40. Violet
Chapter 40
Violet
I have made a horrible mistake.
I thought writing songs with Walker and starting our own label would be a productive, creative, and inspiring experience.
Turns out, it’s mostly him distracting me with his stupid good-looking face and even stupider hot body. Tonight, he even busted out a pair of black-rimmed glasses. How am I supposed to focus when he looks like that? So good.
We’ve been at it for an hour, sitting in his cabin, notebooks open, guitars out—but absolutely nothing has been written down except for a bunch of nonsense lyrics that make no sense and will never see the light of day.
And it is entirely his fault.
Walker is sitting across from me on the couch, guitar balanced on his knee, one ankle propped up on the coffee table like he has nowhere better to be.
I glare at him. “This is the worst songwriting session I’ve ever had.”
He lifts a brow. “I dunno, Red. That last line you came up with was solid. ”
I scoff. “Walker, I said, ‘I like the way you look in jeans, and your truck is kinda nice.’”
He nods seriously. “Country radio loves trucks and jeans. I think you’re onto something.”
I drop my notebook onto the table with a dramatic thud. “I can’t work under these conditions.”
Walker grins, setting his guitar aside and leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “What conditions?”
I wave wildly at him. “You! Being distracting. And insufferable. And entirely too attractive for me to focus on actual words.”
He chuckles, running a hand over his scruff. “You think I’m attractive?”
I groan, flopping onto the couch dramatically. “You know you are. It’s your whole thing. And apparently, the whole Cowboy Daddy thing has caught fire on social media, so you have that going for you, too.”
He shifts, moving over to sit next to me, eyes glinting with amusement. “So, what I’m hearing is, you’re too busy checking me out to write a song?”
I glare at him. “Oh my God.”
He grins, arms spreading across the back of the couch. “Happens more often than you’d think.”
I throw a pillow at his face. He catches it, laughing, his whole body shaking, and damn it—he’s so stupidly charming I could actually scream.
After several minutes of arguing, throwing pillows, and me threatening to walk out if he didn’t take this seriously, we actually start writing. And, to my shock, we come up with something good.
Like really, really good.
It starts as a joke, a playful back-and-forth about how we’re both stubborn as hell and should’ve figured this thing out between us years ago.
But somewhere along the way, it shifts. The lyrics come easier. The melody finds itself naturally. And when we finally play through it from start to finish, neither of us says anything for a long time.
I glance over at Walker, who stares at me with an unreadable expression. I swallow. “Well?”
He shakes his head, awe flickering in his eyes. “Damn, Red.”
I exhale, feeling my heartbeat faster than it should. “It’s good, huh?”
He nods slowly. “Yeah.”
I lick my lips, suddenly feeling way too exposed. “Wanna play it again?”
Walker’s gaze drops to my mouth, and I immediately regret my choice of words. His lips curve into a slow, knowing smirk. “Oh, I got something else in mind.”
And before I can even process what’s happening, his guitar is set aside, and his hands are on my waist, pulling me straight into his lap.
It happens fast.
One second, I’m fully in control, completely professional, just trying to write a damn song. The next, Walker’s mouth is on mine, deep and slow and borderline unfair, his hands tight on my waist, his thumb brushing bare skin under my shirt.
And that is the moment I realize we are not getting any more work done tonight.
I make a soft, breathless sound, and that’s all it takes—he groans against my lips, flipping us so I’m beneath him on the couch, his weight pressing into me, his hands framing my face like he’s holding something breakable.
“You drive me crazy, you know that?” he mutters, voice rough .
I grin against his mouth. “Likewise.”
His lips trail down my neck, and yeah, this song is never getting finished.
I shift in his arms, trailing my fingers over his chest, feeling the slow, steady beat of his heart beneath my palm.
I tilt my head back, meeting his gaze, soft and unguarded in the early morning light.
"What do think about your future, Asher?" I whisper, barely breathing the words.
His hand lifts, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear, his thumb lingering at my jaw, tracing slow circles like he’s memorizing me.
His voice is low, rough, full of something deep and certain when he finally answers?—
"You look like forever to me."
I exhale sharply, because damn it, that’s it. That’s everything.
And when he leans in, pressing his lips to mine, slow and sure and heartbreakingly sweet— I know he’s right.
Because this? This is forever.