35. Chord
thirty-five
Chord
13 DAYS TILL HOCKEY SEASON
I step out of the house and onto the front porch, too wired to stop for more than a moment to watch Violet all happy and content in her new favorite place—curled up on the Adirondack chair, sketching with her chunky headphones on, oblivious to the world.
I move closer and tap her headphones, and she pulls them off with an adorable smile.
“Can I help you?” she teases.
“You can. I need you to get dressed for a trip to San Francisco. I’ve got a surprise for you.”
Cute spots of color spring up in her cheeks. “What kind of surprise?”
I grin and shake my head. “Not a very good one if I give you any sort of hint.”
I move her sketchbook to the table, pluck the pencil from her fingers and set it on top, then hold her headphones up to my ear. A bass-heavy but mellow rock song blasts my eardrum, and I spare Violet a confused smile as I set them on top of her sketchbook.
“Tell me again why you listen to this while you’re designing?”
She shrugs and taps her phone to pause the playlist. “One of my teachers at college encouraged us to try classical music, but that never worked for me. I tried techno and boy bands and country, all different styles, but none of them worked like rock.” She cocks her head to one side. “It’s kind of like the music lures the thinking part of my brain into a loud, thumping mosh, which leaves the creative brain free to do its work.”
I gently pull Violet to her feet and loop her arms around my waist. I can’t resist her upturned mouth, and she smiles against my lips before I can coax her into a kiss.
“That makes no sense,” I tell her, and she laughs, which makes me feel fantastic.
“Is that what you came out here for? To tease me for my taste in music?”
“Nope.” I slip a finger under the hem of her tiny denim cutoffs and trace the crease of her ass cheek. “I’ve got a surprise for you, remember?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Good. You’ve got twenty minutes to get ready, and you can expect to be in the city for the rest of the day.”
She bites back a grin and dashes into the house. “I only need five.”
Less than an hour later, we cross the Golden Gate Bridge, and my heart starts pounding.
“Are you really not going to tell me where we’re going?” she asks for the hundredth time.
I feign an exasperated look when really, I love how excited she is. There’s no evidence of her usual anxiety or nerves, and there’s been less of that in general in the three weeks since the gala. I’m so happy my plan to coax her out of her comfort zone did exactly what I hoped it would. It got Violet to believe in herself as much as I do.
It made my pretty little wallflower bloom.
“No,” I reply. “But we’re nearly there.”
“Nearly where ?”
She huffs at my smirk and stares out the window as we cruise through San Francisco. I’ve memorized the route so I wouldn’t have to plug the address into the GPS, and we eventually reach a busy tree-lined street teeming with people moving in and out of antique shops, upscale cafes, indie boutiques, and high-end designer stores. I slow down a couple hundred or so paces from our final destination and pull to the curb.
Violet gasps. “Oh, my.”
I fight a grin, surprised but pleased that she’s worked it out already. But Violet’s not looking at the street, and I don’t even think she notices that I stopped the car. Her wide eyes are glued to her phone screen, and one hand covers her open mouth. My grin fades, and my stomach drops.
Ever since the gala, that phone of hers has been a blessing and a curse. Her social media exploded, and her follower count keeps climbing, but for every person who sends messages and makes comments about how talented and beautiful and worthy she is, there are others trying to drag her down. I know what that’s like. I know how thick-skinned a person has to be to deal with all the hate and maintain any type of confidence and self-esteem.
My Violet isn’t used to the attention, and I’ve already commissioned my PR firm to filter her messages and comments so she doesn’t have to deal with any of that shit.
I just want her to be happy, the way she deserves, but maybe something slipped through the cracks.
“What is it?” I ask. “What’s wrong?”
She turns those big, chestnut irises on me, then raises the screen so I can see it. It’s an article titled “Rising Designers You Need to Watch,” and directly underneath is a picture of Violet at the gala, standing on the red carpet in the dress she created, looking beautiful and radiant and a million other types of perfect I don’t have words for.
And it makes the gift I have to give her today even better.
“They’ve pulled my sketches from my social media accounts, and they’re calling my designs original, inspired, and exquisite.” She scrolls through the article, flicking up and down and back again with a shaky finger, then finds the line she’s looking for. “Violet James’s unusual use of bold lace, modern embroidery, textured fabrics and flowing lines is destined to take the world of bridal couture by storm.”
She lifts her gaze again, wonder and disbelief obvious in the way her eyelids flutter behind her glasses.
I slide my hand behind her neck and rub my thumb across her cheekbone. “You’re amazing, Wallflower. And now the whole world knows it.”
She shakes her head a little, and I can feel the flight of her pulse under my palm.
“Chord, I don’t know. It’s all happening so fast.”
And I can’t wait any longer.
“Can I give you your present now?”
That brings her back, and a look of guarded curiosity moves across her face. “A present? You said it was a surprise, not a present.”
“Can’t it be both?”
She bites her lip, the first hint of reticence today, and tucks her phone away. “You’ve done something over the top, haven’t you?”
The urge to grin is almost too much, but years of practice help me keep a straight face. “No. I don’t think so.”
