Chapter 9
nine
. . .
Violet
All these years, I told myself I wasn’t wild or bold enough for him. I spent so long convincing myself that whatever I felt for him wasn’t real, that I was just some girl with a crush who’d never stand a chance.
I recall a memory from one Saturday night in high school when I was on the tailgate of his truck after that bonfire in October.
My clothes smelled like smoke, and my cheeks were sore from laughing.
It was one of those perfect nights, until it wasn’t.
He stood in front of me, looking at me with that crooked smirk of his, that lazy charm that made me believe, even for just a second, that maybe I was more than just the girl in the background of his life.
But then he glanced over his shoulder, saw some other girl waving at him from the firepit, and told me he’d be right back.
I waited. I sat there, my toes going numb, the fire burning down to embers, and someone else had to offer me a ride home.
The memory aches, but it’s different now.
Because I remember that when he told me he’d be right back, his face had that crooked half smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
His jaw was tight, his shoulders a little too stiff.
I didn’t know it then, but he was already trying to push me away, trying to protect me, even if that protection came wrapped in naivety.
Now his hand is wrapped around mine, and I don’t know what to do with that.
I don’t know how to reconcile the boy who walked away with the man who’s holding on.
I should remind myself that one soft touch doesn’t erase the years he spent pretending I didn’t exist. That the simple press of his thumb against my wrist doesn’t undo all the times he looked right through me when I needed him to see me the most.
But I can’t seem to make my hand let go, because somewhere in this ridiculous, aching body of mine, I’m still that girl on the tailgate, hoping he’ll choose me.
He clears his throat, and when I lift my gaze, his eyes are fixed on me, unblinking, tracing the lines of my face. “Tell me something about you I don’t know.”
My gaze drops back to where his hand is wrapped around mine, his calloused fingers warm against my skin.
Goodness…his hands. They look like they’ve done things. Built things. Broken some things too, probably.
I swallow, trying to force the flutter in my chest to settle. “Okay,” I murmur. “Something you don’t know.”
My mind scrambles for something light, something that won’t make my heart race even faster than it already is.
“I, uh, worked part-time at this little campus bakery during college that might as well have paid me in crumbs and sore feet. They let me take home broken pastries at the end of the day, though. I swear I survived three years of college on day-old croissants and stale cinnamon rolls.”
“That sounds exactly like you,” he says, eyes crinkling at the corners when he smiles.
I grin, but it falters when I meet his gaze again. He’s looking at me like I’m telling him something sacred. Like he’s hungry for all the little pieces he missed.
“Three years of frosting-stained aprons and 4 a.m. wakeups,” I add, more to fill the silence than anything else. “My car always smelled like burnt espresso and cinnamon. And I had this habit of naming all the broken cookies before I ate them.”
He tilts his head, the way he does when something piques his interest. “You named them?”
“Well, yeah,” I say with a shrug. “If I was gonna eat them, it felt rude not to.”
He lets out a laugh, a real one. “You’re kind of killing me right now, you know that?”
I blink. “What?”
“You’re sitting here telling me about naming cookies like it’s no big deal, and all I can think about is how much I missed this. Missed you. I don’t want to miss another damn thing.”
My breath hitches, caught somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
I don’t know what to do with this version of Rowan.
He’s never been shy about speaking his mind.
He’d tell off teachers, call out his friends when they were being idiots, say exactly what he thought about anything and everything.
But this—this raw honesty about what he feels for me—is new territory.
Foreign and terrifying and impossibly sweet.
“Well then,” I say, trying to stay upbeat, “you’ll also love this. I had a secret weakness for those trashy romance novels. You know, the ones with the shirtless cowboys on the cover?” I laugh, a little embarrassed. “My roommate, Whitley, caught me once and never let me live it down.”
His brows lift, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Really now? Sweet Violet Larkin, closet romance junkie.”
“What can I say? A girl’s gotta have her guilty pleasures.” I shrug. “Especially when real life is distinctly lacking in shirtless cowboys.”
“Hey, give me a minute. I could probably make that happen.”
I snort out a laugh, but my brain’s already running wild. Rowan, shirtless, standing right here, jeans hanging low, cowboy hat tipped just enough to be dangerous. I know there are a few abs hiding under that T-shirt...probably more than a few. I swallow hard, willing the image to die a quick death.
