Chapter 17 #2
She talks about the bakery, how her parents started training her to run the place when Nora left with Robbie, how hard it was for her after the three of us moved away.
“I lost my three best friends in the whole world, all in the space of a summer. Sure, you called every day, but it was hard not to feel like I’d been left behind.”
And then I broke up with her.
And then she lost her parents.
Violet’s gotten in the habit of being abandoned. I inwardly promise never to let that happen again.
“I never thought about it like that.”
“It’s fine. Trial by fire,” she says, eyes glinting. “And one literal fire, when I forgot an oven mitt in the wrong place.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “That sounds like the best way to teach Violet Sterling how to forever worry about oven fires.”
Her lips twitch. “You’re not wrong there. Though I’m trying to stop worrying so much.”
“A little fear is good for you,” I counter, leaning forward, elbows braced on the table. “But too much? It’s paralyzing.”
“I feel that to my bones.”
“But you’re not paralyzed, Violet. You’re running your family’s business, carrying on your parents’ legacy. You’re moving forward with your chin lifted and your shoulders square. It’s admirable.”
Her breath hitches before she takes a sip of wine, her cheeks blazing pink.
The restaurant hums with low conversation and clinking glasses, the kind of soft chaos that makes it easy to forget you’re being watched. Candlelight flickers between us, catching in Violet’s hair, painting her skin gold.
She looks relaxed tonight. I take a sip of wine, then lean back in my chair, feeling her eyes on me.
“First winter in New York,” I say, smiling over my wineglass, “I thought I was going to die from the cold.”
She laughs, exactly the reaction I wanted. “Let me guess. You tried to play it off like you were fine.”
“Obviously.” I grin, remembering that stubborn, prideful kid version of myself. “I didn’t own a real coat. Just this paper-thin thing I brought from Florida. I had no clue what black ice was, and I found out the hard way—three times in one week. I think I actually considered moving back south.”
Her eyes glint with amusement. “I can picture it. You, slipping down some Manhattan sidewalk, pretending you meant to.”
“Pretty much.” I pause, my smile softening.
“But then one night I was walking home—angry, cold, cursing the city under my breath—and it started snowing. The good kind. Quiet. Slow. The whole world went still, and suddenly all that noise in my head just… stopped. I stood there until my coffee froze in my hand, just watching it fall.”
Violet tilts her head, her expression gentler now. “That’s actually really sweet.”
“Don’t tell anyone,” I murmur, leaning forward, elbows on the table. “I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”
Her laugh is quiet but warm, the kind that seeps right under my skin.
“After that, I learned to love it,” I continue.
“The cold. The stillness. Even the chaos of it all. That Christmas, I went ice skating at Rockefeller Center for the first time—half the rink tourists, half locals pretending they weren’t sentimental.
I fell twice, bruised my pride both times.
But when the lights came on over the tree…
” I trail off, remembering the sight, glittering snow, city lights reflecting off the ice, that fleeting moment of peace.
“It hit me. Snow has a way of making everything feel new again. Like no matter how much you’ve screwed up, you still get another chance. ”
When I look up, Violet’s gaze is steady on mine, soft, searching, maybe a little too full of understanding.
And for one disarming second, I wonder if she knows that I wasn’t really talking about snow at all.
“I’ll have to take you sometime,” I say, desperate for something to fill the silence.
Violet hefts her wineglass with a gentle smile. “We’ll see how things turn out.”
“What? You don’t trust me?”
She flares her hands, a wistful smile softening her face. “I’d like to.”
I bob my head, eyes locked on hers, unable to deny what’s unsaid between us.
“What else?” she says, clearing her throat. “Tell me more. Tell me everything.”
I tell her about the first time I met Gavin. About New York—the chaos, the business plans, the noise. I consider telling her about the contract I brought home for her to sign, but that would tarnish the evening.
Besides, I’m more and more sure I won’t be asking her to sign the thing.
“And you love it?” Violet asks, studying me carefully. “The cold and chaos of New York?”
I hesitate, swirling the wine in my glass. “I thought I did.”
Her eyes soften, her head cocked, lips parted, like she’s concerned to hear this bit of news. “But you don’t?”
I meet Violet’s gaze, something hot and unsteady rolling through my chest. “Not when I’m here.”
The silence stretches, charged. Her hand rests on the table, fingers curled loosely. Mine slides closer, almost of its own accord, until my fingertips brush hers.
“Not when I’m with you.”
After dinner, we step outside into the cool night air. The sound of waves crashing against rocks fills the quiet. The Palm Grove glitters nearby, every trunk wrapped in lights, branches draped with ornaments that sway gently in the breeze.
Violet lets out a soft gasp. “It looks like something out of a fairy tale.”
“Walk with me?” I ask, offering my hand.
She slips her fingers into mine, warm and sure. We move slowly beneath the canopy of lights. The air smells of salt and faint citrus, the crunch of sand and shell beneath our shoes grounding us in this impossibly dreamlike moment.
“You know,” she murmurs, glancing up at me, “I had no idea how… off… I was until you showed up. I didn’t realize how heavy everything had gotten until you started lightening it.”
Her steps falter. She looks up at me, eyes wide, lips parted just slightly. The lights paint her hair in copper and gold, and for a second I almost forget to breathe.
I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, my thumb brushing her cheekbone. “Violet…”
Her voice is a whisper. “Yeah?”
I lean in, close enough to feel the warmth of her breath, the tremor in the air between us. I don’t close the distance—not yet. I let the moment linger, heavy and sweet, like the anticipation of unwrapping a present you’ve wanted all year.
Because this? This isn’t just nostalgia. This is something new, something alive.
And I want it to last.
I search for something, anything to say and come up empty handed. Because it’s too soon to tell her I want to stay. And inappropriate to make a joke. So I pull her close, slipping my fingers into that silky hair, then press my lips to hers, hoping my kiss can say everything I can’t.