32. Violet
thirty-two
Violet
DAY 53 AT SILVER LEAF... ONLY 33 TO GO
As the limousine slows and joins the queue of cars lined up outside the gala venue, Chord squeezes my hand and peers out his tinted window. “We’re almost there. Are you ready?”
Butterflies the size of birds beat in my stomach and chest, and my dress is suddenly too tight. My dress. I’m about to walk onto a red carpet wearing a gown that I designed. People are going to look at me. They’re going to ask who I’m wearing. I’ll tell them it’s my own, and they’re going to judge it. They’ll judge me , and in my experience, people aren’t always kind.
Chord ducks his head to meet my eyes, and I realize I’ve been staring blankly into the distance. “Are you okay?”
“I…”
The limousine pulls to a final stop and Chord picks up a handset to tell the driver to wait before he gets out to open our door. Then he turns back to me, sincerity large in his cobalt eyes.
“I know you can do this.” He brushes my hand in soothing sweeps. “But the decision to walk into this gala tonight is yours. We don’t have to get out of the car if you don’t want to.”
I press my lips together, the smooth texture of my nude lipstick anchoring me to the present, and I admire Chord for the hundredth time tonight. He is the most effortlessly sexy man I’ve ever seen. The form-fitted suit that hints at the hard, athletic body underneath. The smooth, chiseled jaw and full mouth. The hands—the large, confident hands. That certain smile he only shares with me. The eyes that I once thought were so cold and now set my soul on fire.
I don’t want to be scared for the rest of my life.
Am I ready?
No.
Am I going to do it anyway?
Yes.
“Let’s go.”
Chord alerts the driver, and I take a deep breath. The door opens, letting in the din and flashes of the waiting media pack, and Chord steps out first. Cameras flash with more urgency, the hum of the crowd gets louder, and I slide across the seat while Chord buttons his jacket and adjusts his cuffs. Then he turns and stretches out his hand.
I take it and step out of the car, and Chord sets his mouth to my ear. “You’re beautiful. I’m the luckiest man in the world to have you by my side tonight.”
I drop my eyes, and he lifts my chin. “Eyes up, Wallflower.”
Breathing steadily so I don’t lose control, I take Chord’s arm and let him lead me down the red carpet. Other guests are ahead of us, and it’s clear Chord’s done this many times before when he pauses every few steps to let the photographers take pictures from different angles.
“Chord! Chord! Who is your date tonight?” someone shouts.
“Violet James,” Chord says in a voice pitched loud enough to carry.
“Violet! Violet!” another person calls. “Who are you wearing tonight?”
“I—” I clear my throat and try to raise my voice, but my mouth is dry, and my heart is racing, and I’m not sure anyone hears me when I say, “I’m wearing a Violet James original.”
The cameras flash again, and Chord squeezes my hand as he turns his face away from the cameras and whispers in my ear, “I’ve been dreaming about the way you taste, Wallflower. I can’t wait for the day I make you come on my tongue.”
Heat blooms in my cheeks and between my legs, and Chord sweeps a careful knuckle along my jaw. I gaze up at him, and the cameras go wild when his face breaks into a grin. “You looked a little pale there for a minute, and you’re so pretty when you blush.”
“Chord! Chord!” A photographer leans over the media rope and waves his arm to move Chord down the carpet. “Can we get a few shots of Violet alone?”
“Will you be okay?” he murmurs.
Warmth that feels a little like adrenaline shoots through my veins. “Yes. Thank you.”
He kisses my hand and backs away, then watches with crossed arms and satisfaction as I pose for the cameras.
The lights and the noise aren’t what I’m used to, but Chord’s strong, solid presence makes it possible for me to smile and turn my body as directed. Nerves aside, I’ve lived a fairytale today. The makeover. The car. The jewelry. Victoria Hall. This dress. My dress .
Chord.
For so many reasons, I finally feel enough.
He returns to my side for one last round of pictures, then loops my arm into the crook of his elbow. We make it to the end of the red carpet just outside the venue doors, and Chord pauses, turns his broad back to the cameras, and kisses me.
“You were magnificent,” he says.
Tonight, I can believe him. “Thank you.”
“And now that the hard part is over, we can enjoy the night.” He yanks me against him with a hand on my lower back, and his eyes grow hot. “Or a couple of hours, at least. I don’t think I can be a gentleman much longer than that.”
I bite my lip and curl my fingers into the muscled arms trapped beneath his suit, trying to tell him without words how I want this night to end. I need your mouth , I think. Your hands. Your tongue. More. All of you. Everything. And I’m feeling confident and beautiful and brave enough to say it, but then a limo pulls up at the other end of the red carpet, and my heart jumps into my throat.
Chord frowns. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Oh, nothing. It’s—”
With a curious smile, he glances back over his shoulder. Every muscle in Chord’s body tenses in an instant, and he miraculously gains two inches of height.
It’s the man who ruined everything for Chord in Calgary. His rival, Spencer Cook.
Chord takes my hand and grips it hard enough that I cover it with my other, cradling his fingers in mine.
