27. Walker
Chapter 27
Walker
S he wasn’t supposed to fit in here so damn well. She wasn’t supposed to laugh her way into my house, my kid’s life, my bar, and my heart.
But she did.
And now, she’s everywhere.
She’s in my kitchen, dancing in her socked feet while she makes breakfast for everyone.
She’s in my truck, singing off-key just to make Mack laugh.
She’s at my bar, tossing out sarcastic remarks like she was made to be here, like she belongs.
She’s on my damn porch swing at night, playing my guitar like she’s always had it, like it was meant for her.
She makes everything louder, funnier, more alive.
I like her.
And not in the way I used to like people. Not in the easy, surface-level way I let people in.
I like her so much it’s messing with my head.
And now, here I am, standing in the doorway of my cabin, staring at my messy, scribbled lyrics on the desk, debating whether or not to let her all the way in. Whether or not to share this part of myself—the part I don’t share with anyone.
I tell myself it’s not a good idea. That music isn’t something I share with other people anymore. That I keep it to myself for a reason.
Because I know what happens when you mix love and music.
Because I’ve seen what happens when you let someone too deep into this part of you.
Because the last time I let a woman into my music, I lost everything.
I tell myself all of that. And then I think about the way Violet looked at me that night on the porch, eyes shining, fingers plucking my guitar like she was born with it in her hands. The way she said music will always be a part of her life, even if it’s just for her. She gets it. She lost everything, too.
And the thought of her writing alone, singing alone, keeping it locked inside just like I do—it doesn’t sit right.
I don’t want her to go through what I went through. It's a lonely place to be. I head back to the house in the boat and park it and sit for a while, staring out at the cabin. I don’t want her to think she has to shove her music into the shadows like I have. And maybe—maybe I don’t want to anymore, either.
Footsteps behind me pull me out of my thoughts. I look up, and there she is. Violet, standing on my dock, smiling like she doesn’t know she’s about to undo me just by standing there, looking so beautiful.
“Hey, Walker,” she teases. “Hiding out again?”
I huff out a laugh, rubbing the back of my neck. “Something like that.”
Her eyes flick towards me, curiosity flickering across her face. “You know, for someone who doesn’t play music anymore, you sure have a lot of instruments just lying around. ”
I should tell her to drop it. I should say something gruff, something to make her laugh and move on. But instead, I hear myself say it—“You want to come with me sometime?”
Violet blinks. "Yeah, I'd love to," she whispers.
And I swear I see the exact moment when she realizes what I’m asking. This isn’t just about going to my cabin. My writing space.This is about stepping into something bigger.
This is about trust.
And when she smiles, soft and real, my chest tightens—because I already know.
I’m letting her in. And there’s no going back.
A few days later, I get home early for once. We finish cleaning up and relax in the family room after dinner. Mack has run off to work on homework, and Maggie has retired to her room with her book. Before I can chicken out, I say, “I want to show you something, Red.”
“Coming,” she says and winks at me.
I close my eyes. Fuck me.
She turns and grabs her guitar and follows me out the back door. I can tell she’s excited to go to the cabin, and that makes me even more nervous about what I’m about to show her.
We get down to the boat, and she laughs nervously. “I’ve never ridden in a boat.”
I hold it steady, and she gets in and looks a little uneasy. Reaching out, I hold her hand, steadying her.
Her eyes meet mine, and she says, “This isn’t the part where I find out you have a creepy clown doll collection hidden at your cabin, is it?”
I give her a look and shake my head as I tuck her guitar between us. I sit on the other side and crank the engine .
She looks up at the stars and shivers, goosebumps on her arms. “It’s so beautiful out here. I can see why you guys love it here so much. This place is so special.”
I look around as I steer the boat. “Yeah, it’s a pretty special place.”
We pull up at the dock across the water, and I tie up the boat. I help her out and grab her gear. Suddenly I’m nervous, so I take a deep breath. There’s no going back now.
“So, is this like your lady lair?” she waggles her eyebrows at me. "Where you take all of your ladies and write all of your love ballads?"
“Something like that,” I say, and she looks at me with surprise. I roll my eyes, "I’m kidding. I’ve never brought anyone out here before now. Can you keep this private?”
But I know she will. Something in me tells me that I can trust her.
She opens her mouth and shuts it again. “Now you’re kinda freaking me out, Walker.”
I take a deep breath and unlock the door, which is kinda funny that I lock it anyway, considering we’re in the middle of nowhere, but there’s a lot of expensive equipment in here, and you never know.
“Mack and I used to live here before I had the house built about ten years ago,” I say as the door swings open, and I turn on the light.
She moves slowly, eyes scanning the rustic space, and I imagine what she sees as she looks at everything. The couch we opened Christmas presents on. The one where I used to sleep when Mack was still getting up all throughout the night. The old wooden dining room table covered in notebooks of scribbled lyrics. The shelves full of notebooks of melodies I never intended anyone to ever see.
Then, finally, she turns to me.
Her mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
Then—“You’re Asher freaking Wyatt.”
Shit. I rub the back of my neck.
“Holy shit!”
"Technically, Asher Wyatt Walker," I mutter.
She spins around a full circle, pointing at everything in rapid-fire accusation.
“The GRAMMY?! The CMA Award?! The walls of lyrics—Walker, you wrote every single hit song on the damn radio!”
I clear my throat. “Not every song.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she says, waving wildly at my entire life. “Would you like a round of applause for being slightly humble about your secret GRAMMY-winning, chart-topping legendary career?!”
