23. Violet
twenty-three
Violet
DAY 20 AT SILVER LEAF... ONLY 66 TO GO
Chord is unusually quiet on our trip to San Francisco. It’s not the cold, intimidating silence that made him famous. It’s an introspective kind of quiet like he’s lost in his own thoughts. And it makes me anxious.
I’ve told myself his behavior is not about me at least a dozen times over the last five hours. In the car on the drive to San Francisco. When we inspected the first apartment on my list of potential new homes. And the second. And the third. But now, as we stand in silence on the street outside the building of Potential New Home Number Three, I’ve swung back to believing that he’s having second thoughts about me. About us.
He’s staring at his phone like he’s forgotten I’m here, and all I want is to run away from the awkward humiliation and hug my dad.
After a long moment passes without Chord looking up, I rock forward on my toes and try a tight, uncertain smile. “So, what did you think of this one?”
“Hm?” He frowns at his phone before locking the screen and stowing it in his pocket. He glances up at the residential building behind us, squinting toward the wall of glass on the penthouse floor. “It’s nice. Definitely the largest of the three we’ve seen today. What do you think?”
“Me?” This is the first time he’s asked for my opinion, and I’m not sure what to say. Compared to my cramped, aging apartment, all three properties are palatial. “Oh. Um, I like them all.”
Chord crosses his arms, and for the first time today, a little life warms his blue eyes. The flutter of anxiety in my middle swirls into butterflies.
“But if you had to choose…?” he leads.
I frown. “If I had to choose… what?”
His mouth ticks up. “Which would it be?”
I take a moment to consider it. He’s asking for professional advice from his personal assistant, so I forget about my own preferences and think about it from his point of view.
“Well, apartment number three is the largest,” I reason out loud. “It’s the most modern, and it’s the closest to the arena. It has great security, and it’s the most expensive, which means it’s probably the best… right?”
Chord shrugs. “Probably, but that’s not what I asked. Out of the three we saw today, where would you choose to live?”
“Me?”
At his amused nod, I bite my lip and recall the first place we saw. It was the smallest by far, but it had the most warmth with its cream-colored walls and living room with built-in bookcases and wood-burning fireplace, vintage fittings everywhere, exquisite natural light, and a beautiful view over a park.
Chord rolls his lips against a smile. “It’s apartment number one, isn’t it?”
I press a palm to the heat on my face. “Am I that obvious?”
“No. I’m just getting better at reading you.”
Out of nowhere, Chord takes my hand, threading his thick, callused fingers through mine and latching on tight. Tiny, teeming, white-hot sparks burst through my body, not only at his touch but at being touched like this in public. Because people are looking .
Wherever he goes, people look at Chord. They may or may not know he’s the best hockey player of his generation, but they do know a beautiful face when they see one. And it’s his energy. His magnetism. He demands attention. It’s easy to forget that when it’s just the two of us alone in his house, or when we’re with Daisy and Izzy. His family doesn’t look at Chord the way strangers do.
He tugs me in the direction of the sports car he chose for the drive from Silver Leaf and opens the passenger side door to usher me in.
I glance at the vacant seat. I so badly want to do as he says and get in, but I also want to see my dad. This was the moment in today’s itinerary I was supposed to slip away.
“Aren’t you going to that appointment at the warehouse?” I ask. “I thought I might—”
“Yes, and I’d like you to come with me.” He sets a soft hand on the small of my back and guides me closer to the car. The next thing I know, I’m buckling my seatbelt and watching Chord round the hood.
I’m not prepared for this. Chord has been cagey about his storage facility on the three occasions I was forced to mention it. My empty stomach is now a little queasy with a mix of anticipation and reluctance. I haven’t eaten since breakfast, and it’s already mid-afternoon, but I didn’t worry about lunch as I had plans to pick up a box of Dad’s favorite pastries on my way over to our apartment.
Chord slides behind the wheel and starts the engine.
“Are you sure you want me to go with you?” I ask. “I don’t want to intrude.”
My stomach growls, and I blush as Chord’s mouth quirks to one side.
“I’m sure,” he says. “And you’re not intruding. In fact, I need your help with something. But first, let’s get you something to eat.”