“What the fuck is he doing here?” Chord grinds out.
“I don’t know.”
A woman steps out of the limo behind Spencer, and my heart stutters. She’s stunning—blonde and curvy in a sexy red dress, a full pout, and loads of confidence. I don’t recognize her, but if she’s here with Spencer Cook, I know who she must be.
“Is that your ex-girlfriend, Emma?” I ask.
Chord snorts and shakes his head. “Yes.”
I don’t think Spencer or Emma see us as they take their first few steps on the carpet, then pause and pose, but Spencer doesn’t hold my interest for long. I can’t look away from her . She’s bold and gorgeous, and I shrink a little inside. It’s easy to see why any man would be attracted to her.
Even more devastating is realizing that compared to this woman’s poise and charisma, my performance on the red carpet was amateurish and embarrassing. I didn’t give this dress—or my name—the debut I’ve dreamed about.
I bite the inside of my cheek and blink against the burn of tears as Chord turns abruptly and drags me through the doors.
The gala is being held in a gorgeous ballroom complete with crystal chandeliers, velvet-draped high-top tables, stern-faced servers with champagne flutes and canapes on trays, and a complete jazz ensemble playing on the low stage.
Insecurity twists in my stomach as we fly toward the bar, me hanging onto Chord’s hand and lengthening my stride to keep up with the way he weaves between people and tables. He barks an order for a whiskey neat and a glass of white wine for me, then scowls as we wait for the server to pour the drinks.
“Is this about Spencer Cook?” I ask quietly as Chord picks up his tumbler. “Or…” My voice drops along with my self-esteem. “Or is this about Emma?”
He looks at me with surprise, then sets his drink untouched on the bar. “What?”
I look down at my dress with a hint of regret and a meek laugh that I hope will protect me from humiliation, if not pain. “You’re acting a little jealous, and… I mean… Do you still have feelings for her?”
Chord slides his warm hand around my neck and leans in, eyes burning into mine. “This is not about her. It’ll never be about her. Ever. I’m sorry I made you think that for a single second. You are the only woman in my head—tonight and tomorrow and always—and being here with you tonight is the biggest thrill of my life. You’re talented. You’re beautiful. You’re a thousand—a million—times the woman she’ll ever be. And I don’t love her. I—” Chord clears his throat and blinks a few times. “Please tell me you believe me.”
I nod, not because his voice is so fierce and the words sound so true. I nod because I think he was about to tell me he loved me.
Chord exhales with a shake of his head and presses his thumb and forefinger against his eyes for a moment. When he’s calmer, he moves his hand to my shoulder, skims down my arm, and stops when his fingers twist in mine. “But I am pissed off that Cook is here. What idiot thought it was a good idea to send him an invitation?” He looks around like the culprit might be loitering nearby. “How many players from other teams are here tonight?”
I glance around. “I don’t know. There might be a few. Could it be a coincidence?”
“No. I’ve got good instincts about stuff like this.” He looks over my head and scans the people mingling around the ballroom. “Cook’s presence here tonight is intentional.”
“Do you want to leave?” I ask.
“What? No.” Chord closes his eyes, drops his head back, and takes a big breath. “I keep fucking this up. I’m sorry. I don’t want to leave. I want to stay and show you off. There’ll be time to figure out why Cook’s here later, but right now is all about you.”
A little of that lost magic sparks its way up my spine, and Chord’s lips twitch at the spots of color I’m sure he sees in my cheeks. He collects his drink, sets the other hand to the small of my back, and just when we step out into the crowd, Chord drops his hand below my waist, brushing the curve of my ass and gliding his fingers along the crease of one cheek before he gives me a little love tap. I shouldn’t love it as much as I do, but my pulse leaps at his casually intimate touch.
“Okay, Wallflower,” he says. “Let’s go get ’em.”
Forty-five minutes and two champagnes later, I can almost believe that Chord has forgotten Spencer Cook exists. We avoid him completely as we circle the impressive ballroom, stopping every few feet so Chord can make hockey small talk with the Fury’s corporate sponsors, high-paying guests, and various representatives of the Foundation’s youth charity beneficiaries.
Chord holds my hand the entire time, introduces me by name to every person we meet, and agrees with the kind of pride that makes me want to take off my underwear that, yes, the dress is stunning, and yes, the spectacular woman on his arm designed it herself.
It’s the first time in my life I don’t feel the impulse to run from the spotlight.
As we extract ourselves from yet another uncomfortable analysis of the Fury’s chances at the Cup this season, Coach Campbell approaches and shakes Chord’s hand.
“I was just coming over to save you,” he says with a glance behind us. “Martin giving you a hard time?”
“I can handle it,” Chord says with a grunt. “And he’ll be eating his words come the playoffs.”
“I’ll look forward to that.” Coach grins, and then turns to me. “You’re the belle of the ball tonight, Violet. Everyone’s talking about the beautiful woman in that dress .”