I step out and open her door, then lead her up the street. Violet snuggles against my arm as she surveys the businesses.
“Can you imagine having a store here?” she asks dreamily. “Or a studio? Oh, look!” She points at a fashion boutique, drops my hand to hurry closer, then pauses out front to look at the designs on display in the tall glass window. “That dress is gorgeous.”
“Do you want to go in?”
She narrows her eyes. “Is that what this is? A shopping spree? That’s very sweet of you, but I really don’t—” She cuts off at my chuckle and crosses her arms over her chest. “What? What’s so funny?”
“We’re not here to buy you pretty things, though I like the sound of that so much we’ll come back to it soon.” I take her hand again, guide her another dozen steps up the street, and then gently spin her around to face her gift.
Before us is a narrow, white Victorian-style storefront with a simple, sophisticated sign above the black French doors that proclaims it the flagship venue for Violet James—Bridal Couture . And in the window, two dresses are displayed on modern, minimalist mannequins. The first is Violet’s blue dress from the gala. The other is just one version of the wedding dress she’s been re-designing for a decade.
Violet covers her sharp inhalation with two hands, and her eyes flood with tears.
“Chord! What did you do?”
“I bought you a studio.”
I don’t think she knows she’s shaking her head, but her reaction is cute as fuck. “But… but… how ?”
I paid a freaking fortune, pissed off a lot of contractors, and begged Victoria Hall for help to get it done so quickly, but I’m not going to tell Violet that.
“A designer who’s about to take the fashion world by storm needs a studio space, right?”
“Chord, I…” An overwhelmed sob escapes her throat, and she throws her arms around my neck and burrows her face into my shoulder. “I can’t believe you did this. Thank you.”
I wrap her up and hold her tight, closing my eyes and breathing her in.
I’ve never felt this kind of triumph before, not even holding the championship Cup. This pleasure and satisfaction that comes from taking care of someone I love. Using the money I’ve made to hand deliver a dream—and having her accept what I can give her because she knows I just want her to be happy. I’m flying so fucking high.
I blink away the sting in my eyes, kiss her hard and fast, and then let her go so we can both look up at the building. It’s the first time I’m seeing it outside of the photographs and emails sent to me by my interior designer.
“Do you like it?” I ask.
She squeezes my hand and glances at me, but it lasts only a moment because she’s only got eyes for her studio right now.
“Chord, I love it.”
I fish the key from my pocket and dangle it in front of her.
“You want to go inside?”
“Oh, my God.” She shakes as she accepts the keys. “This is really real.”
I step aside as Violet slides the key into the silver lock, and a rush of contentment swamps me at the sound of the mechanism clicking open. Violet gives me a questioning look, and at my nod, she pushes the door open and steps inside.
It smells like paint and building materials, but my designer has created an incredible space. The size is modest but sufficient, with high ceilings and pale wooden floors making it appear larger than it is. The vibe is rich, sophisticated, and understated, with white walls and dark-veined marble surfaces. Aside from the dresses in the window, the shop is empty, and Violet circles the room with reverent silence, passing a fitting area with two private changing spaces and a simple round dais before arriving at a set of closed double doors painted black to match the front.
She gives me a puzzled look, lips twitching with a smile. “What’s behind here?”
I shrug. “Open it.”
She does, and the head shaking and gasping starts all over again as I follow her into her new design studio.
There’s an oversized designer’s desk in the middle of the space, illuminated by the task lighting above and stocked with papers and pencils and everything a designer might need. There’s a small sofa and coffee table in one corner, a sewing station and dressmaker’s dummy in the other, and a surround sound system is installed for her music when she doesn’t want to listen with her headphones.
And every inch of the walls is covered with the gray felt-covered boards that used to be in her bedroom.
“I had my interior designer take care of this personally,” I assure Violet in a rush. “She took pictures of everything and confirmed they’re all exactly as they were in your room. And I spoke to your dad about it—to make sure I wasn’t overstepping. He helped with the move and insisted on installing everything here himself. Wouldn’t let anyone touch it and spent days working with the team to get everything just right. He wanted to be a part of this, too.”
Violet isn’t trying to hide her tears anymore. She moves to the closest board and runs her hands over a swatch of fabrics, then the lines of the sketch next to it. “Chord, this is too much.”
“It’s not,” I disagree with a lump in my throat. “It’s not too much. It’s nowhere near enough.” I move closer, take her shoulders, and turn her to face me. Her red-rimmed eyes shine with joy and disbelief, and my heart takes off like a bolting horse.
“Violet, I love you. I want to build a life with you and make all your dreams come true. This is it. This is—”
Violet’s phone rings suddenly and loudly, making us both jump. She gives me a watery chuckle and slides it out of her pocket, checking the screen and rejecting the call when she doesn’t recognize the number.
I coast my palms over her arms and lick my lips, the interruption to my speech making me suddenly nervous. The studio is only the first surprise I have for her today, and even though the studio reveal has gone well, the next gift is bigger. For her. For me. For us.
“There’s no reason why we need to rush out of here, but there is one more thing I—”
Violet’s phone rings again, and she drags it out and checks the screen.
