14. Violet
fourteen
Violet
DAY 10 AT SILVER LEAF... ONLY 76 TO GO
I end my nightly call with Dad and immediately tap out a text to Jennifer.
He seemed a little down. He says he ate dinner but I’m not sure I believe him. Do you know if he’s been walking in the mornings?
I curl up against the pillows on my bed, hug my legs, and wait anxiously for the ping of a return message.
I saw him go out this morning, so it may be nothing. We all have bad days, after all. I’ll invite him around for a meal tomorrow and let you know how it goes.
Jennifer’s text loosens the worry in my chest. I’ve enjoyed being at Silver Leaf more than I thought I would, and I feel guilty that I don’t think enough about my dad. There’s too much to distract me here. The fresh air and wide, open spaces. The fact that I don’t have to see Courtney every day. The ridiculously hot hockey player who has no idea I watch his swim in the mornings but who does know how to read a sky full of stars.
It’s just so nice to live my own life for the first time ever, but when Jen called me earlier to talk about how Dad has been coping on his own, I started to panic. My first priority has always been my father—he’s more than my only family, he’s my best friend—and I hate myself for letting it slide even a little.
I send a text. I appreciate that. Thanks, Jen. I don’t know how I’d do this without you.
She responds with a heart emoji, and I set my phone on the nightstand before inhaling deeply through my nose then sighing out my mouth.
Another day is over, and I can finally indulge in what I’ve been looking forward to since I woke up. One-on-one time with my sketchbook.
I set my glass of wine on the desk and get everything ready—my headphones, my pencils, and the felt-covered board I picked up from the hardware store on the first day. I pull it out from where I’ve hidden it under the bed and set it on the floor propped against the wall. It’s stuck with a few of my favorite pictures, samples, and sketches. A little piece of home.
Before I settle myself at the desk, I step into the closet and paw through a drawer for something to wear to bed. It’s the last step in what has become my nightly ritual, and something I never did at home: a hot shower to wash away a day of ranch dust and country dirt, followed by a clean pair of pretty panties and a matching camisole.
I pull out a lacy combination in a vivid shade of teal that I’d never wear outside the privacy of my own bedroom, and shiver with anticipation. I know exactly how that silk is going to slip over my warm skin and how sensual it will feel under the cool sheets tonight.
For what feels like the hundredth time, I replay today’s conversation with Chord, and the moment he asked if I had a boyfriend, only this time I fantasize that his interest wasn’t polite or innocent but possessive and jealous.
What might it be like to have a man like that want me? Desire me?
I rub the silk between my fingers. It’s mind-blowing how something as simple as fabric, cut the right way and embellished just so, can make someone feel like a different person. That’s the magic of fashion and why I love it so much.
I throw the underwear on the bed, strip off my clothes, and spend fifteen minutes under the hot, hard spray of what is fast becoming one of my favorite places in the world. I towel off in the bathroom, pull a brush through my wet hair, and lather my body with lotion before returning to the bedroom and sliding the lacy thong up over my legs. As soon as the cool silk slips into place, a satisfied little moan escapes my throat. I set a hand on the camisole next, then scream when the fastest, fattest brown mouse with the beadiest eyes I’ve ever seen bolts out of the fabric and scampers across the soft cotton bed covers.
I scream again when it disappears under my pillow.
And I’m still screaming when the door flies open, and Chord bursts into my room.
“What the hell is going on?” he demands before pulling up short with his eyes popping out of his head.
I point at the mountain of pillows. “There’s a mouse in the bed!”
“A mouse?” He glances at the pillows and then back at me. He looks stunned, kind of like he’s been whacked over the head with something heavy, and realization dawns. He’s scared of mice too.
“Yes, a mouse!” I shake my finger at the pillows. Did the little cushion at the front just move? That creature was totally big enough and the closer I look… Yes. The cushion in front definitely shuddered. “Get it!”
“Uh, sure.” Chord takes a hesitant step forward, then drops his head back and stares up at the ceiling. I catch a mumbled fuck before he says, “Jesus, Violet. Could you put on some clothes?”
“What?” I look down at my good-as-naked body and shriek before bolting into the bathroom and slamming the door.
Holy crap. My boss just saw my boobs.
Chord Davenport just saw my boobs.
I snatch up my wet towel and wrap it around my body, then hunch against the door, wishing I could die and listening for sounds in the bedroom.
What do I care now if he finds the mouse? As soon as Chord leaves the room, I’m packing my bags, driving back home, and never leaving my apartment again.
Oh, my God. Chord saw my boobs.
My body shakes from the shock of the rodent, but the heat across my chest is all embarrassment, and tears prick at my throat. I can never face Chord again.
I hear movement in the bedroom, then the rustling of sheets and pillows, a thud followed by a pained grunt. I close my eyes and try to imagine what it means, but even when the room grows quiet, I’m not brave enough to open the door. I have to believe that Chord will say something once he’s caught the mouse, and then let me know he’s leaving so I can die from mortification alone, the way it’s supposed to be done.
I listen, clutching the towel around my chest and trying to calm my shaky breaths. And just when I think he’s left without telling me, I hear soft footsteps on the carpet, and what sounds like the linens being torn off the bed.
I lower myself to the cool, damp tiles and sit with my back to the door, toying with the edge of the Egyptian cotton and nibbling my bottom lip as I listen to Chord moving about the room.
Oh, God. I drop my forehead to my knees and let out a pathetic whimper. He saw my boobs .
An eternity later, a cough sounds too close on the other side of the door, and I jump. For a moment, I’m terrified he’s going to try to come in.
“The mouse is gone,” Chord says. His tone is even, like he’s trying to pretend he didn’t just see me half naked, and I groan quietly. This is so humiliating. “And I’m going to my room, so you can come out whenever you’re ready.” A pause, and then, “Goodnight.”
I don’t move for a full count of sixty seconds, just to be safe.
When I open the door and step out into the room, I’m not quite sure what I’m looking at.
The bed is perfectly made, but the sheets are now olive-toned linen instead of the crisp white cotton they were twenty minutes ago. I creep forward and touch them, just to be sure, then glance at the door and back at the bed.
Chord changed my sheets.
That’s when I notice my pretty teal camisole carefully draped over the white desk chair, and the pinboard against the wall, now moved to the other side of the room from where I left it. My sketchbook is right there, too. My favorite dress, almost finished, is drawn large on the open page.
And I realize with a sinking feeling that Chord saw more than my bare skin tonight. He doesn’t know it, but he just got a glimpse directly into my soul.