He checks his blind spot, pulls out into the street, and then reaches across the center console to find my hand again. He collects my fingers and settles them on his knee, and all I can do is stare at the way we fit so perfectly together.
“I’ve been distracted today,” Chord says as his thumb caresses the back of my hand. “I apologize for that, but if you can tolerate me for the rest of the afternoon, I want to explain.”
He pulls to a stop at the next set of lights, where he throws me a sideways look that makes me melt. Literally. I squeeze my thighs together, and his eyes fall to my lap like he knows why. Heat rises from my core to paint my chest and collarbone.
“Okay.” My breath sounds loud in my ears. “I can go with you.”
Chord stops at a local sandwich shop on the way, where he buys us both salads and green juices to go. While we stand at the counter and wait for our food, I watch a couple of young kids jostle each other in the corner, whispering and pointing at Chord.
He notices it, too, because as soon as he has our lunches in his hand, he walks toward them, sets the food on a table, and says hello. He’s surprisingly warm and friendly. A couple of selfies and signed t-shirts later, we’re back in the car and speeding toward our appointment.
“That was nice of you,” I say as I spoon the delicious cold chicken and couscous salad into my mouth.
“I like kids,” Chord says. “Nine times out of ten, they’re not assholes.”
I lift one brow. “Only nine times?”
Chord huffs out a dry chuckle. “There’s always one.”
He digs his fork into the open takeout box he’s wedged between his thick thighs. I wonder what it would feel like to be in that position—pinned between his hard, muscled legs, and mere inches away from the bulge behind his fly.
Hello, new low. I’m jealous of a cold chicken salad.
We reach the storage center, pull into a parking space and Chord collects the takeout containers to deposit in the nearest trash can. I watch with admiring amusement as he uses a paper napkin to trap the crumbs we drop. He’s a perfectionist, this man. In all areas of his life. And I like that.
He holds my hand again as we approach the entrance, pulling me against his body like we’re a couple. I shift my old satchel so it’s not hanging between us and shamelessly press myself against his warmth.
The heat from his arm seeps through the fabric of the oversized blazer I wore today—this trip to the city gave me an excuse to revisit my old wardrobe—and a quick glance up at the smug half-twist on his mouth tells me he knows what I’m doing.
It’s so unlike me to be this bold, and maybe I should put a little distance between us, but it’s like whatever fog he was under this morning has lifted and taken my reservations with it. Chord’s cocky but silent acknowledgment of my interest makes me feel safe in brand new ways.
It also turns me on.
Chord approaches the reception desk and introduces himself, and within minutes the facilities manager leads us through a maze of buildings to the warehouse leased under Chord’s name. He holds my hand the entire time, and when we arrive, the manager opens the door for us and steps back.
Chord leads me through, flicks on the light switch, and as the fluorescent bars buzz to life overhead, I look up and around and gasp.
“Chord.” I reach up and squeeze his bicep, so distracted by what I see that I don’t even know I’ve done it until I register the hard, glorious muscle under my fingers. I jerk my hand away. “There must be thousands of bottles of wine here. More. What is this? What are they for?”
Chord rubs the back of his neck with his free hand and turns to the warehouse manager. “Could you leave us, please? I’ll come by your office when we’re done to finalize the paperwork.”
The manager hands Chord the keys. “Of course. Take your time.”
When we’re alone, Chord moves further into the cavernous space, towing me along with him. The room is fitted out with tall, wide shelves that span its full length, and there are six aisles of them. As I draw close enough to a shelf to make out the labels on the individual wine bottles, I frown at the image printed on a yellowing white square. It’s a Silver Leaf Ranch & Vineyard bottle of pinot noir and the vintage is seven years old. There’s an identical bottle next to it, and another next to that. There are even more above and behind. There’s a whole section of the same bottle set on sleek, sturdy wine racks that look purpose-built for this space.
I walk a little further as Chord follows, silently watching me, and stop in front of a batch of Silver Leaf chardonnay. It’s a year younger than the pinot next to it.
Chord runs his thumb over a label and then drops his hand. “I haven’t told you much about the ranch, have I? What we do now? What we used to do? How much trouble it’s in?”
I grimace with guilt. “Daisy filled me in on some of it. I hope that’s okay.”
