28. Violet
Chapter 28
Violet
W alker’s not here, yet. He dropped me off and went back to pick up some snacks and drinks we forgot. And I have to say, coming back over to his cabin has been exciting. Something about this place makes me want to write all of the songs. It’s magical out here.
Which means I should probably not be snooping around in his cabin like a nosy little gremlin.
But. In my defense?—
He left me alone in here.
There are literal stacks of notebooks just sitting out in the open.
He is a retired country music legend, and I am a curious woman with zero impulse control.
So, really, this is his fault. At least, that’s what I tell myself when I flip open the notebook on his desk. The pages are a mess of scribbles, half-written lyrics, and notes in the margins. It’s chaotic, but also weirdly beautiful. Like him .
Most of the songs are unfinished. Ideas. Rough drafts. And then I see it. One title, underlined twice:
"Red."
My heart flutters. I skim the first verse. Then the second. By the time I reach the chorus, my stomach flips over itself.
Because this song—this song is about me. The lyrics are all there. A song completely scripted out. And it's beautiful.
The way I walked into his life unexpected.
The way he wasn’t looking for something but suddenly couldn’t look away.
The way he wants me to stay.
It’s all there, in his words, scripted out beautifully in his handwriting. Like he’s been writing me into his life before he even knew how to admit it.
I press my hand against the desk, trying to catch my breath. And that’s exactly when he walks in.
I don’t hear the door open. But I feel him.
I look up, and he’s standing there, framed in the doorway, his jaw tight, his eyes locked onto the notebook in my hands.
For a second, neither of us speaks.
Then—his voice comes out, rough. “Violet.”
I swallow hard. “You wrote this?”
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to. Because the guilt is written all over his face.
I take a shaky breath. “This song—” I shake my head. “You wrote this about us. ”
His fingers flex at his sides. “Red?—”
“How long?” My voice is barely above a whisper. “How long have you been feeling like this?”
His jaw ticks. But he doesn’t look away. Which means I get to see the exact moment he gives up trying to hide it .
Walker exhales, slow and deep. Then, finally, finally, finally—“Since the night I picked you up on my bike.”
I suck in a breath.
His voice drops lower. Rougher. “Since you walked into my bar like you already belonged there.”
I clutch the notebook tighter, my heart slamming against my ribs.
“Since you started taking care of Mack like she was yours.”
His gaze drops to my lips.
And suddenly, I can’t breathe.
“I didn’t mean to write about you, Red.” His voice is like gravel, low and thick and dangerous. Then he adds, “I didn’t mean to want you this much, either.”
We’re too close now. I don’t know who moved first. Maybe him. Maybe me. Maybe we’ve been moving toward this for weeks.
All I know is that his hands are on me now, gripping my hips, pulling me forward, closing the last bit of space between us.
All I know is that his breath is warm against my skin, and my fingers curl into his shirt, and I want him. Not just in a fleeting, reckless way. Not just because he’s Asher Wyatt, a country music legend. But because he’s my Walker.
The man whose heart holds mine. The man who eats dinner with us, takes care of his family, and would do anything for the people that he loves.
And I have never wanted anyone more in my entire life. Never felt this deep for anyone. When I look at him and picture my life without him, I can't bear the ache it leaves with just even the thought.
His forehead drops to mine. “Tell me you want this, Red.”
I don’t hesitate. “I want you.”
And then he kisses me. And holy hell, it is everything. It’s slow and deep and messy, his lips sliding over mine like he’s been waiting to do this for too long.
Like he’s been writing songs about it. Well, he kind of has.
Like he’s been trying to fight it and losing every damn time. That he has done, too.
My hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, drinking him in. He groans against my mouth, and the sound sends heat straight through me straight to my core. Just that sound alone can simply undo me.
I feel the edge of the counter press into my back, and I don’t care.
I feel his hands gripping my waist like he’s afraid to let go, and I don’t care.
I want him to hold me so tight and never let me go.Because this? This is exactly what I wanted. Him and me. Nothing between us. No secrets, just us.
Walker drags his mouth from mine, breathing hard. His forehead presses against mine. “I'm scared I'll mess this up. Things are good between us,” he mutters.
I let out a breathless laugh. “You already wrote a song about me, Walker. You’re past that point now.”
He chuckles, but it’s low and dark and wrecked. His hands tighten on my waist. “If I kiss you again, I’m not stopping.”
I bite my lip, my pulse racing. “Then don’t stop.”
His fingers flex. His resolve cracks. And then?
He kisses me again. And this time, we don’t stop at all.
We waste no time on a strip tease this go ‘round. It's been a long time since we first had that one-night stand at The Dogwood. This is different. This feels like forever.
We both take off everything as quickly as we can, only stopping every few moments to continue to kiss and touch each other. We can't keep our hands off each other, I want him so badly. I cup his jaw, kissing him down his neck and under his ear. He groans, and I pant with desire. God, I want him.
He reaches between my legs, and his eyes meet mine, "Damn, Red. You feel so good."
"How good?" I murmur.
"So good," he whispers in my ear as his finger works my clit. He uses his fingers, working me until I feel like I'm going to explode, and he takes me all the way there. Not stopping.
"Walker..."
"Come for me, Red. Come hard for me," he pleads because I know he wants me just as bad as I want him.
I can't even see straight, and the room spins as my body tenses and fireworks shoot through me, my body so spent when it's over. "Oh my God," I murmur, panting and leaning against him.
He picks me up, and I wrap my legs around his waist as he carries me down the hall and lays me on the bed. He gazes down at me and kisses me softly, taking his time.
"I love you, Violet," he says as he gazes into my eyes with nothing but love in his eyes.
The feeling is the most beautiful thing that I'm not sure I could even begin to describe. "I love you so much, Asher," I whisper and tip my head to his lips and kiss him.
