14. Violet
Chapter 14
Violet
“ I swear to God, Violet, if you’ve been driving this thing with the check engine light on for months, I’m gonna revoke your car privileges personally.”
Poppy’s voice is muffled from under the hood, but I can still hear the judgment dripping from it.
I lean against the wall of the garage, arms crossed. “I wasn’t ignoring it. I was—” I pause, searching for a reasonable excuse.
She peeks her head out. A single brow arched as she waits for my lame excuse. “Yeah?”
I sigh, holding up my hands in surrender. “Okay, I was procrastinating.”
Poppy laughs, wiping her hands on an old rag. “At least you admit it.” She leans against the workbench, shaking her head. “Girl, I don’t know how this thing didn’t leave you stranded on the highway.”
I wince. It did. And it has before. This time I was just lucky that Walker came to my rescue.
I had a taste of Bridger Falls hospitality when my car died. Cami called Walker, and somehow, instead of my car being rescued, I ended up wrapped around Walker’s back, riding through town on the back of his damn motorcycle.
I try not to think about that. Friends don't think about their friends like that.
“Well,” I say, kicking at the floor, “at least I made it here in one piece.”
Poppy snorts. “Yeah, yeah. Let me work my magic and see if I can keep you from breaking down again.”
She turns back to the engine, completely in her element, and I find myself watching her.
I like Poppy.
Poppy Murphy has the kind of beauty that doesn't need effort. She's all natural, all effortless, all completely unfair.
Her blond hair, thick and wild, is pulled into a messy bun on top of her head, but loose strands have broken free, framing her bright blue eyes—the kind of blue that made you think of summers spent under an open sky. Even with a smudge of grease on her cheek, she still looks like she belongs on the cover of some western romance novel, the kind where the heroine tames the rugged cowboy with nothing but a smile.
Dressed in her grease-stained mechanic’s coveralls, sleeves rolled up to reveal toned arms and smudged hands, she looks like she’s just rebuilt an engine with nothing but determination and a wrench. And yet, somehow, she still manages to shine bright and bring the sunshine wherever she goes.
She’s unapologetically herself, all confidence and moving around the shop with effortless ease. She doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t doubt herself. It’s refreshing to be around someone who… knows who they are.
I used to know who I was, and I used to have that kind of confidence.
But somewhere along the way, I lost it.
Or maybe—maybe it was stolen.
Actually, there’s no maybe. It was. And that’s why I’m determined to get it back.
“So,” Poppy says, her voice casual as she tightens something under the hood, “are you thinking about sticking around here?”
I blink. “What?”
She doesn’t look up. “In Bridger Falls. You gave passing-through vibes when you first got here, but now…” She glances at me, smirking. “You got a job, you’re helping Maggie, you’re—what’s the word—assimilating?”
I scoff. “Assimilating?”
“Yup.” She tosses a wrench onto the workbench. “Next thing you know, you’ll be baking pies and talking about how the ‘city just doesn’t have the same charm’ like the rest of us townies. Also, Maggie mentioned it.”
I snort, laugh, and roll my eyes, but the teasing lands deep in my chest.
Because she’s right.
I was passing through. At least, that’s what I told myself. But somewhere between helping Maggie at The Dogwood, working at The Black Dog, and getting roped into small-town daily life, I started… staying.
And it doesn’t feel like a mistake.
I sip the coffee I picked up from Steamy Sips earlier, the caramel warmth grounding me. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” I admit.
Poppy raises a brow. “No one does.”
“Seriously, though. I never meant to stay here. But I like it.” I hesitate, then add, “This place is good for the soul.”
Her expression softens. She leans back against the workbench, arms crossed, considering me for a moment. “Yeah,” she says finally. “I get that.”
Something about the way she says it makes me think she really does .
I’ve had friends before.
At least, I thought I did.
The kind of friendship where everything is easy and fun—until it’s not. Until one day, you need them, and instead of showing up, they disappear.
I haven’t talked about it. Not to Maggie or even to think about it myself if I can help it.
But standing here in Murphy’s Auto Shop, watching Poppy casually fix something I should have taken care of months ago, I realize something.
She’s not being nice to get something in return. Sure, I’m paying her to fix my car, but outside of that? She’s been a friend.
She’s been a friend because she wants to be my friend.
And I appreciate that.
I exhale, pressing my palms against my thighs. “Okay, not to be dramatic, but you fixing my car might actually make me emotional.”
Poppy laughs. “If you cry, I’m kicking you out.”
I grin. “Fair enough.”
She snorts, going back to work, and for a second, I let myself just be here.
It’s been a long time since I’ve had this—the kind of easy banter that isn’t hiding anything sharp underneath. No competition. No pretending. No waiting for the other person to stab me in the back.
Just laughter. Just understanding.
And I like it.
After another fifteen minutes, Poppy steps back, wiping her hands on her coveralls.