Chord’s brows lift before he rolls his eyes, but there’s an affectionate tilt on his perfect lips. “Of course she did. And yes, it’s okay. She has as much right to talk about it as anyone, and at least she had the good sense to talk to you instead of someone else. So, you know that the ranch isn’t doing as well as it should.”
“Daisy said as much. She told me your mom used to run trail rides, and there were plans for a spa.”
We stroll up and down the aisles of wine, Chord checking random bottles as we pass. “Yep. And it’s the end of July. The height of wedding season in this part of California. Do you know how many weddings we’ve got booked this summer?”
I’ve noticed none since I arrived, and I’ve been on the ranch for three weeks. It seems cruel to point that out, but my silence speaks volumes.
“Exactly,” Chord says. “There was one earlier in the month, and there’s another in August, but it’s not enough. Once upon a time, we were turning couples away three years in advance. But we haven’t had the funds to improve our facilities in years, and people are choosing more modern venues.”
“But what about the restaurant? Daisy said it does well.”
“It does all right. Dylan’s a talented chef.”
“And the weekend tourists?”
“They help,” Chord agrees.
“And then there’s that big catering client. The one that orders all that wine every month.”
Chord stops and turns to face me, his eyes burning into mine as he tries to tell me something without words. It takes a moment, but when understanding dawns, my mouth drops open, and I look around the warehouse again, more in awe than before.
“ You’re the big catering client?” I whisper. “You bought all this wine from your own business?”
Chord lets out a resigned sigh and looks up at the shelves of wine over our heads. “Yep. Every month for ten years. And I think I fucked up.”
“What?” I frown and take hold of his hand, tugging until he looks at me. “What do you mean?”
“Nobody knows about this. Not my brothers. Not Daisy. And not—”
“ Charlie .”
A loaded breath hisses from my puffed-up cheeks as I scan the room, trying without success to calculate how many bottles there are and the value of each one. How much money has Chord spent over the last ten years keeping his family’s business afloat? It’s got to be tens of thousands of dollars. Hundreds of thousands. Quite possibly a million. And his family knows nothing about it.
“Oh, my,” I mutter.
Chord’s rich chuckle startles me, but not nearly so much as the broad grin on his gorgeous face. I look up at him, stunned at how beautiful this man is when he’s happy. I get the distinct impression that he’s laughing at me, and maybe I should be offended, but I’m not. I can’t be. Not if I’ve done something to make him smile like this.
The electric heat of his touch dulls against the nuclear warmth exploding inside my chest.
“ Oh, my ?” Chord laughs again. “That’s a pretty mild curse for the fact that I’ve been lying to my family for a decade and given them three million dollars against their will. No, against their express wishes. Charlie’s going to cut off my appendages one by one when I tell her.”
Three million dollars ? Chord spent a fortune to stop his family’s business from going under because they were too proud to accept his help. My dad is the most important thing in my world—if three million dollars could solve his problems, I’d beg, borrow, and steal to give it to him—so Chord’s gesture quite literally takes my breath away.
But I can’t see how a secret this big can be kept forever, and it sounds like he wants to confess the truth to his siblings, but why now? And why am I the first person he’s told?
“Chord, I’m confused.” I roll my lips and search for a polite way to ask what I want to know. “Why did you bring me here? What does any of this have to do with me?”
“I had a… conversation with Charlie last night. I said some things. She said some things. Not many of them felt good. I’ve spent every minute since trying to see this situation from her perspective.”
He grimaces and rubs the back of his neck. “Hockey has been my life since I was a kid, and it was always going to be that way until I had to retire. So, I left Silver Leaf to Charlie and Dylan, knowing I’d come back when the time was right—for me. I never thought about how that might hurt my family. She accused me of trying to give her money to soothe a guilty conscience. Like I’ve been trying to buy my way back into the family, and the truth is, I never gave it that much thought.”
My brow creases with puzzlement, and Chord shakes his head with a self-mocking smirk. “You were thinking for a minute there that all this wine made me some sort of selfless hero, right? I’m not. I’ve been too self-absorbed to lose sleep about not being on the ranch when my family needed me. It’s just the way things had to be. I knew the business was struggling, and my money was the fastest way to solve the problem. It was the only way I ever thought to help.”
“Oh, Chord.”