He takes his time, playing with my breasts, sucking and blowing on my nipples until I feel like I could come again.
He finally takes his cock in his hand and reaches into the drawer and pulls out a condom, rolling it on, and why does he even make that look hot, too? I don't know how, but he does.
He takes his time at first, watching me, giving me time to adjust to him because he fills me up so good.
"Walker," I cry as he gets me almost there again. "More."
He fills me harder, faster, taking me to the brink, and then before I can help it, I'm coming and he is, too. His face is beautiful as he contorts in pure ecstasy, and buries his face into my neck, a satisfied groan filling my ears, sending little aftershocks through me.
He lays his head next to me on the pillow and looks over at me. "How did I get so lucky, Red?"
I turn and smile at him. "Lucky? Baby, look around. You worked hard for everything you have here. There's no luck in that. You're a good man, and you deserve everything that you have."
He kisses me softly. "I guess you made me work for this."
I laugh. "You made me work for it, too. But that's what makes it worth it. You were never going to be just one night. I don't know how, but I felt that from the first night. You mean so much to me, Walker."
He smiles and says, "That night when I drove away from you, I didn't want to leave. I wanted to take you to breakfast and stay with you. I wanted to know your name and everything about you, Violet Wilson."
"I felt the same way. I was so sad when I woke up that morning and you were gone. I thought you were a dream," I admit.
Later that night, we go back to Walker's home and shower. Together. And have another round of glorious sex that I can still feel when I close my eyes. When I stretch up to kiss him and head back to my room, his fingers trail down my arm and around my hand as he pulls me into his bed with him. He shuts off his lamp and pulls me in, not saying anything, just tucking me into him, and we fall asleep that way.
Then I wake up with the sun peeking through. I've always been a morning person, and it's a habit I've gotten back into again since I've been getting up with Mack every day.
I love him.
God. The words still burn through me, leaving my chest raw and aching, but in the best possible way. Like breathing fresh air after a lifetime of holding it in.
I’ve spent so long running from things like this, from feelings that dig in too deep, that threaten to stay. But now? I don’t want to run. Not from him.
Because Walker just told me he loves me last night.
And I told him right back. No hesitation. No fear. No second-guessing.
And now I lie here, completely wrecked in the best possible way, my pulse still racing, my body still humming, knowing—truly knowing—that this is real. That this isn’t just some fleeting, temporary thing.
That he’s mine.
And I’m his.
And somehow, that doesn’t scare me.
I think about all the times I tried to push this feeling away. Tried to tell myself I was imagining the way he looked at me. That the heat between us was just chemistry and nothing more. That the way he touched me—like he couldn’t help himself—wasn’t the beginning of something unstoppable.
I was so damn wrong. Because this? This is everything.
I glance at him now, watching him in the soft glow of the morning sun, the way his chest rises and falls, steady and sure.
The same man who once kept himself locked up so tight he barely let anyone see past the surface. The same man who just let me all the way in.
And it hits me all over again, knocking the air out of my lungs.
God, I love him. This grumpy, stubborn, beautiful man who looks at me like I hung the damn stars. Like I belong here. With him. And the wildest part?
I do, I think as I drift back off to sleep.
I wake up to the smell of bacon and the sound of Maggie humming. Humming. Which can only mean one thing.
She knows.
I lean over and kiss Walker softly and slide out of the bed, creeping down the hall to my bedroom and throwing on a hoodie. Shuffling into the kitchen, I brace for impact.
Maggie stands at the stove, flipping bacon and looking entirely too pleased with herself. “Mornin’, sugar.”
I grumble in response, pouring myself coffee.
She turns off the stove, plates the bacon, and leans against the counter, smiling like a damn fox in a henhouse. “So,” she says, far too casually, “How was your night?”
I freeze mid-sip. Then I slowly lower my mug. "I still can't believe you kept that from me."
Maggie just shrugs, all innocent-like. “Walker is just a guy. Country music legend. Secret hit songwriter. Owner of several prestigious music awards. But to me? He's my friend. My family."
I blink and grin in disbelief. “You knew all along. "
She pats my arm. “Oh, sweetheart. Of course, I knew.”
I gape at her. “And when exactly were you planning to share this information?!”
Maggie sips her coffee, completely unbothered. “Wasn't my information to share.”
I drag both hands down my face. “Oh my God. I did kind of make a fool of myself.”
“Oh, honey. ” Maggie laughs. “You really thought you were just living with a regular guy? That Walker was just some random bar owner? That his broody, secretive, ‘I don’t talk about my past’ thing wasn’t a massive red flag ?”
“I—I don’t know! I thought maybe he had trauma or something!”
She snorts. “Well, technically, he does. Music industry trauma. Just like you do.”
I groan into my coffee. “I feel like an idiot.”
Maggie grins, entirely too delighted. “Oh, sweetheart, it’s adorable. ”
She slides into a chair across from me, resting her chin on her hands. “So… what’s it like living with a former country music star?”
I scowl. “Exactly the same as before, except now I know his guitar collection is worth more than my soul. ”
Maggie cackles. “Oh, don’t worry, dear,” she says. “We all saw this coming.”
I blink. “Saw what coming?”
“You two,” she says, gesturing vaguely. “The tension. The pining. The whole ‘oh no, we’re just friends, but also I look at you like I want to climb you like a tree’ situation.”
I choke. “Maggie!”
She winks. “I’m just saying, if I was writing this as a romance novel, you two would’ve already had a dramatic rain-soaked kiss in the middle of town.”
I groan, burying my face in my arms. “I hate that you’re enjoying this so much.”
Maggie just pats my head. “Oh, sweetheart. I have never enjoyed anything more.”