“It’s the same number.” She grimaces apologetically. “Maybe I should answer in case it’s important?”
“Sure.” I take a step back and don’t let my impatience show. “No problem.”
She flashes me a quick smile, then holds the phone to her ear. “Hello? Yes, this is Violet James.”
I watch to see if I can work out who’s on the other end of the line, but any hope that this will be quick fades as Violet bows her head and frowns with concentration.
“Yes, I’m—” Something catches in her voice, and she clears her throat. “Yes, I’m familiar with his work.”
She sounds anxious, and it makes me stand taller.
“Okay,” she says. “All right. No, that’s… That’s wonderful. I’m… Well, I’m a little lost for words.”
Another pause.
“My email address? Of course.”
Violet recites her contact information, then offers her thanks to whoever is on the phone. She ends the call, her face a little pale and her expression stunned as she stares at the blank screen.
Foreboding sits like a pit in my gut. “Is something wrong?”
She rubs her mouth and shakes her head. “Um, no. Not exactly. That was an assistant for Leonardo Bellucci.”
My brows shoot up. “The fashion designer?”
She laughs lightly like she can’t believe it either. “Yes, the fashion designer. He— They—” Violet regards me with bright, almost frightened eyes. “Someone on their design team saw the article this morning. They love the dress I designed for the gala, and they want to snap me up before anyone else gets a chance. I can’t believe it. They’ve offered me a job .”
Blood roars in my ears. This studio suddenly feels too small, and my voice sounds distant when I say, “A job? That’s… I mean, that’s fantastic. You have to take it.”
Violet blinks up at me before she gives her whole body a shake and tucks her phone into her back pocket. “No, I don’t.”
“You do.” I grip her upper arms, and when she refuses to look at me, I tip up her chin until she meets my gaze. “This studio is yours, no matter if you’re here all week or just the weekend or once a month or twice a year. And hey, why do you have to choose? Maybe you can do both. Maybe you can—”
“The job is in Milan.”
Every inch of me runs cold, freezing my breath and stopping my heart. I’ve been skating so fast and so blindly toward a completely different goal that for one of the very few times in my life, I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to do.
“It’s a three-year contract,” she adds with her fingers twisting in and out of each other between us. “I’d be on the design team. It would be—”
“Your dream,” I finish.
“Yeah.” Her face falls, and she glances around the studio I made for her like she can’t remember how she got here. “No. I mean, maybe once upon a time, but things are different now. I’ve got you, and I’ve got… this .”
She catches her bottom lip between her teeth, and I swallow my hurt. This is my fault. I put her out in the spotlight because I wanted so badly for the world to see her the way I do. Talented. Beautiful. Humble. Worthy. It shouldn’t hurt this bad that everyone did what I wanted them to do. I can’t get selfish about sharing her now.
“Violet.” I squeeze her arms to get her full attention. “You’ve worked so hard for this. If Milan and Leonardo Bellucci are what you want, then you have to go.”
I think of the second set of keys burning a hole in my back pocket—the ones that will unlock the apartment I bought for us. It’s the property Violet liked the day we came to view it—the one with the cream-colored walls and wood-burning fireplace, the vintage finishes and natural light and the view over the park.
My throat feels tight, and I blink to erase the pictures of us I’d been dreaming about these last few weeks. We’d live together in the city while I took the Fury to the championships, and she established herself as a designer. We’d spend the next two years getting to know each other. Live big. Laugh. Have fun. Fall harder and deeper in love every day. Then we’d pack it all up and move to the ranch. I’d build her a studio, or she could commute to this one if she wanted to. We’d get married. We’d have a bunch of kids who would play hockey and make art and collect eggs from our chicken coop. Daisy would teach them how to ride. We’d have the kind of quiet, forever love that Mom and Dad had, and I wouldn’t have to fight the world anymore.
We could just… be happy.
It’s still possible, I tell myself. Violet isn’t gone yet, and she wouldn’t be gone forever. This doesn’t have to change things—it would only delay them—but three years is a long time to be apart. To live separate lives. To chase different dreams. Three years could change everything. I’d miss her too much.
Violet’s focus turns inward, and I hold my breath as she shares the thoughts that pass across her face.
“No.” Her voice is firm, and her mouth flat as she shakes her head. “This is what I want. You are what I want. Plus, I have to think practically. I can’t leave my father. He’d be all alone, and after what happened this summer with me only an hour away?” She shakes her head again. “I can’t risk moving halfway across the world. It would be too much.”
Violet throws out her obligation to her dad like it’s an insurmountable obstacle when it’s not. Still, I reach for it like a drowning man clamoring at a lifeline. Relief burns the back of my throat as I realize I can keep her here without having to be the selfish prick who begs her to choose me over her dreams.
I don’t want to be the reason she turns her back on this opportunity, but I don’t want her to go. She is my happily ever after, and I’m not wired to let that go without a fight.
“If you’re worried about your dad, you shouldn’t go,” I agree, drawing her to me. She slips her arms around my waist, and I hold her tight even as I swallow a thick lump of shame. “Stay right here in California, Wallflower.” Stay right here with me.