13. Walker
Chapter 13
Walker
T he thing about small-town life is that it moves slowly.
It’s steady and predictable. And it’s just the way I like it.
Bridger Falls doesn’t change much. It hasn’t in the fifteen years I’ve lived here. The people have stayed the same, and the town square still smells like fresh bread from Harvest & Honey deli every morning. The Black Dog, my bar and sanctuary, still have the same energy it always has. The safe and solid life that I’ve built for us.
And as far as I’m concerned, that’s how it should be.
I pour myself a cup of coffee and lean against the bar, watching the early afternoon sun slant through the rustic windows. It’s quiet now, the lull between the lunch rush and the regulars rolling in for their evening drinks and to catch up on the town gossip.
Quiet is good. Quiet is safe.
But ever since Violet Wilson walked into this town, I haven’t felt calm.
And that’s a problem .
I had one rule when I moved here: no more living in the public eye. No more risks. No more trusting people who could tear my life apart. And especially not my daughter's life.
And for the most part, I’ve kept that promise.
I still write songs, sure. Can’t seem to shake that part of myself, even after all these years. I keep the small cabin out back, tucked behind the lake on my property, where I can write and record in secret. No one in Bridger Falls knows what I do out there. Not even Maggie, and she knows damn near everything. Keeping that from her hasn’t been easy, either. She’s nosy as hell.
I sell my songs under a pseudonym. Let the world think they come from some anonymous songwriter who wants no part of the spotlight. Because that part is true, I don’t. I don’t live that life anymore, and I never will.
The industry chewed me up once, and I won’t give it another chance to do it again.
This town is my world now. My daughter is my entire world.
I let nothing in that could destroy the peace I’ve built. I don’t let anyone in, period.
At least, I didn’t until her.
Maggie has a soft spot for lost souls, and Violet coming here means she had something to run from.
I know all about running.
I didn’t expect Violet to pull the rug out from under me and ruin the carefully built world I’ve built in the best way possible.
When I saw her for the first time at The Black Dog, standing in the middle of my bar like she belonged there, I knew she was different. Special. And I couldn’t understand it then, but I definitely see it now.
That night, with her dark red wavy hair falling in wild waves down her back, eyes too damn knowing, lips curled in amusement as she could already see straight through me, she looked like she knew exactly what kind of man I was and wasn’t scared of anything.
And that? That’s dangerous.
Because I don’t let people in. I don’t get involved. Even when they’re running from things that make me want to protect them. Because I can’t take those risks anymore.
But then she smiled at me, and I felt a crack in the armor I thought was impenetrable.
I’ve never met anyone like her.
The problem with Violet is that she doesn’t act like an outsider.
She walks around Bridger Falls like she’s been here forever. She fits in so well. It's hard not to like her. She makes it damn easy.
She’s already got Cami and Poppy wrapped around her finger and already has half the town gossiping about her in that good-natured, small-town way. They all like her, too.
She’s helping Maggie at the motel, taking care of things like she’s been doing it her whole life.
And I don’t like it.
I don’t like how she can just waltz in here and kick down the walls I’ve spent fifteen years building up.
I don’t like the way I catch myself watching her.
And I sure as hell don’t like how she looks at me like she’s figuring me out.
Because I don’t want her figuring me out. I don’t want anyone to figure me out.
I’m not a puzzle. I’m a locked door.
And locked doors don’t open.
I’ve wanted to avoid her, but I can’t. Whenever she's around, it's a yes to anything she needs, and it's like I can't even stop myself.
It doesn’t help that she’s been working at my bar in the evenings, stepping in when Maggie volunteered her help with Cash out for a while.
She fits behind the bar too well, sliding drinks across the counter, laughing at things the regulars say, and tapping her fingers against the old wood like there’s a melody running through her veins she can’t turn off.
I tell myself it doesn’t bother me.
I tell myself she’s just passing through—that one day, she’ll pack her bags and leave, and things will return to the way they were.
But every time I see her, that idea feels like a lie.
And that’s the real problem, isn’t it?
I don’t want her to leave.
It’s late when I finally finish closing up the bar, with only the hum of the neon sign and the faint sound of crickets filling the late-night air.
Violet is still here, drying glasses behind the bar.
I should tell her to lock up and go. Should keep my distance. But I know I won't. I'll make sure she gets a ride home and is safe behind her door.
Instead, I linger, watching how she moves naturally in my space.
