
“That’s my girl,” Mom says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “How about next Sunday? That gives your father a full week to practice being on his best behavior.”
I laugh. “I’ll let you know.”
We hang up, and I stare at my phone. How exactly do you ask the guy you love if he wants to spend a Sunday dodging your dad’s disapproving glances over pasta?
It’s not that Rowan’s been weird about my family. Just…quiet. Ever since the coffee shop standoff with my dad, he’s walked a wide circle around the topic. He just listens when I vent and plants kisses to the top of my head.
I set the phone down and wander into the living room where Rowan and Whitley are perched on the couch, the rich scent of hazelnut coffee filling the air. He looks up when I enter, eyes warming instantly.
He sets his mug down, arms open in a gesture that’s become home. “Hey. Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, dragging the word out as I cross to him and settle in his lap. “I just got off the phone with my mom. She invited us to Sunday dinner.”
His body stills for half a second. “Us?”
“Mmhmm.” I nod, looping my arms around his neck.
Whitley lets out a snort from her corner of the couch. “Oh, that dinner. The one with the cold stares.”
Rowan glances at her, brow lifted.
I give a heavy sigh. “Mom says Dad’s going to be on his best behavior.”
Whitley hums. Rowan tries not to smile. “And you want me to come?”
I chew my lip, meeting his eyes. “Only if you’re comfortable with it. I know my dad is kind of nasty sometimes.”
His thumb traces a circle on my hip. “If you want me there, I’m in.”
“Really?” I search his face for any hint of reluctance.
“Really.”
Whitley makes a gagging sound. “You two are nauseating. I’m going to need insulin if I stay any longer.”
I throw a pillow at her, which she catches with a laugh.
“Seriously, though,” Whitley says, already halfway off the couch, “I’m happy for you. Even if you’re giving me cavities. But also, this means I don’t have to come as the buffer this time.”
She disappears down the hall, and I sink farther into Rowan’s chest, letting his warmth wrap around me.
“You sure you’re okay with dinner?” I ask again, my lips brushing against his jaw.
He looks down at me, eyes steady. “I’m in. If it means getting to be by your side, I’ll sit through a hundred awkward dinners.”
“Even if my dad gives you the death glare the entire time?”
He smirks. “Especially then. I like a challenge.”
I laugh, but my heart does that stupid fluttery thing it always does when he says stuff like that.
“Okay then,” I whisper. “Next Sunday it is.”
“There’s absolutely still time to fake food poisoning,” I mutter, pausing just before my parents’ front door.
Rowan squeezes my hand. “I don’t fake anything, Violet. Least of all when it comes to you.”
I glance up at him and am met with that calm, unreadable mask he wears when he’s bracing for something. I nod and knock twice before pushing the door open.
The scent of roasted chicken and rosemary hits me first, followed by the low murmur of voices from the kitchen.
“Violet!” Mom appears around the corner, wiping her hands on a towel. “You made it! And Rowan, hello!”
“Hi, Mrs. Larkin,” he says smoothly, offering her a warm smile.
“You know you can call me Marie. Come in, come in.”
Rowan slips his hand around my waist as we walk through the entryway. I catch my dad’s silhouette at the kitchen table, arms crossed.
“Hey, Dad,” I say, forcing my voice steady.
Rowan doesn’t flinch. “Nice to see you again, sir.”
“Hmm,” Dad grunts, like that’s the most polite thing he can manage.
Tension snags in the air between them, thick and sour. Rowan’s hand twitches at my waist, but he doesn’t say anything more.
“Why don’t we all sit down?” Mom suggests, clearly anxious to redirect.
We settle around the dining table, and I try to ignore my dad’s silence. Rowan sits beside me, hands resting on the edge of the table. The overhead light catches on the intricate designs covering his forearms and hands, and I watch my dad’s gaze linger on them.
“That’s quite the collection of ink you’ve got there,” Dad says after we’ve all served ourselves, breaking the silence.
Rowan glances down at his arms, then back up at my father. “Yes, sir.”
“Must have cost a pretty penny,” Dad continues, cutting into his chicken with more force than necessary. “All those… What are they? Dragons? Skulls?”
“David,” Mom warns quietly.
“What? I’m making conversation.” He shrugs. “I’m curious what kind of statement the man’s trying to make.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “Dad—”
“It’s okay,” Rowan says calmly, setting down his fork. “No dragons or skulls, Mr. Larkin. This one’s a compass,” he says, turning his wrist to reveal the detailed navigation tool inked on his forearm. “Got it after my second tour. A reminder to always find my way home.”
I watch Dad’s face, waiting for his reaction. His brow furrows slightly, but he doesn’t respond.
“And this one,” Rowan continues, pushing up his sleeve to show a delicate constellation pattern on his bicep, “is Cygnus. The swan. My sister’s favorite.”
Dad picks up his wine glass, taking a long sip. “Your sister into astronomy?”
“She was,” Rowan says, his voice softening. “She passed away when she was eighteen.”
Mom’s fork clatters against her plate. “Oh, Rowan. I’m so sorry.”
I reach under the table, squeezing his thigh. The table falls silent. Dad shifts uncomfortably in his seat, suddenly very interested in his plate.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Dad says finally, his voice gruff but sincere.
Rowan nods. “Thank you.”
