9. Violet
nine
Violet
DAY 4 AT SILVER LEAF... ONLY 82 TO GO
I pull the truck into the garage, cut the motor, and sink into the seat with relief. The silence seems loud after the deafening thrum of the engine, and I breathe a little easier knowing I’ve made yet another trip to the grocery store and returned this monster without a ding. I cast a wistful look toward my silver hatchback, then grimace at the sleek red sports car on the other side of it. I’m still trying to decide if Chord wants me to drive this thing because it’s safer, like he said, or because he’s embarrassed to have his assistant drive around in a dusty old clunker.
Looping my satchel across my chest, I climb down and go around to the trunk to collect the groceries. There’s more of them today than I bought the morning I arrived. In the four days since then, the Fury’s nutritionist provided a comprehensive list of the things Chord needs to keep on hand. With the amount of food I bought today, I shouldn’t need to go out again for at least a week. I hope. The less I have to drive this thing, the happier I’ll be.
I stand at the door of the open garage for a moment to appreciate the views. Even from here, there’s so much to see. Never-ending sky and sunlight hitting secret pockets of water and lush green rows of perfectly planted vines heavy with fruit. And on the far side of the nearest field, where he’s been every afternoon for the past four days, Chord working on the broken fences.
I pause for a moment to watch him, wondering for the hundredth time why he goes out there all alone every day when he could pay someone to do the work for him.
It’s a mystery with no clear answer, just like the question I have about why none of his family has been to see him since he arrived.
I almost feel sad for him until I remember that he’s a ridiculously attractive, megarich pro athlete with an overstuffed ego. If he’s alone, it’s probably because he wants it that way.
I give up with a shrug and return to the groceries. It’s none of my business. I’m here to do a job and stay out of Chord’s way, which has been easier than I anticipated. Easier and infinitely more awkward because I’m almost certain he’s avoiding me .
After waking up on my first day here, I nervously tiptoed through the house and couldn’t find him anywhere, but there was a to-do list on the fridge. I took it, ticked everything off and added some notes of my own, then put it back where I found it with a little prayer that this kind of back and forth was what Chord had in mind. Apparently, it was because there was a new list in the exact same spot the next day. And that’s become my routine.
The sun comes up, and Chord’s nowhere in the house. I work in his home office. We bump into each other once or twice. Exchange a handful of sentences a day. So far, I feel less like an employee and more like an uninvited house guest. It’s uncomfortable, and Chord is living up to his reputation as cold and superior, except…
I think about what happened in the hall the day I arrived. For a split second, something was different with him. His hands on me, his body so close, his eyes infused with something other than ice. But the moment passed like it never happened, and he’s been a walking snowman ever since.
It takes four trips to carry the groceries from the car to the kitchen, and I’m lugging in the last bag when Chord walks in through the heavy glass doors to the back porch. I freeze like he’s a wild animal because… Why? If I don’t move, he might not see me? Ironically, it almost works.
His snug dark jeans are marked with dirt, as are his heavy boots. His black t-shirt has muddy marks where he’s wiped his hands down his chest and stomach. He smells like fresh earth and hard work, and I don’t know why that’s a turn-on, but it is.
He looks more real like this. More vulnerable somehow. Suit-and-tie Hockey Chord is hot, but down-and-dirty Farmer Chord is so breathtaking it makes me ache.
He’s halfway to the kitchen when he raises his head and notices I’m standing there. I rush to set the last bag on the counter, pretending like that’s what I was doing all along and not getting an eyeful of his hard chest and muscled thighs and rough, capable hands. His gaze flutters down my body, and I resist the urge to hide behind the island.
I’ve traded my sneakers, blazers, and wide-legged pants for sturdy boots, faded Wranglers, and a loose vintage Guns N’ Roses tee. These clothes are practical for the ranch, and outside of the city, my oversized suits make me stick out like a sore thumb.
“Hey.” Chord clears the crack in his voice and drops his gaze to the floor as he starts moving again like someone just hit the play button. He heads straight to the fridge for a bottle of water. “Didn’t know you were in here.”