“Please don’t. I don’t think this diner is ready for that kind of show.”
Except the image is already burned into my brain with cinematic clarity. My brain is having an entire unapproved field day.
God help me.
I squeeze my eyes shut for half a second, willing the heat in my cheeks to settle, but it’s no use. This is what he does. He slips under my skin without even trying—just a simple grin and a few teasing words, and suddenly, I’m a mess.
I open my eyes and glance at him again, and of course, he’s looking at me like he knows.
I clear my throat, dragging myself out of the haze, and slowly pull my hand back to grab a fry. Safe. Predictable. Grease, salt, and starch. There’s no room for fantasies there.
“What about you? How’s your dad?”
“Haven’t talked to him in years,” he says. “My old neighbor sends me updates sometimes. Last I heard, he was still alive.” His mouth twists. “Honestly? I’m a little surprised.”
I wince. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”
Rowan shrugs in response. “It’s okay. I used to try. Thought maybe if I was better, he might want to be, too.”
He pauses, jaw tightening just a little. “But people don’t change just because you want them to. He made his choice. So I made mine.”
I nod. “I get that. So where did you disappear to when you left?”
He leans back in the booth, one arm casually draped across the back. “I joined the Marines.”
My pulse jumps, and I let the silence hold while he works through whatever he’s deciding to give me. I thought it would be easier to pretend we were just two people getting to know each other, but he’s right. We’ve skipped the small talk.
“Did my time,” he finally continues. “Two tours. Sand, sweat, not a lot of sleep.” He huffs a dry little laugh, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “It straightens you out quick.”
I tilt my head, watching him. “What was it like?”
His fingers drum against the back of the booth once.
Twice. Then still. His gaze lifts to the ceiling for a second, as if he’s looking for the right words.
“Hot. Loud. Boring until it wasn’t,” he says finally.
“The kind of place where you learn to sleep with one eye open and laugh at stuff that’d make most people puke. ”
He pauses, like he’s checking to see if I’ll flinch. I don’t.
“And what about when you came back?”
He sits up a little straighter. “Loud in a different way. Couldn’t stand crowds for a while. Couldn’t stand quiet, either.”
My heart hurts for him. I wish I would have known this. All of it. I think about all the nights I spent waiting for him to come back, how I’d map out what I’d say if I ever saw him again. Now here he is, sitting across from me, telling me things that would’ve changed everything, if only I’d known.
“Did you have anyone?” I ask quietly. “When you got back?”
His gaze drops to the table, and for a moment, I think he might brush it off. Then he answers, his voice low and rough. “No. Not really. Stayed with some buddies from the unit for a while, then with my cousin. Moved around a lot. Didn’t put down roots.”
“I wish you’d reached out…even just once.”
His eyes meet mine, something raw flickering in them. “I almost did. More times than I can count.”
“Why didn’t you?” I press, even though I already know the answer.
“Because I was afraid,” he admits, and the honesty in his voice catches me off guard. “I was afraid that if I started talking to you again, I wouldn’t be able to stay away. And I wasn’t ready to come back.”
“And now you are?”
He nods slowly, his gaze steady on mine. “Now I am.”
There’s no doubt in my mind that I still love him.
Not the fantasy version I built up in college when I was lonely and stupid, but this version of him—the one I’ve always known underneath it all.
Scarred, sincere, and flawed. The part of him that’s never changed, the part I saw on that tailgate, in those quiet glances, in every reckless laugh that hid something bigger.
That’s the part I love, the part that has always been inside him, even when he hurt me.
Still, a little voice in the back of my mind whispers to guard my heart, to ask more questions, to make him prove that he means what he says. Even if that reckless part of me wants to lean across the table and finally see what his lips might feel like on mine.
I grab my milkshake, hoping the cold will chase away the warmth spreading across my cheeks.
I take a long sip, letting the ice cream smooth over the heat in my body, then clear my throat, forcing the words out in a way that’s far too casual for what I’m feeling.
“So,” I say, voice almost too light, “you’re back for good? ”
He nods. “I bought a place just outside of Lily Ridge.”