Chord watches me with obvious satisfaction as heat paints my cheekbones. “Thank you, Coach. I’m having a wonderful time. And you’re looking dapper in your tux tonight.”
He chuckles and shakes his head. “You’re kind for saying so, but it’s been a long time since I looked good in a penguin suit.”
“Not true,” I insist. “You wear it very well.”
An awkward silence falls. The muscles in Chord’s jaw start firing and his thumb rubs anxious circles over the back of my hand, but it takes me a moment to work out what’s going on. Chord wants to ask Coach why Spencer Cook is here, but he won’t do it after promising that tonight is all about me.
I hate to see him upset, and I’m curious about the answer, too, so I gently extract my hand from Chord’s and take a small step sideways. “I think it’s time for me to freshen up, so if you’ll excuse me?”
“I’ll walk with you,” Chord offers, but I set a hand on his arm.
“You stay and chat. I won’t be long.”
My relative comfort in tonight’s spotlight aside, I still skirt the edge of the room to get to the bathroom on the other side, then linger longer than necessary to give Chord plenty of time to discuss his concerns with his coach. I use the facilities, then reapply my lipstick, smooth my hair, and check over my dress.
I step out of the bathroom and into the adjoining lounge, styled as a little alcove with floor-to-ceiling mirrors and deep armchairs where guests can make a call or catch their breath.
I’m all alone for the first time since I stepped into my dress, so I risk a little spin to make the skirt fan out. This dress was designed to twirl, and I grin when I see the pretty way the teal fabric flares and falls in a mirror, then clutch the back of the nearest armchair when my head spins. After three glasses of wine in barely an hour, it might be a good idea to sit.
Before I get the chance, a pointed cough grabs my attention, and I jerk my head toward the door. My heart flies when I see Emma, wrapped up in her red dress with a thigh-high split showing off her long legs.
I stand as straight as I can and clutch my purse to my chest like it’s some kind of shield. “Hello.”
“Mm.” Her eyes sweep down my dress and up again. “You’re here with Chord?”
A bitter feeling of not-good-enough aches in my throat. “I am.”
“Good for you. He’s not one for big events, you know.”
I curl my fingertips against my little clutch and concentrate on the texture of the fabric to calm me. “I know.”
“He’ll want to leave soon if he isn’t gone already.”
I know she’s trying to upset me, and I know Chord would never leave me here alone, but the mean girl behavior makes it hard to think, and all I can do is blink at her.
She sashays over, stops a foot away, and raises an eyebrow. “Excuse me. I’d like to use the mirror and you’re blocking it.”
I tighten my grip on my purse. Don’t apologize. Don’t apologize. Don’t give this woman the satisfaction.
But my legs won’t move. We’re locked in an uncomfortable stare. It’s too quiet for too long, and I’ve had enough wine that the words slip out. “I’m sorry.”
She gives me a tight smile as I step aside, then passes me and leans in to check her makeup in the mirror.
Her eyes flicker my way, and I realize I’m staring at her. I need to leave, so I turn toward the door, but she speaks again.
“Nice dress.” I glance down at it as if I don’t know what she’s talking about, and she adds, “Off the rack?”
My cheeks burn. “No. It’s—”
“I only wear runway to these things.” She smooths a hand over one hip, still absorbed in her reflection. “Chord likes it that way. He has good taste, you know? Never settles for anything less than the best—or never settles for long anyway.”
Her mouth twitches to make her inference that I’m not the best clear, and my face flames hotter. Is it possible I’ve already forgotten how awful people can be outside of Silver Leaf and Aster Springs? I want to be away from here, curled up in Chord’s arms and Chord’s bed, pretending that the world outside the two of us doesn’t exist.
I take another step away from Emma.
“I’m so glad Spencer and I were able to be here tonight. It’s for his father, of course. You know he was a San Francisco Fury legend, don’t you? Your marketing team practically begged us to be here.” Her green eyes glint in the overhead lighting as she looks at me in the mirror. “Spencer is the best and most sought-after player in the NHL right now. Much stronger and more competitive than Chord, who’s barely able to earn his keep. From what I’ve been told, the Fury bosses think Spence would make an excellent addition to the team.”
My chin jerks up, and when my eyes widen with indignation, her mouth grows smug.
Outrage pulses through me. “That’s a lie.”
“Excuse me?” She turns and moves closer, and her voice walks the edge of civility. “I know all about you, Violet James . Junior marketing executive, temporary personal assistant, failed fashion designer. You might think you’ve got the upper hand now that you’re sleeping with Chord Davenport, but men like him don’t stay with women like you for long. The summer will end, and so will this little fling. You’ll be nobody again. And Chord? Well, it won’t be long until he’s washed up right alongside you. Replaced with someone better and hotter than he ever was.”
I’ve never been brave enough to stand up for myself, no matter how I’ve been belittled and tormented and ignored over the years, but Emma just crossed a line I don’t remember drawing. She’s saying cruel things about the man I love with the sole purpose of causing hurt and pain, and I won’t stand for it.
I blame the alcohol for what I say next.