30. Violet
Chapter 30
Violet
I ’ve never seen Cami nervous. At all. She's one of the strongest and most confident women I know. Nervous? Never.
She’s not even frazzled when she’s running her coffee trailer in the middle of a morning rush. Not when she’s elbow-deep in a fight with a local town employee about parking permits for her trailer.
She doesn’t ask for help. She is quick to help everyone else and makes things happen. So, when Cami walks into Murphy’s Auto, finds me leaning against Poppy’s workbench, and says, “I need help,” my entire world tilts.
Because her voice is quiet, and there’s something raw in her eyes. And because she looks scared.
I set my coffee down slowly and move closer to her. “What’s wrong?”
Cami exhales hard, crossing her arms. “You know how I never ask for anything?”
Poppy, sitting nearby with her feet kicked up on an overturned bucket, snorts. “Oh, this should be good.”
Cami gives her a vulnerable look. “Not now, Pops. ”
Poppy holds up her hands in surrender. “I’m just saying, this is a historic moment. ”
Cami doesn’t take the bait. Instead, she looks at both of us, jaw tight, shoulders stiff, like she’s holding herself together with sheer willpower. “I’m gonna lose my family's ranch,” she says.
My stomach drops. “What?”
She swallows hard. “My mom’s given up and has moved to town. Ollie’s given up and apparently lives upstairs above your shop. The bank gave us an extension, but we need money. Fast. ”
"What can we do to help?" Poppy demands. "We'll do whatever it takes."
I reach out, grabbing her arm. “Cami…”
She shakes her head and stares at us with desperation and turmoil etched on her face. “I can’t lose it. It’s all I have left. I have to fight.”
I nod, my chest tightening. “Okay. What can we do?”
She takes a slow breath. “The county fair has agreed to let me do a fundraiser concert at the fair.”
“Oh!” I say, relieved. “That’s great! The whole town loves stuff like that. You’ll raise a ton of money.”
Cami nods once. “Yeah. But… I need you to perform.”
I freeze. Then blink. Then laugh. “Wait, what?”
Cami’s face is stone cold, serious.
“I haven’t performed in a really long time , ” I say, shaking my head. “Not since…” My stomach turns. “Not since Nashville.”
“I know,” she says. “But I really need you. Remember the part where I said I never ask for help?”
I open my mouth, then shut it. Panic climbs up my throat. She's right. She needs me. But my heart is in my throat right now. Panic fills me just thinking about what she's asking me to do.
Perform? On stage? With people watching ?
I can’t. I can barely perform for the horses when no one’s looking.
Cami watches me, reading my hesitation. “Please. You did karaoke at the bar.”
I look at Poppy, who is very much not getting involved but taking all this in. Rubbing my hands over my arms, I cradle them to me. “I’ll think about it.”
There’s a big difference in singing with friends at the bar and doing an actual performance at the bar. I sang covers and other people’s songs there. But a performance is more raw, vulnerable, and especially triggering since I left Nashville with my tail tucked between my legs about performing.
Cami nods. But I can tell—this means everything to her.I have to do it.
Later that night, I sit on the porch, watching Walker build a goat housebecause, apparently, that’s just a normal part of our life now.
And I have to say that the whole rugged cowboy, tool-wielding thing should be illegal. Damn, he looks good. Too good. Like distractingly good.
The kind of good where you can’t even begin to focus on anything else when he stands there without a shirt on, his forearms flexing as he grips the tool, sweat sliding down his chest. His Wranglers shape to him every time he bends to grab another plank of wood.
He looks up, sweat on his brow, eyebrows raised. “You gonna keep staring, or are you gonna tell me what’s on your mind?”
I roll my eyes. “What makes you think something is on my mind? ”
He smirks, tossing a piece of wood aside. “I can tell.”
I take a deep breath. “Cami wants me to perform at a fundraiser concert to raise money for her ranch.”
He pauses and watches me. “And?”
“I told her I’d think about it.”
He nods and sets his hammer down, wiping his hands on his jeans. “If you don’t want to do it, don’t do it.”
“I do want to help her,” I say quickly. “I just… I don’t know if I can.”
He tilts his head and asks softly. “What are you afraid of, Red?”
I look down, fingers twisting together. “Remember when I told you that my ex-best friend tried to sabotage me? How she spread lies about me all over Nashville and got me dropped from my label? Well, now…” I exhale, shaking my head. “Now I can’t even sing in public without feeling like I’m gonna choke.”
“I remember,” he says, looking pissed all over again on my behalf. It’s the same look he had the night I told him all about it.
