Chapter 12
twelve
. . .
Violet
Afew days after I saw Rowan, he called and asked if I wanted to stop by his place after work. Said he was going to be working outside for a bit and could use the company. No pressure.
So here I am, idling at the edge of his gravel driveway, the air carrying a bite that winter hasn’t quite let go of while spring tries to force its way in. When he said he bought a place outside of town, I wasn’t expecting this.
The farmhouse is straight out of some daydream I didn’t know I had, with white clapboard siding and wooden shutters.
A wide porch runs along the front, and beyond the house sits a red barn against a view of soft hills and a low-sinking sun.
Golden light stretches across the fields, catching between the fence rails, throwing long shadows across the grass.
It’s so peaceful out here. Wide open.
Movement flickers at the corner of my eye, pulling me back to the present.
Rowan rounds the side of the house, that dog he brought to the clinic the other day trotting at his heels.
He’s a sight to behold in a faded T-shirt that clings to his broad shoulders, worn jeans slung low on his hips, one knee torn wide open, and heavy work boots caked in mud. His hair’s a mess, all rumpled and wild, just like it looked at the diner the other night.
The dog spots my car first, ears pricking high before she launches herself into a full sprint. Rowan’s head lifts, and even from a distance, I catch the slow, easy smile that hits him.
I blow out a shaky breath and kill the engine. My heart stutters somewhere between my ribs and my throat as I step out. The sweet black dog is already there, circling my legs, tail wagging.
“Careful, Bramble,” Rowan calls, his voice wrapped in laughter.
I glance down at the dog, grinning, before shooting him a look across the drive. “You kept her?”
He shrugs, but there’s no hiding the way his eyes soften as he watches her sniff at my jeans. “Didn’t really have a choice,” he says, mouth twitching like he’s trying not to smile wider. “She made herself at home.”
I crouch, fingers sinking into Bramble’s scruffy fur, and something warm blooms slow and sure in my chest.
This. This is everything I ever wanted for him. Not just a house, but something solid and safe and entirely his.
Pushing to my feet, I turn a slow circle, letting my eyes sweep across the rolling fields and the fences that stretch out before us. The sky overhead is a bruised shade of blue, the last scraps of daylight bleeding along the horizon.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, meeting his gaze. “I mean it. It suits you.”
He lets out a low chuckle. “Not bad for a kid from the trailer park.”
Something in me bristles. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Talk about where you came from like it’s some stain you can’t scrub out. You worked for this, Rowan.”
For a second, he just watches me, the last threads of sunlight catching in his blue eyes, making them look almost too clear. “I appreciate that.”
“It’s just the truth,” I say. I mean it.
He breathes out slowly, then glances away, squinting out toward the barn like maybe there’s something written out there in the fields he can read better than what’s sitting right here between us.
“Been a long road,” he says eventually. “Still doesn’t always feel real. I keep waiting for someone to show up, wave some papers in my face, and tell me I screwed up the paperwork… That none of this is actually mine.”
“You didn’t screw up, you goof,” I tell him, my voice gentling like it would for a spooked horse or a boy who never really learned how to believe good things could stay. “You earned it, Rowan. Every bit of it.”
He turns back to me then, and there’s something raw in the way he looks at me—like I’m offering him a kind of mercy he doesn’t know what to do with. “You always say things like that.”
I give him a soft smile, teasing just enough to lighten the mood. “Well, don’t let it go to your head.”
He chuckles under his breath, a sound that hums low in my chest, while Bramble flops onto the grass between us with a heavy, satisfied sigh, tail thudding lazily against the ground.
I nudge the toe of his boot with the edge of my sneaker, tilting my head up to meet his gaze. “So,” I say, “what are you working on today? Or did you lure me out here just to emotionally disarm me with a golden hour and rescue dog?”
He grins. “You caught me. But since you’re here…” He tilts his head toward the barn. “You wanna help me sort through some of the stuff the previous owners left behind? A bunch of old furniture, some tools. I need to figure out what’s worth keeping and what’s firewood.”
“Sure,” I say.
He flashes me another grin and leads the way down the worn path. He braces a shoulder against the heavy barn door and slides it open.
“Sorry about the mess,” he says, stepping aside to let me in. “Haven’t had much time to sort through it all yet.”
The space is cavernous, filled with the musty scent of old wood and forgotten things.