Mom clears her throat, searching for a way to lighten the mood. “Violet tells me you’ve been doing some work with private security?”
“Yes, ma’am. I just finished an assignment in Colombia. I was gone a bit too long, though.” Rowan admits. “Gonna try not to do that again. It was a bit rough on both of us.”
Mom hides a smile behind her wine glass.
“And what exactly are your intentions with my daughter?” Dad asks bluntly.
“Dad!” I hiss, mortified.
“What? It’s a fair question.” He shrugs.
Rowan doesn’t seem bothered. “My intentions are to love her,” he says simply. “Every day, for as long as she’ll have me.”
The directness of his answer seems to catch Dad off guard. He blinks, then narrows his eyes.
“Love doesn’t pay bills,” Dad counters. “Doesn’t build a future.”
“No,” Rowan agrees. “But it’s a hell of a foundation.
As for building a future… I bought that property just outside of Lily Ridge two years before I even came back here.
I’ve been saving since I was eighteen. I’ve got investments, a retirement plan, and enough put away that neither of us would have to worry if something went sideways. ”
I stare at him, my heart thudding in my chest. We haven’t really talked about finances beyond the general understanding that he’s comfortable and careful with his money.
“You planning on marrying my daughter?” Dad asks, his voice gruff.
“David!” Mom gasps.
My face burns hot. “Dad, seriously?”
Rowan doesn’t flinch or look to me for help. He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table, eyes steady on my dad.
“It’s a fair question, but the truth is, we’re still figuring this out. We haven’t talked about forever yet.”
My heart stutters. Yet.
He continues, his tone unshaken. “What I do know is that I care about your daughter more than I’ve ever cared about anyone.
I respect her, I admire her, and I want to build something solid with her.
Whether that ends in marriage or not… I’ll never waste her time, and I’ll never treat her as anything less than the best damn thing that’s ever happened to me. ”
Silence wraps around the table like a held breath.
“And for what it’s worth,” he continues. “I’m not intimidated by tough conversations. I’d rather be uncomfortable than dishonest. Violet deserves that kind of man.”
For a split second, I swear I see my mom smirk.
My dad stares at him for a long beat. “Hmm.”
While it’s not necessarily approval, it’s not a dismissal, either.
I glance sideways at Rowan, who just picks up his water glass like he didn’t just casually say the most romantic, emotionally mature thing anyone’s ever said in front of a man who once made a mechanic cry over a scratched bumper.
The rest of dinner passes with some stilted conversation, but at least Dad’s holding back the worst of his comments. When we finish dessert—Mom’s peach cobbler that even has Rowan making appreciative noises—I finally start to relax.
“Thank you for dinner,” Rowan says as we stand to leave. “Everything was delicious.”
Mom beams. “Oh, it was our pleasure. Wasn’t it, David?”
Dad grunts something that could be considered agreement, which from him is practically a standing ovation. He extends his hand to Rowan, who takes it without hesitation.
“Drive safe,” Dad says gruffly, and I nearly drop my purse in shock.
“Yes, sir,” Rowan responds, his face giving nothing away.
I’m just about to follow Rowan to the door when Mom’s hand closes around my wrist. “Violet, honey, could you help me with something in the kitchen before you go?”
“Sure,” I say, glancing at Rowan. “I’ll be right out.”
He nods, understanding the unspoken code of mother-daughter conversations.
As soon as we’re alone in the kitchen, Mom turns to me, her eyes bright with excitement. “Well?” she whispers.
“Well, what?” I ask, though I know exactly what she’s asking.
“Oh, don’t play coy with me,” she says, swatting my arm lightly. “That boy would walk through fire for you.”
I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face. “I know. He kind of just did.”
“And you feel the same way.” It’s not a question.
I nod, unable to form words around the fullness in my chest. Mom’s smile softens as she reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, just like she used to do when I was little.
“I’m happy for you, sweetheart,” she says. “And for what it’s worth, I think your father will come around.”
I blink fast, nodding before the tears can get the best of me. “I should get going. Rowan’s waiting.”
“Go,” she says, shooing me with her hands. “And don’t be a stranger. I expect to see both of you back here soon.”
When I step outside, I find Rowan leaning against his truck, arms crossed, looking up at the stars. The sight of him—tall and imposing against the night sky—makes my heart do that stupid fluttery thing again.
“Hey,” I say, crossing to him. “Sorry about that.”
He straightens, reaching for me as I near him. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Just mom stuff.” I slide my arms around his waist, breathing him in. “Thank you for tonight.”
His hand comes up to cup the back of my head, holding me against his chest. “It wasn’t so bad.”
I pull back, raising an eyebrow. “He practically asked for your tax returns and a five-year plan.”
Rowan’s laugh rumbles against me. “Trust me, I’ve faced worse interrogations.”
“Still,” I say, looking up at him, “I appreciate you being so patient. Not everyone would have sat through that kind of dinner.”
I rise on my tiptoes, pressing my lips to his in a soft kiss that quickly deepens. His arms tighten around me, pulling me closer until I’m pressed fully against him.
“Take me home,” I whisper against his mouth.
His eyes darken, and he nods, opening the passenger door for me. As we drive away, I glance back at my parents’ house where my mom stands in the doorway, waving. Just behind her, I spot a shadow I’m almost certain is my dad.