I swallow, the hurt still raw. “I’m finished in Nashville, Walker.” I tell him, humiliation creeping in all over again and making me feel sick to my stomach.
The memories of the social media posts and how nasty people were to me, completely oblivious to the truth. To the fact that the whole story was actually the other way around.
“Whoever she is, she’s a horrible person. You didn’t deserve that,” he says as he glares at the goat house and shakes his head.
I nod, agreeing, "She sucks."
Walker watches me for a long moment. Then, carefully, he says, “What if you did a practice concert at The Black Dog?”
I blink. “Like… what do you mean, practice?”
He tilts his head. “Just family, friends, a few regulars. Get comfortable on a stage again. Work through the nerves. You’re a performer, Red. You’ve got this. You can do this. And whoever that woman was back in Nashville, she can’t touch you here in Bridger Falls. You’re one of us now.”
I chew my lip. “And what if it’s a disaster?”
He shrugs. “Then, at least you’ll know before you step onto a county fair stage.”
I stare at him, my pulse uneven. Then, I ask him softly, “Would you help me practice and get over my fears?”
His jaw ticks. His eyes darken. “You want me to help you?” His voice is low, rough.
I nod.
For a second, he doesn’t say anything. Then his lips twitch. “I’ll help you,” he murmurs. “But only if you promise me that you won't let this horrible person ruin your career. You don't want some of the regrets that I have."
"You have regrets, Asher?" I ask softly.
He nods, "I do. I left like you did and never got to see how far I could have taken my career. Yeah, I did good here, and I have a good life. But I backed down to the bullies. What if you didn't? What if I helped you?"
"I might need a paper bag to breathe into," I admit. "This is a lot ."
He smirks, leaning against the railing, watching me. “You’re gonna be fine, Red.”
Something in his voice settles me.
Maybe I really can do this. Maybe I can face my fear. And maybe… just maybe…
Having Walker by my side makes it feel a little less terrifying.
I shouldn’t be this turned on over a damn guitar lesson.
And yet, here I am .
Sitting this close to Walker in his cabin, hands grazing, bodies angled toward each other like we’re about to do something much filthier than write a song. I wish we were, honestly.
He strums, slow and easy, watching me like he’s daring me to break first.
I probably will. Because holy shit, this man is hot.
“I don’t know what songs to play,” I admit, shifting on the couch.
Walker lifts an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
I exhale, frustrated. “Well, I had a brand-new album ready. So many songs. And they’re gone now. Well, technically they’re out in the world. But they aren’t mine anymore. They’re stolen.”
His eyes darken as he hears me.
I let out a dry laugh. “I guess I could just sing covers.”
Walker shakes his head. “Nah. That’s not you.”
I scoff and tease him. “Oh, and you know what’s me?”
His eyes flick to mine, unreadable. “I have a few you could sing,” he murmurs.
I blink. “What?”
He shrugs, setting his guitar aside. “Songs I’ve written. Stuff I never sold. Just sitting in my notebooks, gathering dust.”
I swallow hard. “You’d let me sing one of your songs?”
Walker tilts his head. “Or we could write one together.”
I stare at him, heart hammering. “You—you’d write a song with me?”
Walker smirks. “You sound surprised.”
I am. Because this is his world. This is the part of himself he’s kept locked away from everyone. And now he’s just… offering it to me?
And I’m no dummy, I’m going to take it. I’m going to learn from the best. I know what he’s offering me here, and it’s a once in a lifetime chance to learn songwriting and performing from a legend. But doing all of this with the man I love? That feels pretty damn great, too.
Not even sure how I got this lucky. It’s not that he’s Asher Wyatt Walker, country superstar. It’s also that he’s the most incredible human being, and he’s mine. Writing a song together feels more intimate than sex somehow.
I lick my lips, nodding. “Okay.”
He picks his guitar back up, strumming something slow and sultry, something that curls heat low in my stomach.
I close my eyes, letting the rhythm settle. Letting the words come. And then, softly, I start to hum. Walker stills, watching me. The moment stretches, thick and charged.
Then, quietly, he starts playing along.
My breath catches. Because it fits. It’s natural, easy, like we’ve been doing this forever.
I tilt my head, eyes locked on his hands. The way his fingers move over the strings, the easy confidence in his touch. The way he’s looking at me now, like he’s playing just for me.
And suddenly, writing a song doesn’t feel like just writing a song.
It feels like undressing. Like laying every part of yourself bare. And Walker is letting me see him. I shift closer, our knees touching. He doesn’t move away.
His voice is low, raspy. “Any lyrics come to you, yet?”