“Alright,” she says, “your car probably won’t explode. But I have to order a few parts.”
I give her a look. “ Probably won't explode? ”
She grins. “Look, I’m a genius, but even geniuses have their limits. You gotta start scheduling regular maintenance.”
I shake my head, laughing. “Alright, I will.”
I glance around the shop at the old photos on the walls, some of them of Poppy’s mom, Grace, who she mentioned passed away ten years ago.
There’s history here. Genuine history.
Bridger Falls isn’t just a town. It’s layers of stories, stitched together over time, carried by people who still give a damn.
And somehow, I’ve found myself inside one of their stories.
I exhale, stretching my arms over my head. “You know, this place is a pretty great place to call home.”
Poppy smirks. “Careful, Violet. If you start calling it home, you’ll never leave.”
The word home makes something catch in my throat.
I don’t know what to say.
But maybe, for the first time in a long time, I don’t need to.
“Alright, get out of my shop,” Poppy says, smacking a grease-stained rag in my direction. “Before I find something else wrong with your car and make you stay even longer.”
I laugh, heading toward the sidewalk. “Noted. Thanks, Poppy. Seriously.”
She shrugs, but I see the warmth in her expression. “Anytime.”
I slide into Maggie’s truck, turn the key, and the engine hums to life.
For the first time in a long time, so does something in me.
I don’t know what it is yet.
But as I drive away, windows down, air crisp against my skin, I think?—
Maybe this is what it feels like to start over.
Maybe this is what it feels like to finally belong.
It’ s past nine, and The Black Dog is in full swing.
The neon sign out front hums against the glass, the jukebox in the corner plays a mix of old country, and the scent of whiskey, beer, and fried food fills the air.
I’m finally getting the hang of this place with the rhythm of pouring drinks, remembering the regulars’ orders, dodging Jack and Ollie’s relentless flirting from the other side of the bar. I know they’re doing it on purpose to get under Walker’s skin. And by the looks of it, it’s working.
Walker left to run an errand, but when he’s here, I can feel him watching me sometimes.
Like he’s still trying to figure me out, like a puzzle he can’t find all the pieces for.
Like he doesn’t quite know what to do with me yet.
Join the club, Walker.
“Hey, Violet,” Momma Mary, the cook calls from the kitchen. “Can you grab another bottle of whiskey from Walker's office?”
We’ve been slow and have been restocking the bar and kitchen area before our dinner rush.
I nod, wiping my hands on a rag. “On it.”
I head toward the back hallway, past the emergency exit sign that flickers like it’s one day away from giving up and finally reach Walker’s office. He has a whole little space separate from the bar back here with a living area, a place for his dog, and a desk. He also has a row of storage shelves in the back where he keeps extra inventory.
I push the door open—and stop dead in my tracks.
There’s a girl sitting in his chair, boots kicked up on the desk like she owns the place, petting Pickles who is curled up in her lap. The dog wags her tail when she sees me .
She’s scrolling through her phone, popping a piece of candy in her mouth, and barely spares me a glance.
She’s dark-haired and carries the same brooding energy as her father.
And I know immediately—this is Mack.
Walker’s kid.
The one Maggie dotes on, the daughter that Walker would burn the entire world down for.
And she’s sizing me up.
Oh, this is going to be fun.
“You lost?” she asks, arching a perfectly unimpressed brow.
I cross my arms. “Nope. Just came to grab a bottle of whiskey.”
She smirks. “Figures. You look like you drink a lot.”
I snort. “You look like you get away with too much.”
She grins. “I do.”
There’s a beat of silence, then—we both laugh.
Okay. I like her already.
I lean against the door frame, watching her lazily toss her phone onto the desk. “So, let me guess—you come back here to hide from your dad, steal candy from his drawer, and pretend you don’t like being at the bar.”
She blinks, then points at me. “That was freakishly accurate.”
I flash a grin. “It’s a gift.”
She studies me for a second, then tilts her head. “You’re Maggie’s Violet.”
I raise a brow. “Maggie’s Violet?”
She shrugs. “She’s been talking about you non-stop. ‘Oh, Violet is staying with me at the Dogwood. Violet is working with your dad at The Black Dog. Violet has great hair and would be a fantastic girlfriend if only stubborn Walker would wake up and see it.’ ”
I choke on air.
She grins, clearly pleased with herself.
“Wow,” I say, pressing a hand to my chest. “That was disturbingly accurate. You sure you don’t have a gift as well?”
“More like talent for mimicking small-town meddling.”
I grin, definitely liking her even more.
And something about Mack feels… easy. Natural. Like bantering with her is the most effortless thing in the world.
The door creaks open behind me, and I don’t need to turn around to know who it is.
Walker clears his throat, and Mack and I both turn toward him like we got caught red-handed.
His arms are crossed with his usual grumpy expression in place, but I don’t miss the flicker of surprise in his eyes as he watches us.
“Everything okay in here?” he asks, voice low, unreadable.