I drop my eyes to hide my dismay, but Chord lifts my face with his fingers on my chin. “I know it was wrong, and Charlie said something last night that turned everything on its head. ‘At least you know you made Mom and Dad proud,’ she told me, and it cut like a skate to the wrist. That’s all she’s been trying to do—make our parents proud on her own terms, in her own way, off of her own power. And I get that. I get that so much.”
He glances around at the wine. “I’ve undermined her by lying about the money all this time, and I’m an idiot for not taking the time to ask questions sooner. To make the effort to understand.”
His throat bobs in a swallow, and I bite the inside of my cheek as I watch the subtle changes in his expression. There’s doubt and regret, and I sense that he’s not used to either.
“You did this because you love her,” I tell him. “You love your family, and you love the ranch. This was the way you knew to show it.”
Chord stares at me for a moment before pulling me against his chest and wrapping his arms around me. I loop my arms around his waist as he sets his chin on my head and sighs. With my cheek against his chest, I breathe him in and close my eyes. This moment—our first real embrace—will stay with me forever.
“Why are you showing me this, Chord?” I ask. “What can I do?”
Chord hesitates before he replies. “The way you talk about your dad and the sacrifices you’ve made to care for him in real, honest ways… It’s made me think about things differently. Made me hope that things could be different with Charlie and me.”
Real, honest ways. Something about those words makes my throat tighten. I love my dad, and I’d do anything for him—including hiding my truth to protect him.
I’ve never told him I hate my career. I’ve never confessed how desperately I want to quit every job I’ve ever had so I could intern with design houses the way my peers did. He doesn’t know that I dream about moving to Paris or London and living on my own. Dad doesn’t know that every time I sketch Mom’s dress, I imagine myself wearing it and living a life that feels impossible. One where I don’t have to choose between duty and dreams. One where love lasts forever.
I breathe slowly through a pang of sadness. Dad has always supported my dreams to design. I could have told him all my hopes and fears years ago. My salary and health insurance and his unemployment and depression… None of that should have held me back. My sense of responsibility got in my way because I let it.
The truth hits me square in the chest, but I can’t examine it too closely right now. Chord is obviously on the cusp of a profound personal discovery, and I want to be present for him.
“So, what do you want to do?” I ask.
“I need to tell Charlie the truth, and I need to let her stand on her own two feet. And then, I have to hope that by putting it all on the table and removing any tension between us, she’ll trust me enough to ask for help. When it happens, I need to show up. No questions, no excuses. I’ll be there.”
He sounds so confident, with the tone of a man who makes a plan, executes it well, and always achieves his goal. I have no doubt that he’ll make it happen because when has the world ever told Chord Davenport no ?
My thoughts trail away as I become hyper-aware of the way Chord grows still. His fingers ghost over my body until he finds his favored place on my chin, but when he tips up my face, it’s different than all the other times before. His blue eyes are warm with desire, his throat bobs in a deep swallow, and as his gaze falls to my mouth, he moves a little closer. This time, I know he’s going to kiss me.
My hands find their way into his hair. “Chord?” I whisper. Like a promise. Like a prayer.
The moment between—the hover, the hesitation—is divine and endless until the instant his lips meet mine. And then… fireworks .
It’s been a long time since I’ve kissed anyone, but Chord takes the lead. He cradles my head, angling me so he can explore my mouth the way he wants to before he pulls back and brushes his lips, so warm and gentle, back and forth against mine. He teases my mouth open again with a hint of his tongue that I desperately chase with my own. I feel the grin on his mouth, and it snaps the last thread of reserve I have in me.
I press myself against his chest and grip his t-shirt with two fists as our kiss turns frantic. His lips tug at mine, and his tongue sweeps a little deeper, inviting me to reciprocate. And I do. I kiss him until I’m breathless and can barely stand, gripping his shirt like it’s the only thing holding me up.
Oh, God. I could kiss him like this forever.
Chord’s the first one to pull away, though he continues to cradle my face. “Violet James,” he says, thumbs caressing my cheekbones as he stares into my eyes. “Wallflower. What the hell have you done to me?”
“I haven’t done any—”
“Yes. You have.” He drops his forehead to mine and closes his eyes. “I don’t know how you do it, Wallflower, but you make me want to be a better man.”