She looks up, catching my gaze, and something flickers in her eyes—something warm, something knowing.
“You gonna keep staring, or you wanna help me with these glasses?” she teases.
I smirk, shaking my head as I grab a towel. “Didn’t realize I was staring.”
She chuckles, handing me a glass. “Oh, you were. It’s alright, though. I know I’m fascinating. ”
I roll my eyes. But damn if she isn’t right.
She leans against the counter, watching me dry the glass with a lazy kind of amusement.
“What made you come to Bridger Falls?” she asks suddenly. "You’ve been here what—fifteen years? What made you pick Bridger Falls of all places?"
I glance at her, startled by her question. I should have expected it. I’m surprised that she hasn’t asked sooner. “Needed a fresh start. Seemed as good a place as any.”
Her lips curve. “That’s vague.”
I smirk. "You ask every man you meet for his life story?"
"Only the ones who are hiding something."
Damn. She’s good.
I let out a slow breath, weighing my options. She’s already got one hell of an instinct for bullshit, and if I dodge too hard, she’ll just keep coming. I need to give her something.
Something true.
Something that won’t lead her straight to the past I left behind.
I keep my voice even. "Had a baby to raise. Wanted somewhere quiet. Somewhere safe."
That part? That part is real.
Violet doesn’t say anything right away. She just studies me, like she’s trying to decide whether or not to believe me.
And for a second—just a second—I wonder if she can see right through me.
But then, she just smirks, drumming her fingers against the table.
She studies me for a beat like she’s picking apart the layers I don’t want her to see.
“Guess I can understand that,” she says finally. “There’s something about this place. Feels… sa fe.”
Safe.
I swallow, looking away.
She has no idea how hard I’ve worked to make it that way.
By the time we finish cleaning up, it’s past midnight, and the air outside is cool and still.
She stretches, letting out a little satisfied sigh, and I have to force my eyes away.
“Thanks for letting me help,” she says. “You need me tomorrow?”
I know what I should say.
I should tell her no.
I should tell her I don’t need her.
But the words don’t come.
“Yeah,” I say instead, my voice quieter than I mean it to be.
She smiles, slow and soft like she knows exactly what just happened.
And just like that, I realize I’m in trouble.
Because I don’t let people in.
But Violet Wilson is already halfway through the door, and I feel like I couldn't stop her even if I tried.
We lock up and head out to my truck as I dump the trash in the dumpster.
The night air is crisp, carrying the distant scent of pine and the lingering hum of the town settling in for the night. The streets are quiet, and it’s my favorite time of night.
Except now, I’m standing next to Violet, watching her pull on a hoodie over her tank top, her hair a little messy from a long night, and I can’t ignore the familiarity of it.
She looks just like she did that first night.
The night I told myself was just a one-time thing. And that one time that I can’t get out of my head. No matter how much of a perfect gentleman I try to be.
I clear my throat. “You ready?”
She looks at me, then at my truck parked outside The Black Dog. “Are you asking me nicely, or are you gonna tell me you’re taking me home whether or not I like it?”
I smirk. “That depends. Are you planning on arguing?”
She grins. “Always.”
I roll my eyes and gesture toward the truck. “Come on, Red. Before you start walking and I feel obligated to follow you like some damn lost puppy to make sure you get home safe.”
She laughs, hopping up into the passenger seat like she’s done it a hundred times before. And that’s the problem, isn’t it? It feels easy. Feels familiar. Feels like I haven’t worked hard to pretend I don’t remember exactly how she felt in my arms that night.
I slide into the driver’s seat and start the engine, the rumble breaking the silence between us.
But not for long.
Because, of course, Violet’s the first to break it.
“You know,” she muses, resting her elbow against the window, “this is oddly familiar.”
I glance at her in surprise, pretending not to know what she means. “What is?”
She turns her head, giving me a look that says I know damn well what you’re doing.
I shake my head, shocked that her words precisely mirror what I was thinking, as I laugh softly to myself. Because of course, we even think alike.
“This,” she says, motioning between us. “Late night. You driving me home? Me, pretending I’m not thinking about?—”
She stops herself, eyes flicking toward me, watching for my reaction.
I grip the steering wheel tighter. “Not thinking about what?”
Her grin is all mischief and amusement. “Nothing. Forget I said anything. ”
I sigh, shaking my head. “Red?—”
“Relax,” she teases. “I just meant it’s funny, that’s all. You, driving me home, me pretending I don’t notice how your truck smells like cedar and bad decisions.”