I sigh. “Violet?—”
She cuts me off with a sharp gasp, her hands slamming onto a pile of notebooks. “Oh my God—did you write If the Whiskey Could Talk ?!”
I shift on my feet and look out at the lake. “Maybe.”
“Maybe? MAYBE?!” Her mouth drops open in shock. Then she stomps toward the fireplace and picks up the coveted golden gramophone, holding it up like she can't believe what’s in her hand. “You know, most people put something subtle on their mantle, like a nice family photo, or even a candle, or literally anything. No, not you. You have a freaking GRAMMY!”
I exhale slowly. “You done?”
She points at me with the damn thing. "Not even close, buddy."
I swallow and nod, waiting for this to fully sink in. It’s been a long time since anyone has realized who I used to be and understood the gravity of it. Hell, sometimes it still feels like a fever dream to me .
“I had sex with Asher freaking Wyatt!” She covers her mouth. “Oh my God.”
I roll my eyes and exhale a deep breath. She looks like she needs a paper bag to breathe into, and she’s really freaking out.
She shakes her head and looks at me, “The fuck!”
“What?” I shrug, waiting for the rest of her freak out moment to unfold.
“You let me struggle to play your songs right in front of you!” She points at the notebook where she found the song I wrote and looks at me accusingly. “You freaking wrote that song!”
I swallow nervously and nod.
"And my tattoo! It's your lyrics! You said nothing!" She starts to take deep breaths and holds her chest. She covers her face and tries to walk around me to the door.
I reach out and stick my arm out to stop her, and she whirls.
“You let me embarrass myself by playing your song in your bar. You didn’t say anything!”
“For the record, you sang it beautifully,” I add.
She stares at me and shakes her head slightly. “People talk about you. They think you’re dead. No one has seen you. You really just up and disappeared.”
I snort. “I’m sure there are a few people who wish I was dead.” I walk over to the old wooden cabinet, pull out a bottle of whiskey, and pour two glasses.
Violet narrows her eyes. “What’s this for?”
“Every time you freak out,” I say, handing her a glass, “I pour us another drink.”
She squints at me. “I’m gonna be wasted by the end of this, aren’t I?”
I shrug. “Probably.”
She glares. Then downs the whiskey in one go.
I pour her another .
“Asher freaking Wyatt.” She shakes her head and stares at me as if she’s trying to determine whether I’m real or not.
“You can quit saying that anytime now.” I stare at the ceiling. “I think I’d rather go with Cowboy at this point.”
“Easy for you to say, you didn’t just meet your idol.”
I snort. “Your idol. You were Mack’s age when I ended my career.”
“Yeah, and my parents were so sad. So many people mourned the loss of you. You were everywhere for a while, and then you just disappeared. And apparently, you never really ended that career. Look at you still going,” she says as she waves her hand at the room containing my life's work.
“I came to Bridger Falls with a baby,” I tell her as I pour more into our glasses.
“What happened to her mom?” she asks.
“She and I were married, but that's a story for another time,” I say as I tip my glass back and finish it.
For the next two hours, I tell her everything. Well, almost everything. It's a lot for one night. And every time I drop another piece of my past, we drink.
“I walked away from Nashville because the industry nearly ruined my life.” (One drink.)
“I still write songs and sell them under a pseudonym.” (Another drink.)
“Yeah, I was supposed to be the next big thing. And yeah, I didn’t want any of it.” (Drink, drink.)
“Maggie’s known this whole time.” (Violet shakes her head and drinks twice.)
Somewhere around the time we finish the bottle, she’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, flipping through one of my old notebooks, giggling to herself.
And me? I’m sitting next to her, watching how her hair falls over her shoulder, how her smile keeps lingering, and how she’s completely, entirely in my world now.
She looks up, her whiskey-drunk eyes soft and teasing. “You know,” she murmurs, “you’re not nearly as grumpy as you pretend to be.”
I huff a laugh. “Only with you, Red.”
She grins, tipping her head to the side. “Oh, so you’re admitting I get special treatment?”
I lift a brow. “You want me to start treating you like everyone else?”
She pretends to think. “Mmm. Nope. I like this version of Walker. Asher Walker." She smirks and shakes her head in disbelief.
Her eyes flick to my mouth. And I swear the entire world tilts. Because I’m drunk. And she’s drunk. And she’s looking at me like she’s about to do something incredibly stupid. Which is why I should stop this.
I should be a responsible adult. I should—her fingers skim my jaw.
And just like that, I’m gone.
I close the space between us, my hand tangling in her hair as I kiss her slowly, deeply, and recklessly. She melts against me, whiskey-sweet and warm, her hands sliding into my shirt like she’s needed to do this for weeks. And maybe she has. Because I know I have.
I don’t know how long we sit there, tangled together, her lips pressing against mine like she’s learning every damn secret I haven’t told her yet.
But then—a loud thump.
We pull apart, blinking. The GRAMMY has fallen off the fireplace and onto the floor.
Violet bursts out laughing. “Wow,” she gasps. “Even your trophies are trying to stop you from making bad decisions. ”
I shake my head, groaning.
She leans in, still grinning. “You gonna regret that kiss in the morning, Walker?”
I look at her, her eyes glassy, her lips still kiss-swollen, her laugh still lingering in the air.
And the worst part? I know I won’t. Not even a little. But instead of saying that, I smirk.“Guess we’ll find out.”