17. Violet
seventeen
Violet
DAY 16 AT SILVER LEAF... ONLY 70 TO GO
“You got a minute?”
I lift my head from my laptop and Chord’s never-ending fan mail and almost choke on my own saliva. Chord’s leaning in the doorway to the home office, forearm on the frame, wearing nothing but low-slung sky-blue swim shorts. My gaze drags over his biceps, down his hard chest, across his rippling abs, and past the jut of his hips. It bounces back to his face when I reach the bulge in his pants, and a rush of heat between my legs makes my cheeks burn. Judging by his subtle little smirk, Chord knows exactly where my mind just went.
Someone, please send help. I’m not built to handle this much gorgeous.
“Sure,” I reply in barely more than a breathy whisper.
“You got a bathing suit?”
That brings me back to Earth, and I narrow my eyes. “Why?”
“It’s warm out, and I thought you might like to take a break.” He shrugs and straightens as one side of his mouth hooks up. “I’ll swim, and you can… float.”
I glance out the tall glass windows, past the porch and at the blue sky. It’s easy to forget about the heat with the central air in this house, but I know it’s perfect weather for swimming because I work on the porch at least twice a day for, ah… fresh air.
But the idea of sharing a pool with Chord makes me nervous, and that’s even before I think too hard about being in a swimsuit in front of him. He’s already seen you in less than that , I remind myself, but the flashback to that night in my room isn’t helping things.
“I don’t know,” I hedge. “I’m pretty busy.”
“Come on.” He shifts to lean his shoulder on the trim, crossing his large arms over his chest and swinging one ankle over the other. “Just an hour. I won’t tell the boss if you don’t.”
He’s the boss, and when I blink too fast at the comment, his right eyebrow—the one with the scar—ticks up. So now, apparently, Chord is charming.
My blush now is more pleasure than embarrassment. “All right. Just an hour.”
“Good.” He pushes upright. “I’ll meet you at the pool in ten.”
I wait for the sound of his footsteps to fade before running upstairs to my room, digging through my drawers, and slipping on my white bikini. I grab my hat, a towel, and the sunscreen, and race down the stairs before I change my mind.
When I set eyes on the pool, I burst out laughing.
“What is this?” I ask as I approach the water’s edge.
Chord is waist-deep in the water, surrounded by at least ten blow-up novelty pool floats. He spins to look at me, and his eyes slide up my body in a way that makes me very aware of how much skin I’m showing. His dark hair is damp, slicked back and sexy, his hard upper body drips with water, and his throat bobs with a deep swallow. I pull on my hat, drop to the edge of the pool so I can dangle my legs over the side, and try to hide.
Chord wades his way over to a giant inflatable pizza slice and pushes it in my direction. “I swim. You float. Isn’t that right?”
I chuckle as I push the pizza away with one pointed toe. It looks precarious, and the last thing I need is to look foolish trying to stay dry on a flimsy piece of plastic in the middle of Chord’s perfect pool. “Yes, that’s right, but maybe not that one.”
He guides a swan to me. “What about this guy?”
The swan has a long neck with handles and a small platform for my bottom. I give him a wry look from underneath my hat. “Do I look like a straddle-and-ride kind of girl to you?” I hear the words after I say them, and heat explodes to my hairline. “Oh, no. Don’t answer that.”
He doesn’t try to hide his amusement, shaking his head with a small smile. “I won’t,” he promises.
I could get used to this version of Chord. Relaxed. Friendly. Warm.
He makes his way around the menagerie of pool toys, offering them to me one by one. Unicorn. Dolphin. Strawberry. Pineapple. Seahorse. Donut. By the time I’ve slathered sunscreen on every inch of skin I can reach, I’ve decided on the giant peacock. It’s got a wide base made of netting, so I can feel the water on my legs and a tall spray of inflated feathers to recline against. But while I’m wondering how I’m supposed to get on it without looking goofy, Chord nods at the tube of sunscreen in my hand.