I snort. “Bad decisions?”
She tilts her head, eyes sparkling. “You telling me the last time we were in this truck together wasn’t a bad decision?”
I don’t answer right away.
Because part of me knows damn well it wasn’t a bad decision.
It was a mistake to let her get close. But that night? That night wasn’t a bad decision.
She lets out a dramatic sigh. “It’s fine, Walker. I get it. It was just a one-time thing. No big deal.”
I glance at her. “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”
She grins. “Oh, yeah.”
We pull up to The Dogwood. The light is on, casting a warm glow over the front of her door.
She unbuckles but doesn’t move to get out right away. Instead, she turns toward me, her expression softer now, less teasing.
“Thanks for the ride,” she says, voice quieter.
“Anytime,” I murmur, surprised to find that I actually mean it.
She hesitates for a second, then smiles—not her usual playful smirk, but something smaller, something real.
“Thanks for being my friend, Walker.”
And that? That hits.
Friend.
The word sticks in my chest like a splinter I didn’t see coming. Friend zoned for real.
Because I know she means it. And maybe I should be relieved, or maybe I should be grateful that she’s willing to see me as anything other than the guy who pushed her away.
But instead, it feels like a punch to the gut.
Because if she’s calling me a friend, then it means I’m doing exactly what I set out to do. Keeping my distance. Keeping it casual. Keeping my walls up.
And yet, why does it feel like I’m losing something?
She gives me one last look before stepping out, pulling her hoodie tighter around her as she heads up the steps.
I watch her go, my grip tightening around the steering wheel, the word still ringing in my ears.
Friend.
I should be okay with that.
I should.
So why the hell am I not?
I should’ve known better than to step foot in The Dogwood Inn without my guard up. Maggie gives me hell on a good day. But today I feel like she's got an even bigger plan to drive me crazy.
Maggie has that look. The one that means she's about to meddle in my love life like it's her God-given duty.
I’ve barely walked through the front door when she pops up behind the counter, eyes twinkling like she's about to ruin my day in the most affectionate way possible.
"Well, if it isn’t Walker, the man who’s been circling my niece like a lovesick hound dog,” she says, crossing her arms.
I sigh. Loudly. “Hello to you too, Maggie.”
She grinned. “Saw you two having a lovely stroll through town the other day.”
Shit.Can no one leave me alone in this town?
I force a casual shrug. “We were just having coffee.”
Maggie narrows her eyes. “Uh-huh. And you just so happened to be glued to Violet’s side the whole time?”
“Glued?” I scoff. “That’s dramatic, even for you.”
She waves me off. “Please. You were looking at her like she hung the damn moon. And the way you puffed up when Ollie teased you? Whew. I could feel the testosterone all the way over here at the Dogwood.”
I scrub a hand down my face. “You’re seeing things and need to get your vision checked before you move into the nursing home. Also, what, do you have a gossip phone tree going? How do you even know all of that?”
Maggie lets out a sharp bark of laughter. “Honey, I’ve been watching stubborn men deny their feelings since before you were born. You’re not slick.”
I lean against the counter. “You got a point, or are you just here to make my life harder?”
“Oh, I always have a point.” She smirks. “And my point is—when are you gonna quit dancing around that girl and do something about it?”
I open my mouth. Close it. Because the truth? The truth is, I want to. I want Violet. But she is…Violet. Stubborn, smart-mouthed, and too good for me. She deserves better than what I can give her.
Maggie watches me like a hawk. “That’s what I thought.”
I exhale sharply. “It’s not that easy.”
“Oh, honey.” She pats my hand like I'mthe biggest idiot she's ever met. “Love is never easy. But you? You’re making it much harder than it needs to be.”
I drag a hand through my hair. “Maggie?—”
She cuts me off with a knowing smile. “You can fight it all you want, sugar, but that girl is yours. Everyone sees it. The only one still pretending otherwise is you.”
I let my head drop back, staring at the ceiling. God help me .
Maggie’s voice goes all sing-songy. “You know I’m right.”
I mutter a curse. “You always think you’re right.”
“Because I usually am.” She pats my arm before walking off, humming to herself. "I'll see you later."
And I, fully exasperated and maybe a little rattled, did the only thing I could—got the hell out before she could meddle even more.