Mack smirks, absolutely eating this up. “Oh yeah, Dad. We were just bonding. I was getting to know my new mommy.”
Walker narrows his eyes at her as if he’s giving her a warning, then flicks his gaze curiously to me as if he’s gauging my response at her teasing.
I laugh at her comment and fight back a grin. “She insulted me within the first thirty seconds of meeting me, so… yeah. I’d say we’re off to a great start.”
Mack shrugs, popping another piece of candy in her mouth. “She can take it, Dad. I respect that.”
Walker exhales, rubbing the back of his neck like he doesn’t quite know what to do with this.
“Alright, kid,” Walker finally says, shaking his head at Mack. “You done interrogating our friend, Violet?”
Our friend . And the way he obnoxiously emphasized the word friend. There he goes with the friend shit again.
Mack shrugs, looking too pleased with herself. “For now. ”
Walker mutters something under his breath before turning to me. “Whiskey’s on the bottom shelf.”
I salute him. “Sir, yes, sir.”
Mack cackles. “I like her, Dad.”
Walker mutters another curse before heading out.
I turn back to Mack, and we stare at each other for a moment—two smartasses in a standoff. Then we both crack up at the same time.
And just like that, I know.
I like this kid.
A lot.
Walker’s bar is quiet for once. Most of the customers here are the regulars, and the jukebox hums something old and slow in the background. I’m just about to steal the last fry from Mack’s plate when the front door flies open with the force of a full-blown tornado.
And that tornado has a name.
Aunt Maggie.
“MAKAYLA LEIGH!”
Mack’s fork froze halfway to her mouth. “Shit.”
Walker, not even fazed, leaned against the counter, amused as hell. “And here I was, thinking this night was about to get boring.”
Maggie stomped inside, hands on her hips, eyes blazing. I was pretty sure if Mack had been a less stubborn human, she would have bolted out the back door.
But Mack?
Mack just chews her bite real slow, swallows, and grins. “Hey, Maggs. Want some fries?”
Maggie looks like she’s contemplating homicide. "I went out to the house, and you weren't there. You didn't tell me you were at the bar."
I take a very long sip of my drink and wait for the fireworks.
“It is a school night, Mack.” Maggie’s voice is all sharp edges and exasperation. “Do you know what responsible people do on school nights?”
Mack nodded seriously. “Stay up late and eat bar food?”
Maggie eyes her. “They sleep. And do homework.”
“Well, I’ll get to the sleep eventually. And I already did my homework.”
Maggie inhalesvery slowly, probably to pray for patience or suppress the urge to shake Mack by the shoulders.
Walker chuckles under his breath, sliding a fresh plate of mozzarella sticks onto the table like he's setting out snacks for a live show. “Mack, why didn’t you tell Maggie you were staying in town?”
Mack mumbles, “Sorry, Maggie. I forgot.”
Maggie gives him a look as he drops off the mozzarella sticks. “You’re an enabler.”
Walker smirks. “I prefer ‘gracious host.’”
Maggie sighs dramatically, pulls out a chair, and sits down next to Mack. “Well, if I’m going to scold you, I might as well eat while I do it.”
Mack pumps a fist. “Yes! Corrupting Maggie, one mozzarella stick at a time!”
I grin, watching them dig in. And against my better judgment, I join them since we're slow.
Walker arches a brow. “You too?”
I shrug. “What? This is the best entertainment I’ve had all week.”
Maggie shakes her head as I grab a mozzarella stick. “I don’t know why I even try. You’re all bad influences.”
Mack snorts. “Oh please, you love me the most.”
We just eat, order fries, joke around, and throw a few fries at Pickles, who’s curled up under the table, snoring like an old lady.
Maggie even steals the last mozzarella stick from Mack’s plate, which makes Mack gasp like she’s been personally betrayed.
“Maggie, that was mine!”
Maggie bites into it, totally unrepentant. “Possession is nine-tenths of the law, sugar.”
Mack turns to me for backup. “You saw that! She’s turning against me.”
I nod solemnly. “This is how it starts. First, she steals your food. Next thing you know, she’s taking over your entire life.”
Maggie rolls her eyes but tries to hide a smile behind her drink.
"She already does that," Mack grins.
Walker lets out a low chuckle from behind the bar, his gaze drifting between the three of us. He hasn’t said much all evening, just watched.
Like he likes seeing us all together.
And I love this. Growing up with Maggie for an aunt was super special. Seeing her with Mack and knowing that Mack has that too is a good feeling. The warm and fuzzy kind.
I meet his eyes for half a second, my stomach doing something weird and warm. But then Mack tosses a fry at me, and the moment is gone.
By the time Maggie finally drags Mack home, stuffed with food and still whining about bedtime, Pickles is up and ready to play, and Walker still watches me like he hasn’t quite figured me out yet.
And honestly?
I’m not sure I want him to.
I don't even know what I'm doing.