“You missed your back,” he observes.
“Oh.” I look at the tube and wonder if there’s a way to have Chord’s hands on me without having to come right out and ask for it. “It’s hard to reach.”
My heart skips as he splays his palms on the smooth travertine coping, flexes every muscle in his sexy athletic arms, and launches himself out of the pool. He sits beside me, dries his hands on one of the towels stacked nearby, and takes the sunscreen.
“Turn around,” he orders quietly.
With butterflies fluttering their way up my throat, I remove my hat, sweep my hair off my neck, and twist to offer him my back.
The moment his cool hands touch me, every inch of my body erupts in goosebumps.
I coach myself through each breath as his large, confident hands massage the lotion into my skin. His palms do most of the work, slipping over my shoulder blades and along my spine. His hands swipe low, to the waist of my bikini briefs, and wide, to brush the sides of my ribcage.
When he tucks his fingers under the strap of my bikini and sweeps them underneath, I freeze. A warm, wet pulse beats at the apex of my thighs, and when he finally pulls away, I embarrass myself with a loud, shaky breath.
I shift to face the pool but can’t bring myself to look at him. “Thank you.”
His voice is strained when he replies, “You’re welcome.”
Chord drops back into the water, submerging himself completely and swimming away under the pool floats. The pool is enormous—Olympic size with plenty of room for the toys—and while he’s under the water, I return my hat to my head and take the opportunity to arrange myself on the peacock.
Soon I’m safely ensconced on my pretty floating bird, and I sweep my hands in the water to rotate my position and look for Chord. He’s tucked into a big brown inflatable teddy bear, its arms curled around like it’s trying to hug him. He looks ridiculous and adorable at the same time, and it makes me laugh.
“You swim ,” I say. “And I float. Remember?”
He raises his scarred brow as his mouth tips up. “I feel like relaxing right now. There’ll be plenty of time for laps later, and I’m not in any rush.”
I drop my eyes with a small smile. “Okay.”
I adjust my hat a little so I can watch Chord from under the wide brim. He takes a deep breath and lets it out with a satisfied sigh, then closes his eyes and turns his face to the sky. His arms dangle in the water, and he’s still for so long that I wonder if he’s fallen asleep. It makes ogling him easier, but when he suddenly speaks, I jump.
“So. Sports marketing, huh?”
“What? Oh. Yes. Sports marketing.”
“You like hockey?”
“Um.”
I wiggle my fingers in the cool water as I search for the right words, but when I take too long, he opens one eye and lifts his head.
“You don’t like hockey?”
I bite my lip at how offended he sounds. “I like it fine,” I assure him, “but I’m not what you’d call a diehard fan. My dad, however, follows the Fury like it’s his religion. He was ecstatic when I told him I got a job for the team.”
“I’ll have to meet him someday.”
“Really?” I don’t try to hide my surprise.
“Sure.”
“He’d love that.”
“Is he the reason why you took the job?”
“Um, well…”
It doesn’t feel great when people don’t care enough to ask about my life, but I’m always uncomfortable when they do. It’s a paradox easily managed by avoiding conversation altogether. But this moment with Chord doesn’t feel that way. We’ve been edging closer to something that might be friendship, so it’s surprisingly easy to push through the discomfort of talking about myself and lean into the impulse to be more open. “He’s part of it, but it’s a respectable, well-paying position with excellent health benefits. Anyone would kill for the same opportunity. I’d have been silly not to take it.”
“So that means—what? You studied business marketing in college?”
“No, actually.” The sun is toasting the tops of my thighs, so I run my cool, wet hands over them for relief. “Well, yes and no. I double majored in marketing and fashion design.”
“Fashion. That’s cool.”
Apprehension flutters in my chest. I get the sense Chord’s taking this conversation somewhere specific. Somewhere like the sketchbook and felt board he saw in my bedroom. The walls around my heart slam into place, but then I remember the secrets Daisy shared with me—all the intimate details I know about Chord’s life without his permission—and I want to offer something in return. The truth.
