Chapter 20
twenty
. . .
Violet
By the following Friday night, I’m still not over that kiss. Not even close.
Which makes it very difficult to walk into this bar to introduce Rowan to Whitley for the first time…while pretending I don’t want to drag him somewhere private and do it again.
The place is packed, loud enough to blur thought, with string lights overhead and a crowd that’s already half tipsy. Somewhere in the back, someone’s butchering a Fleetwood Mac song on karaoke.
Rowan’s already at a booth when we walk in.
My eyes drift to his black T-shirt and the way it clings across his shoulders, the inked patterns on his forearms clearly visible.
His beer sits untouched, and for a second, I forget to breathe, caught on the easy tilt of his head and the way his gaze immediately finds me.
Whitley straightens beside me, predator-level awareness kicking in.
“Okaaay,” she drawls, giving him a slow, assessing once-over. “He’s hot. Offensively so.”
“Behave,” I warn under my breath
“Holy tattoos,” she breathes. “You mean to tell me my sweet little Violet lets a man who looks like that touch her?”
I elbow her, cheeks heating. “Stop it.”
“Touch her emotionally, I meant,” she deadpans. “Obviously. I’m a lady.”
Rowan starts walking toward us, and Whitley’s grin only widens.
“Is it weird that part of me wants to see him throw a chair through a window?” she mutters. “Just to really commit to the aesthetic.”
“Oh my god, please don’t say anything.”
“Too late. I’m already in character.”
“Whitley—”
Rowan stops in front of us, tall and calm and unfairly good at looking like the human embodiment of a motorcycle. His gaze finds mine first before shifting to my roommate and friend.
“You must be Whitley,” he says, offering his hand.
“Oh, I’m exactly who you’ve heard about,” she says, taking it like she’s accepting an award. “Violet’s ride or die. And currently deciding whether or not to trust you.”
He smiles, more amused than rattled. “Fair.”
She hums, narrowing her eyes. “Do you own any shirts with long sleeves?”
“No,” he says, dead serious.
“Totally valid.”
He chuckles and glances at me with a silent is she always like this?
I just shrug in response because, yes. Yes, she is.
Before I can elaborate, a hulking figure with a permanent scowl materializes beside Rowan, beer in hand.
“And this,” Whitley says brightly, “must be Beau.”
Beau looks at Whitley, then at Rowan. Takes a sip of his beer.
“Unfortunately.”
Whitley claps her hands. “This is so much better than I hoped.”
Beau stares at Whitley as if she’s the human equivalent of a migraine he didn’t ask for. She just beams at him.
Rowan gestures toward the booth, but Whitley’s already steering Beau that way, their dynamic instantly combusting into a competitive banter that’s less oil and water and more gasoline and a lit match. I watch as she slides in beside him.
“You wanna grab a drink before we sit?” Rowan asks.
“God, yes.”
“Should we…leave them unsupervised?”
I glance toward Whitley just in time to see her lean in and say something that has Beau’s eyes narrowing. “Probably not for long, honestly.”
Rowan chuckles beside me, and we head to the bar. We wait for our drinks, and the tattooed menace with the softest eyes I’ve ever seen watches me like I’m the only calm in a room full of chaos.
“You okay?” he asks.
I nod, heart kicking a little. “Yeah. It’s just…weird.”
“Seeing me in the wild?”
“No,” I say, smiling. “Feeling like this doesn’t have to be hard.”
He studies me for a beat, then leans closer. His voice is low, meant for me and no one else. “It doesn’t. Not anymore.”
The air stretches between us, warm and heady, and I want to bottle it.
“You’re staring,” I scold, cheeks warming.
“I’ve waited a long time to.” He grins. “But also, I think I just heard your best friend threaten Beau with a friendship bracelet.”
“God help him,” I whisper.
We make our way back to the booth with a round of drinks just in time to hear Whitley say, “Do you ever smile?”
“Not recreationally,” Beau replies.
I slide into the booth and open my mouth, maybe to smooth things over, but Beau’s gaze darts to me. His scowl softens ever so slightly.
“It’s good to see you again, Violet.”
I blink, surprised by the sudden shift in his tone. He’s still all steel and scowl, but something in his eyes tugs at my chest.
“You too,” I say.
“Oh, I like you already,” Whitley muses.
“I’m gonna need that drink,” Beau mutters, not even halfway through the one he’s holding.
“Same.” Whitley turns to him with a bright, unapologetic smile. “We can unpack your trust issues together.”
Rowan laughs, which draws Whitley’s attention instantly.
“So, Rowan,” she says. “What’s the deal with the tattoos? Are they decorations, or is there some deep, personal growth thing happening?”
Heat rises in my cheeks, and I glance at him. For a second, his face is unreadable. Then he shrugs.
“Personal growth? Nah. Mostly…bad decisions.”
Whitley snorts. “Give me one. Something I can hold over your head later.”
His lips twitch. “I’ve got a few,” he says, and then his gaze softens on me. “But some stories are better left untold.”
Then he leans in just a fraction, voice dropping so only I hear. “Maybe I’ll tell you one later. Just you, though.”
His words are soft, almost teasing, but his eyes say something entirely different, as if he’s holding onto more than he’s ready to say out loud.
I swallow hard, suddenly too aware of how close we are. He’s looking at me like he wants to tell me everything.
“I’d like that,” I whisper.
He nods, his gaze dropping to my lips, then climbing back up. His eyes linger, asking for permission, waiting to make sure I won’t flinch or pull away.
I don’t.
He closes the space between us and kisses me. His lips are warm and steady, and the press of his mouth against mine makes something deep in my chest ache in the best possible way.
“Oh, come on,” Whitley groans from across the table.
Rowan pulls back, smiling against my lips. “Sorry,” he says, not sounding even a little apologetic.
I laugh and bury my face in his shoulder for a second. “She lives for the drama, don’t let her fool you.”
Whitley lifts her drink in salute. “Live, laugh, judge my best friend’s life choices. It’s what I do.”
Beau mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like, “God help us,” but Rowan’s still watching me, his thumb brushing slow, easy circles against my hand under the table.
Somehow, even with Whitley’s commentary, Beau’s grumbling, and the chaos around us, the only thing I can focus on is where my fingers meet his.