10. Chord
ten
Chord
80 DAYS TILL HOCKEY SEASON
I breathe past the strain in my lungs as I power around the empty field beside the old barn, running at max pace toward the dam. The sun has only just cleared the horizon, and although its glow is muted by damp clouds of silvery morning fog blanketing Silver Leaf, I’m slicked with enough sweat that I peeled my shirt off ten minutes ago and secured it in the waistband of my shorts.
I like running. I like the sensation of ground passing beneath my feet, the burn in my muscles and the expansion behind my ribs. I like pushing my body to see what it can do, so even if Violet wasn’t living in my house, I’d be out here covering the exact same ground day in and day out. But she is in my house, and I’m determined to avoid her, so I’ve made it my mission to be busy every hour of the day. Mornings running alone or with Finn. Breakfast with Dylan, Daisy, and Izzy at the restaurant. Hours in the gym. Laps in the pool. Afternoons fixing the fucking fences.
I absently brush a hand over the bandages on my forearm and think back to the electricity of Violet’s hesitant touch as she applied them. What the hell was I thinking sitting in the kitchen just waiting for her to appear? There shouldn’t be electricity. There shouldn’t be fascination. There shouldn’t be anything .
This woman is shy. She’s withdrawn. She wants nothing to do with me, and that’s why she’s the ideal assistant. But I find myself watching her sometimes when she doesn’t know it. Driving in and out of the garage as she white-knuckles the steering wheel of my truck. Pacing the porch with her phone to her ear. Sneaking up and down the stairs with her dinner at night.
Why was she hiding in baggy clothes when I met her? What’s she thinking behind those big glasses? What is she afraid I’ll see in her dark-lashed chestnut eyes that she keeps them locked on the floor at her feet?
I pick up speed to stop myself from thinking so much. The faster my mind moves, the slower my muscles fire, which is why I won’t let myself be distracted this summer. I’m an elite athlete, for God’s sake. I’ve built a career on strength and self-discipline. I’m a pin-up boy for focus and control. I’m not about to lose it over a banging body, a mysterious set of eyes, and the occasional temptation of a pretty pink blush.
I’m on the last stretch to the house when something moves ahead. A shadow in the fog, the height and shape of a person at a fork in the path like they’re not sure where to go next.
I pull up short, breathing heavily and squinting into the distance, ignoring how my racing heart skips at the possibility that it’s Violet. Whoever it is, they’re too slight to be Finn and too tall to be Daisy. It might be a guest who wandered off the walking trails that crisscross the ranch, but it’s unlikely that lost hikers would pass this close to my house before finding their way back to the main property.
It’s got to be her.
I creep closer to confirm her identity, moving through an ethereal haze that pulls back from the heat of her body like it wants to hug her curves but can’t get close enough.
I empathize with a quiet groan.
She’s wearing skintight white leggings that cling to her high, rounded ass, black trainers, and a baggy khaki-colored hoodie. Her phone is in her hand, pods in her ears, and her warm brown waves are piled on the top of her head, wisps pulling free around her face and catching on her glasses.
The casual athletic look has never really done it for me—but then again, I’ve never seen it on Violet.
I drag a regretful hand down my face and take a few steps back, intending to let her walk back to the house alone because a fantastic ass in yoga pants is definitely a distraction I don’t need, but seconds pass without her moving. I could— should —turn around and take the long way back to the house, but I can’t force my stupid legs to move, so I stand there like a moron, half-hidden in the fog.
Violet looks at her phone, takes a few steps to the right like she’s finally decided that way lies her destination, then stops and moves to the left. Her head lifts, whipping around like she’s trying to get her bearings, and she steps to the right again. When she checks her phone for a third time, then stomps her foot in frustration and takes off on the left trail with a long, determined stride, I cover up a chuckle and follow. She’s fucking lost and it’s adorable.
“If you’re interested in a job picking grapes,” I call, “you’ll have to come back in September.”
Violet jumps clear in the air, spinning with wide eyes that flash ever so briefly with fear, then murder, before she slumps and smacks her hand onto her heaving chest. “You scared me!”
I mash my lips together because her reaction shouldn’t amuse me, but it’s cute, and the glimpse of something in her that isn’t timidity or nerves makes me want more.