His face is flushed from the sun or exertion or both, and his dark hair curls at the edges with sweat. Oh God, I’m staring, and was that a question? It looks like he’s waiting for an answer.
I hide how flustered he makes me by turning my back and unpacking groceries. “I wasn’t until now. I mean, I was out picking up the things your nutritionist recommended. I just got back.”
There’s a long silence, and when I can’t pretend to unload empty bags anymore, I turn around with a tub of yogurt in one hand and a carton of eggs in the other. Chord looks… kind of annoyed? He scans the bags and I worry that I bought the wrong things or I’m not working fast enough. I hold my breath, but the waiting is too much, and just when I open my mouth to say something unnecessary about protein, he finds his voice.
“Right. Thanks.”
Then he crosses the kitchen in long, quick strides, and like lightning, he’s out the door.
“You’re welcome?” I reply to the empty room, and the words come out breathy.
I suppose this reaction is common when a nobody has to deal with a somebody, but Chord is so overwhelming. Just one interaction and my stomach flips like I’ve stepped off a rollercoaster.
I remember the groceries in my hands and give myself a shake. I’m a professional, and I need to be professional. Chord’s a person just like everybody else.
Once everything is stowed away, I disappear into the home office and log on to my computer. Maybe I should set myself up in my bedroom and let Chord have the house to himself, but I can’t stand the idea of using that gorgeous space for something as mundane as work.
The moment I saw the room and the view, I couldn’t wait to sit in there and sketch, and now I live for six o’clock when I can go to my room, check in with my dad, and spend the rest of the night with my designs. That bedroom is what gets me through the day.
The afternoon passes the same as the ones before. I make phone calls and answer emails about Chord’s move from Calgary to San Francisco, set his physio appointments, manage his calendar, deal with his inbox, and answer media inquiries. Next, I check my work phone and emails to make sure I’m not giving Courtney any reasons to fire me. Finally, I reach out to Coach Campbell to discuss the Fury’s teambuilding and training sessions, which he still wants to do right here at Silver Leaf. Right on time, I smack an updated list on the fridge, nuke a microwave dinner, and pour myself a glass of red before heading upstairs for some alone time in my new room.
“How was your day, Blossom?” Dad asks, his face filling my phone screen.
I’m curled up on the most comfortable bed known to man with the most ordinary mushroom risotto I’ve ever tasted. I think of Chord’s comment that I can eat at his brother’s restaurant whenever I want, and my stomach rumbles, but the tension between Chord and his sister makes me too uncomfortable to risk it. Bad food with my dad on the phone is preferable to good food with a side of family drama any day.
“Fine,” I tell him. “Same as the last three days. How about you?”
“Oh, you know.” He shrugs and scoops up a forkful of mashed potato. “Fine. Same as always.”
Dad wants to know all about Chord, and I’m struggling to find new things to tell him, but I talk about the ranch and the fences while listening carefully for signs that Dad isn’t coping with my absence. He’s eating normally and looks well rested, and though he doesn’t know it, I’m in touch with Jennifer, our upstairs neighbor, for daily updates. As far as we both can tell, everything is okay.
Twenty minutes later, I say goodbye to Dad, and though it’s a lousy way to look at it and I feel bad for even thinking it, that phone call is the last item on the list of tasks I need to tick off every day. Even at home, early evening has always been my favorite part of the day because finally, I get some time for myself.
I sneak downstairs to wash up my dirty cutlery and refill my glass of wine. The fact that the kitchen light is on should have warned me, but I’m so eager to get back to my room that I’m halfway to the dishwasher before I notice Chord sitting at the island. His chin lifts and his eyes land on me before I can disappear.
“I’m sorry.” I hurry to drop my bowl and cutlery in the sink, then ditch the wine glass, too. “I didn’t know you were here. I’ll just—”
I risk another glance his way, only this time I see he’s got a first aid kit open at his elbow, there’s a ball of gauze in his fist, and he’s cleaning a long, nasty gash in his right forearm. I inhale sharply and cover my mouth, and the look he gives me is barely veiled amusement.
“Don’t suppose you know how to sew, do you?”