“Yeah, it is—or was.”
“What do you mean was ?”
I take a moment to think about my answer. It’s hard to put into words the regrets I’ve kept to myself. It hurts to think of them, let alone say them out loud, but it’s almost like they’ve been waiting for the right time to surface because once I start talking, I can’t stop.
“My dream was to design wedding gowns and haute couture. Violet James—the next Vera Wang.” I chuckle at how absurd it sounds now. “But it’s just me and my dad at home, and we need my income, so while other design students were doing low-paid internships and traveling the world, I was working whatever part-time marketing gigs I could find during the week, slugging it out in fashion retail on weekends, and failing to make an impact on social media.” I shrug like it doesn’t bother me, but the burn of failure and embarrassment sticks in my throat. “I gave it ten years before I admitted it was time to let go of my dreams. Then this job with the Fury came up, I applied, and I got it. Do not ask me how, but I suppose things worked out all right in the end.”
Chord is quiet for a moment, and I start to feel insecure about how much I’ve shared. Perhaps he wasn’t angling for my life story. Maybe he was just trying to be polite. I misread the situation, and now I look stupid.
But then he says, “It’s just you and your dad?”
“Yep. Just the two of us.”
“And your mom?”
A sad sort of smile tugs at my lips. “She was only eighteen when she had me. I mean, Dad was only twenty, so he wasn’t that much older, but by the time I turned three, my mom decided she didn’t want to be a mom anymore. There was too much adventure waiting for her. Too many dreams she wanted to chase. So, she left, and we never heard from her again.”
“I’m sorry,” Chord says quietly.
“There’s no need to be,” I say honestly. “I got over it a long time ago. She was young and beautiful, and she wrote me a long letter explaining how she dreamed of being on the stage. She told me she was sorry, and I was hurt and mad for a long time, but as I grew older and learned more about the world, I began to understand why she did what she did. I’m not sure I would have wanted a mother who didn’t want to raise me. I don’t want to be the reason for someone else’s regrets.”
Chord blinks like he’s turning my words over in his head. “And your dad?”
A single tear takes me off guard, and I dash it away before Chord can notice it. I’m more reluctant to talk about my dad than anything else, but I miss him so much that the words spill out. “He was always a good father—he’s a good man, and I never went without—but he struggles with depression. I’ve always believed my mother leaving us was sort of the catalyst for that.”
“What does he do with himself? Does he work?”
“He did a carpentry apprenticeship when he was young and worked in construction for a while. Then he did odd jobs and handyman-type things.”
“So, you take care of him?”
Something about the way he says it makes me frown. “We take care of each other.”
“And the designing?” He casts me a look that says he’s referring to the sketchbook he wasn’t supposed to see—he knows that; I know that; and he knows I know he knows—but neither of us is going to mention it because it’ll bring up other things . “You still draw in your own time? You don’t share it with anyone?”
I sigh and drop my head back against the fat plastic peacock feathers, pressing my lids closed to ease the way they sting. “I do still draw, and no, I don’t share it with anyone.”
“Why?”
It’s a good question—one I’ve asked myself many times—without a real answer. I give him the only one I have. “Because I don’t know how to stop.”
His brows pull together, and his mouth turns down. “Maybe that means—”
“I’m a little warm.” I pull my float against the side of the pool and inelegantly drag myself out of it, then offer him an awkward wave without making eye contact. “Thanks for the swim—or the float. I’ll see you later.”
I fling my towel around my shoulders and hurry back to the house, hoping that if I move fast enough, I can outrun the uneasy regret of sharing too much. This anxiety is why I can’t make friends. Vulnerability is uncomfortable, and people don’t always know when to back off. I know Chord was about to tell me I shouldn’t give up my dreams, and I don’t want to hear it. It took me a long time to accept that I wasn’t meant to be a designer. Hoping for the impossible hurt too much. Hope broke my heart every day.