“I didn’t mean to, but if you keep going that way, you’re going to end up in the pinot noir vines.”
Violet’s brow furrows as she glances at her phone and then back down the trail. “Oh.”
I gesture in the opposite direction. “The house is about ten minutes’ walk this way—assuming that’s where you wanted to go?”
She glances at my hand, then her rounded eyes bounce from the dirt to my bare chest and away again before returning to my body and lingering a little longer. The corner of my mouth lifts as a flush rises in her face, and I resist a real grin when she spins toward the correct path.
“Um. Yes. Thank you.”
“No problem.”
I suppose I could put on my shirt, but I’m not going to. And I don’t ask if she wants company either because I’m not going to risk her saying no.
When Violet realizes I intend to escort her the rest of the way, she blinks a few times before plucking the pods from her ears and stuffing them in the pocket of her hoodie.
We walk for a short time in silence while I study Violet from the corner of my eye. Her plump pink lips part occasionally, diverting me to interesting, distracting thoughts that I refuse to entertain. I get the impression she’s searching for the courage to start a conversation, and on her third failed attempt, I save her the trouble of trying again.
“So,” I say, “have you spent much time in Sonoma?”
Her throat moves before she answers. “None.”
“None?” I ask with surprise. “How long have you lived in San Francisco?”
She goes from looking straight ahead to watching the dusty ground disappear under her feet. “Ten years.”
“Ten years,” I echo. “And not a single visit?”
She shrugs and folds her arms over her chest. “No. This is my first time.”
“You’ve never wanted to explore the area?”
“I guess… I mean… I suppose I wanted to visit but never really had the time.”
I take note of the curve to her shoulders, the stoop in her back, and mentally kick my own ass for coming off as a judgmental prick.
“Does that mean you like wine?” I ask.
Her brows pull down, and she casts me a wary sidelong look. “Sure. I like wine.”
“How about farmers’ markets?”
“Yeah.” Violet’s mouth turns down a little as she thinks about it. “That sounds fun.”
“Botanical gardens?”
She drops her arms as a small smile—a hint of potential ease and confidence—flits across her mouth. “Of course. Who doesn’t like flowers?”
Why the fuck does it feel so good to see her open up a little?
“And art?” I ask. “What do you think of galleries?”
Her eyes light up, and she forgets herself long enough to turn toward me. The unguarded joy on her face makes her so damn pretty I forget to watch where I’m going and stumble over nothing.
“Shit,” I mutter as I right myself. Violet stretches out a hand to help me, but I’m an embarrassed idiot who steadies himself too quickly, and she pulls back before making contact.
Violet clears her throat as we continue walking, the house coming into view up ahead. “I love art,” she says. “Is there a local gallery nearby?”
“Yeah. Great restaurants and wineries and coffee too. There are some tourist brochures up at the reception house. Feel free to take off an afternoon while you’re here and do some exploring.”
I slow as we approach the house, not ready for our conversation to be done, and Violet keeps pace at my side.
“That’s nice of you,” she says. “Thanks.”
“No problem.”
We climb the front porch steps together and reach the front door at the same time. I punch in the code and swing it open. “After you?”
Violet drops her eyes with a small smile and walks past me. I breathe in the sweet, floral air she leaves in her wake and, without thinking, brush the base of her back to usher her inside. My hand presses against the fabric of her hoodie, her hip just out of reach of my fingertips and the top of her ass only a short fall away from my palm.
She freezes at my touch, and so do I, but whatever this is lasts only a moment before Violet inhales deeply, drops her chin, and hurries into the house.
I stare at her ass as she moves down the hall, losing a chunk of time in exchange for the memory of white spandex hugging her curves when she walks. But when she turns a corner and is out of my sight, I straighten from my stupor.
Fuck me.
I slam the front door and glare at nothing as I storm through the house, adrenaline buzzing like I haven’t just run eight miles. I grab a towel on my way to my gym, then go to the nearest station and launch into a set of pull-ups, impatient for the burn to start.
Sweat rolls down my temples, my neck, and my spine. My grip falters, but the fatigue only makes me work harder. I’m focused. I’m disciplined. I’m in control. I know what I want and a woman isn’t it. It’s hockey. It’s the Cup. It’s to be the fucking best. So, no more distractions. No more temptation. And no more thinking about Violet James.