I bite my lip. “Something’s coming.”
He smirks. “Good.”
I start singing, soft, hesitant at first.
And Walker? He watches like I’m the only thing in the world.
I feel his eyes on my mouth. The way he leans a little closer every time I hit a note just right. The way he lets his fingers brush against mine if we accidentally touch. My whole body tightens.
This is more than music now.
I strum, mimicking his rhythm, our hands moving in tandem. Walker watches, expression dark and unreadable. Then, he sings too. And holy hell. His voice knocks the air right out of my lungs.
It’s rough, low and deep, a little gravelly, and stupidly, unfairly hot.
I forget my own lyrics. Forget how to function as a human being. Because Walker singing right next to me is a full-body experience. And right now?
I want him in every damn way possible. This is the hottest foreplay I’ve ever experienced.
We hit the last note, the sound lingering thick between us. I’m breathless. Walker hasn’t moved.
We’re too close now. His fingers skim my wrist. I swear, my pulse stutters and I suck in my breath. He looks at me like he’s thinking about kissing me. And damn I want him to kiss me so badly. I lean in, and before I know it, I’m kissing him. And he kisses me back, and I never want to stop.
But before I can do something irresponsible, like climb him like a tree, he shifts back, exhaling hard.
I blink. Walker clears his throat. “That was good.”
I nod, still dizzy. “Yeah.”
Silence. Then, a smirk.
“You wanna write some more?”
I groan, dropping my head into my hands. “Walker.”
He chuckles.
And me? I know I’m in way too deep. Walker is still watching me. The cabin is too quiet, the air too thick, my body too wired. We just wrote a song together—or maybe we just undressed each other with lyrics and guitars and long, lingering stares—and I do not know how to come back from that.
I need a second. Or several .
But of course, the universe has other plans.
Because just as Walker shifts, his eyes still dark, still unreadable, his phone buzzes loudly between us.
We both startle. Then we stare at it like it personally dragged us back to Earth from whatever dangerous, gravity-defying moment we were having.
Walker sighs, rubbing a hand down his face before grabbing the phone. “Yeah?”
A pause. Then—he groans. “What the heck, Mack.”
He puts her on speaker, and I bite back a smile at the sound of his daughter’s voice, dead serious, no-nonsense. “We have a crisis.”
Walker pinches the bridge of his nose. “That so?”
“Yeah,” Mack huffs. “We’re out of syrup.”
I snort.
Walker glares at me before turning his attention back to the phone. “That’s your crisis? Syrup?”
Mack sighs, dramatic as hell. “Dad. It’s waffle night.”
Walker mutters something under his breath before responding, “There’s some in the pantry.”
“Nope. Maggie used the last of it for something probably delicious, and now we’re all gonna starve.”
I laugh, still feeling drunk on whatever just happened between Walker and me.
Walker shoots me a look. “You think this is funny?”
“Yes,” I say immediately.
Mack perks up. “Is Violet there?”
Walker sighs. “Yeah.”
“Put me on video!”
Walker grumbles something unintelligible, then reluctantly switches the call to FaceTime. Mack’s face pops up, eyes narrowed. “You’re laughing, Red. ”
“I mean,” I tease, flashing her a grin, “syrup is a serious matter.”
Mack nods gravely. “Thank you.”
Walker just shakes his head, muttering.
“So, Dad?” Mack presses. “Are you going to the store, or am I making a public plea for assistance on Facebook? Hey, maybe I could trade some syrup for a goat or two.”
Walker stares at her. “Are you bartering our goats now?”
Mack shrugs. “I mean, I could do a swapsie.”
I lose it and snort laugh.
Walker sighs, defeated. “Fine. We’ll go grab syrup. Ask Maggie what else she needs.”
Mack grins, triumphant. “Cool. See you soon. Love you, Dad. Love you, Violet.”
I freeze. Walker does too.
Mack immediately panics. “I mean, like, in a cool way. Not in a ‘you’re my new stepmom’ way. Forget I said it. Never mind. Bye.” And then she hangs up.
Walker stares at the phone.
I stare at Walker.
Silence. Then I burst out laughing.
“Oh my God.” I gasp between laughs. “Your kid just dropped the ‘L’ word.”
Walker groans. “That kid.”
I lean against him, still giggling, still lightheaded from everything. “Well, come on. We have a syrup crisis to solve.”
Walker shakes his head, muttering, but I catch the ghost of a smile on his lips.
And just like that, we’re back to real life. But my skin still tingles where he touched me. And the way he’s looking at me tells me we’re not done yet. Not by a long shot.
We're just getting started, and I love it.