I give him a puzzled frown and drop my hand. “I do, actually, but what’s that got to do with…”
I trail off at the cool mirth in his expression, and when he shakes his head, I suddenly understand. I wouldn’t say I have a weak stomach, but the thought of stitching together muscle and skin makes me wish I hadn’t forced down that awful mushroom risotto. At my audible swallow, Chord smiles. It’s small and fleeting, but it’s there, and I take an involuntary step forward.
“I’m joking,” he murmurs.
Without thinking, I cross the distance to get a closer look at the cut and only then realize how deep it is. “Oh, my God. What happened?”
Chord grunts. “I got careless with the fence wire.”
A fleeting glance out the glass doors confirms that although it’s summer and the days are long, the light started fading a while ago. “Have you been out there all afternoon?”
“Yep.”
I think again about how he doesn’t need to be fixing the fences at all, but even if I were brave enough to ask him about it, it’s not the kind of thing a practical stranger should care about. Instead, I say the next thing that comes to mind.
“Can I take you to a hospital or call someone or—”
“No.” His glance flickers toward me and away again as he concentrates on dabbing away the blood. “I’ve had plenty worse on the ice. I just need to clean it and cover it up, and it’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure?” I risk another look at it, then grimace at the gore. “It looks bad.”
Chord keeps his eyes on his arm, but I can see the way the corner of his mouth tips up, and I like the way it makes me feel. Warm and a little triumphant. “I’m sure.”
It doesn’t feel right to walk away, no matter that it’s the sensible option, so I ignore the way it makes my heart race and gesture at the first aid kit. “At least let me help you dress it. It’ll be hard for you to manage with only one hand.”
He says nothing for long enough that I start to feel foolish, but apparently, it wasn’t a totally stupid suggestion because he finally says, “All right.”
Chord sets aside the bloody gauze and pulls out the antiseptic and cotton wool, and I watch in helpless silence as he applies it. With most of the blood wiped away, I can see the gash isn’t as bad as I first thought. When he retrieves a stack of mismatched bandages, he finds the appropriate size and hands them over without looking at me.
“Would you mind?”
“No.” I gently clear my throat and try to talk a little louder, but I’m only now realizing I need to touch him to do this, and my heart skips a beat. I can’t believe he’s letting me do this. “Of course not.”
I peel away the backing and pause to consider the wound, but I’m instantly distracted by the size and strength of Chord’s arms. Lean, ropey muscles stretch from elbow to wrist, smooth skin bronzed by the sun and dusted with fine dark hair. His hands are strong, too, and decorated with rich blue veins. Thick, calloused fingers, broad palms and neat, smooth nails marked with evidence of a day spent mucking about in the dirt.
He has a wide, pale scar down the inside of his left wrist, most likely the result of a game injury, and even that’s appealing. Everything about this man screams power, and I bet there’s not a thing he can’t do with these arms. These hands. These fingers.
“You might need a few,” he says.
I startle and try to cover it by tearing open another packet. “Yeah. It’s, uh… big.”
Warmth prickles underneath my collarbone. It’s big ?
Seriously, Violet. Even you can’t be this ridiculous.
My fingers tremble as I carefully apply the first of three large bandages over the cut, and even though I wince at the way they rub against the wound, Chord doesn’t flinch.
It’s hard to swallow as he watches me press the material to his arm, and though I’m going slow to get it right and not cause him pain, I might also be taking my time because I like the way my body buzzes when I’m next to him.
I attach each bandage with gentle motions, smoothing the material over his skin in long, slow strokes that end when my fingertips graze his skin. I feel every touch in my core. Chord’s warmth crackles like static, and it only takes the lightest touch to ignite a spark.
When I’m done, I take a shaky breath while I gather up the empty packets and toss them in the trash, then stand in the middle of the kitchen, unsure what to say next. Chord sits there staring at his arm for long enough that I decide he wants me to leave so he can be alone.
I move toward the hallway and hover at the edge of the room. “Goodnight.”
Chord doesn’t look up. “Goodnight.”
I shake my hands by my sides as I climb the stairs to my room, like I can shake away the hum in my blood, but it doesn’t work. My pulse lurches every time I replay the feel of Chord’s skin under my fingertips and the high lingers long after I’ve turned out the light.