Piles of furniture are stacked haphazardly—chairs with missing legs, a dresser with one drawer hanging crooked, an old brass bed frame leaning against the far wall.
Tools hang from pegs above a workbench, handles worn smooth from years of use.
“Wow,” I breathe. “Previous owners really just…left all this?”
“Yeah,” he says, sounding equal parts amused and overwhelmed. “Said they didn’t want to haul it. Told me to keep what I wanted, trash what I didn’t.” He glances around with his hands on his hips. “I figured it might be fun to dig through it together.”
I wander over to a wooden rocking chair tucked in the corner, running my fingers along the curved arm. The wood is smooth, worn in all the right places from years of someone else’s touch. It would be a shame to get rid of.
“This could be beautiful with a little work,” I say, tracing the delicate spindles along the back. “Just needs some sanding and refinishing.”
Rowan moves closer, his shoulder brushing mine as he examines it. “You think it’s worth saving?”
“Definitely.”
His expression softens, and I wonder if he can hear what I’m really saying. That broken things deserve second chances. That what’s weathered isn’t necessarily worthless.
“Well, if you think it’s worth saving, that’s good enough for me.” He shifts on his feet, then clears his throat before gesturing to the workbench. “I’m gonna start over there.”
He starts picking through the cluttered mess while I dig into the boxes, the air filling with the creak of old wood and the occasional clink of metal.
We don’t talk much, but we don’t need to.
It’s all little things, like the way he catches the corner of a box before it topples or when he hands me a rag as I’m brushing dust off my jeans without asking.
We move around each other like we’ve done it a hundred times before, because we have. This is the kind of coordination that can’t be taught. It’s just there.
I’m reaching into a half-collapsed box, and what I find causes me to burst out laughing.
“Oh my god,” I say, holding up a weathered wooden sign with chipped paint and faded red letters. “This says, ‘No Trespassing. Violators Will Be Used As Target Practice.’ You think they were serious?”
Rowan glances over from where he’s bent over a drawer of rusted nails and crooked hinges.
The corners of his mouth curve into a slow, easy smile that does dangerous things to my insides.
“Considering the bucket of shotgun shells I found earlier?” he says, pushing a hand through his messy hair. “Yeah, I’d say they weren’t kidding.”
I shake my head as I prop the sign against an old trunk. “Remind me not to wander onto your property uninvited.”
He straightens up, wipes his hands on the thighs of his jeans, and looks at me across the dusty space.
“You’re always welcome here,” he says. “Day or night.”
My breath catches, stupidly, embarrassingly, and I’m suddenly very interested in the next box.
“Look at this,” Rowan says, peeling back the tarp to reveal an old record player. It’s solid, made from real wood.
I drift closer. “Think it works?”
“Only one way to find out. I saw a crate of records over there.” He nods toward a box half buried under old tarps and broken chair legs. “Grab one?”
I dig through it, flipping past crumbling covers and cracked vinyl until one catches my eye. “Patsy Cline,” I read, holding it up for him to see.
He grins. “Perfect.”
We clear a spot on a battered table. Rowan sets the record player down carefully, turning it so the side faces him. There’s a small metal crank tucked against the wood.
“Okay,” he says, examining it. “This might take a minute.”
He tests the crank once. It resists, then loosens with a faint click. Rowan nods to himself and starts turning it, slow and steady.
“There you go.” He lowers the needle with a delicate touch, and after a moment of crackling static, Patsy’s voice fills the barn.
He crosses his arms over his broad chest. “Told you she still had life in her.”
The music fills every dusty corner, Patsy crooning about lost love and broken promises. For a while, we just stand there.
Rowan shifts first. He moves toward me with unhurried confidence that makes my knees threaten to give out, and even though he doesn’t reach for me, his nearness is a touch all on its own.
“I used to picture this,” he says, barely above a whisper.
I swallow hard, my heart thundering against the fragile walls of my chest.
The song fades out, leaving nothing but the soft hiss of the needle and the awareness of him standing there, looking at me like maybe he’s pictured more than just this.
He rubs the back of his neck. Watching this huge, tattooed man, who’s survived every rough edge life ever threw at him, stand there in a moment of pure vulnerability just about wrecks me.
“I should’ve danced with you back then,” he says, his gaze skimming past mine as if he’s afraid of what he might find if he looks too long. “All those times I wanted to and didn’t.”
“I thought I’d screw it up,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Thought you were too good, and I was too…me.”