9. Drew
DREW
Monday mornings are supposed to feel normal. Routine. Predictable. Safe.
But this one doesn’t.
I woke up already thinking about Violet. Wondering what she’s doing. If she’s thought about me at all since I met her Saturday night.
Which is ridiculous. I barely know her. We had one conversation. One night at a loud, crowded bar.
Yet her smile hit me harder than it should have.
She’s inside my head. Under my skin. Haunting me.
Dramatic, I know.
But also accurate.
I scrub a hand over my face as I head toward the kitchen, trying to shake it off.
Coffee first. Then I’ll think like a rational human being again. Maybe.
The kitchen is alive with activity when I walk in.
Sebastian is at the counter, scrolling through his phone like he runs the world from it—which, honestly, he probably does.
Ivy is perched on a stool, typing at an alarming speed on her laptop.
Mr. Pickles sits in the middle of the kitchen floor like he owns the place.
Which… he does. We all just pay the mortgage.
I step over him carefully, not wanting to endure his wrath.
He eyes my pants leg.
“Don’t,” I mutter.
He flicks his tail, a challenge brimming in his eyes.
I narrow mine. “That was a warning.”
He slowly blinks at me, judging me as always.
I hate that damn psycho cat. Or so I tell myself.
A man who hates a cat doesn’t buy him the expensive salmon treats he likes. Unfortunately, no one told my order history.
As I take my first sip of coffee, nearly scalding my tongue, all I can think about is the way Violet looked at me like I was the only person in the bar. Like I mattered.
I lean back against the counter, frowning slightly.
Why didn’t I ask for her number? What kind of idiot doesn’t ask?
Apparently me.
An even better question: Why would she want to give it to me?
I stare into my coffee like it holds the answer.
She could’ve had anyone in that bar.
Why me?
It doesn’t make sense.
“Wow,” Sebastian says dryly, looking up from his phone. “You look like you’re having a crisis.”
“I’m not.”
His eyebrows raise. “You are.”
“I’m just thinking.”
He smirks. “About a redhead?”
I glare at him, feeling the need to justify myself. “It’s these damn—Ouch! Jesus.”
I stumble against the counter, barely catching myself. Coffee sloshes dangerously close to the edge of the mug.
I look down. Mr. Pickles stares up at me victoriously, still hanging onto my pants leg by his claws. I swear he’s smirking.
Maybe cats can’t smirk, but this little bastard looks like he can.
“Get off my pants leg,” I command, pointing at him.
He stares at me, his tail flicking. Unbothered. Unimpressed. Completely unrepentant.
“Mr. Pickles,” Ivy says. “Get off Drew.”
He calmly jumps down, then looks up at me like I was the one who did something wrong.
“I won’t deal with judgment from you,” I tell him.
Ivy snorts, her fingers stopping. She closes the lid of her laptop and stands.
“Mr. Pickles,” she says sweetly, scooping him up. “Come on. Let’s go write. You’re clearly a distraction.”
He settles into her arms like he didn’t just try to take me out.
I stick my tongue out at him.
He looks like he’s enjoying himself way too much.
Sebastian chuckles.
Ivy kisses Sebastian, then exits the kitchen. Mr. Pickles stares at me over his shoulder, a smug look on his furry face.
I watch them disappear toward her office, shaking my head.
Just when I think I’m making progress with that damn cat…
Sebastian grabs his keys. “Try not to spiral today.”
“I’m not spiraling.”
His eyes drop to my bunched-up pants leg, my untouched coffee, then my face. “Sure.”
“Stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Building a case.”
His smile grows. “Against yourself?”
“Get out,” I grumble.
He huffs out a quiet laugh and leaves, whistling as he goes.
The house grows quieter.
I fixate on sounds. The ticking of the clock. The hum of the refrigerator.
It’s driving me crazy.
I carry my coffee into the living room and drop onto the couch. I grab my laptop and open it, starting my remote workday.
Within minutes, I’m immersed in emails. Analyzing budgets. Looking at spreadsheets, tracking patterns, and making projections.
Normalcy. Exactly what I need.
I start typing, then stop.
The skin on the back of my neck prickles, like I’m being watched.
My eyes drift to the window, then to the patio door.
No one’s there.
Focus.
I force my attention back to the email, but it lasts all of three seconds before Violet's face replaces the spreadsheet.
Her beautiful, pale skin.
Those violet eyes.
That smile that lights up her face—and my life.
I snort. Light up my life?
When the hell did I start thinking poetically?
Stop thinking about her and get back to work.
I grab my phone, checking it like I’m expecting a text from her.
Which is impossible.
She doesn’t have my number.
And I don’t have hers.
Every time I try to focus, my thoughts drift back to Saturday night. Back to the way she looked at me like she saw something I didn’t.
And beneath it all, that uneasy feeling returns.
Like I’m not alone.
I glance toward the patio doors.
Nothing.
Which is ridiculous.
People don’t just stand outside watching other people.
Except Ivy did.
Bad example.
I exhale slowly and scrub my hand over my face.
“This is stupid,” I mutter.
I slam the lid of my laptop and stand. I’m not getting anything done here. Maybe a change of scenery will help me focus.
I grab my keys and wallet and head for the door.
Maybe I’ll drive by the bar again.
Or past her house.
I shake my head, irritated with myself.
Stop this nonsense. You need to forget about her.
I hope this trip to the coffee shop is the miracle cure to get my focus back.
Because I need to find something that will get Violet Quinn out of my head.