Chapter 33
thirty-three
. . .
Violet
September hardly ever brings us any relief.
The heat today is clingy and grossly thick, turning Rowan’s white T-shirt nearly transparent by the time he hauls the fifth box from the bed of his truck.
I stand by the porch, one hand on my hip, the other shielding my eyes from the sun, not even bothering to pretend I’m not staring.
“He’s one more trip away from a hernia,” Whitley mutters beside me, sipping her iced latte like she’s poolside instead of standing in the middle of a gravel driveway in Kentucky. “All while making manual labor look insanely attractive.”
“Don’t encourage him,” I whisper back, biting down on a smile.
She shoots me a knowing look as Rowan passes us with another box labeled Kitchen-ish? in my handwriting, his arms flexing under the weight. “What are you two whisperin’ about?”
“Just commenting on the unexpected show,” Whitley says. She takes another sip of her latte before adding, “If you’re planning on getting that shirt any wetter, you might as well just take it off.”
Rowan stumbles on the porch step, his ears turning a shade of red I’ve rarely seen on him. I snort.
“Just being honest.” She shrugs, completely unapologetic.
Rowan clears his throat. “I’ll, uh, keep that in mind.”
“Please do,” Whitley says with a wink. “Though I should warn you, if you actually do take that shirt off, Violet might not let you finish unloading. And I’m not hauling the rest of these boxes by myself.”
Rowan laughs, reaching the bottom of the steps again. “I appreciate the concern for my modesty. I promise to keep all clothes intact until the job’s done.”
“Spoilsport,” Whitley mutters, but she’s grinning as she sets her drink down. “Alright. Point me toward the lightest boxes.”
Just as Whitley moves to step off the porch, the rumble of an engine cuts through the air. We all turn to see a sleek, midnight blue 1969 Mustang kicking up dust as it rolls down the driveway.
“Well, well, well,” Whitley muses, suddenly straightening her posture.
Beau pulls the classic car to a stop beside Rowan’s truck, the engine purring before he cuts it off. He steps out, aviators glinting in the sunlight, T-shirt stretched across his broad shoulders.
“Thought you might need a hand,” he says to Rowan.
“Perfect timing,” Rowan tells him. “I was starting to think my back might give out.”
“That’s because you’re stubborn,” I say, crossing my arms. “I told you we could hire movers.”
“Waste of money,” Rowan and Beau say in unison, then exchange a look that makes me roll my eyes.
Whitley pushes off the porch railing, sauntering over to where Beau stands. “Nice car,” she says, running her fingers along the Mustang’s gleaming hood.
Beau’s eyes follow her. “Thanks.”
“You restore it yourself?” She circles the vehicle, inspecting it from every angle.
“I did.”
Whitley’s gaze lifts over the roof of the Mustang, straight to his. “Impressive,” she says. “So you are good with your hands, huh?”
I stifle a laugh as Rowan catches my eye.
“Go save him,” I whisper.
Rowan chuckles before making his way over, clapping his friend on the shoulder. “Come on, man. Let’s get the heavy stuff out of the way before it gets any hotter.”
The men head toward the truck as Whitley comes back to my side.
“What?” she asks when she catches me staring at her.
“You’re shameless.”
She flips her hair over her shoulder. “Life’s too short not to be. Besides, have you seen the way his arms fill out that shirt? It would be a crime not to appreciate it.”
I smirk. “Just try not to scare him off before we get all the boxes inside, okay?”
“No promises,” she says with a wink.
By late afternoon, the last of my belongings have been hauled inside.
Boxes are stacked in nearly every room, creating a cardboard maze that Bramble seems to find endlessly fascinating.
Beau and Rowan sit on the porch steps, beers in hand, while Whitley and I attempt to bring some order to the kitchen.
“So,” Whitley says, her voice taking on that too-casual tone that immediately puts me on alert. “This is really happening. You happy?”
I pause, a plate suspended midway to the cabinet. “Yeah. I really am.”
She studies me for a moment before her usual smirk returns. “Good. Because if he hurts you, I’ll have to kill him, and he seems like the type who’d be hard to take down.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Your concern is noted. I’m going to miss living with you, though.”
“Please. You’ll be so busy playing house with Mr. Tall, Dark, and Tatted that you won’t even notice I’m gone.” She waves dismissively.
Before I can respond, the screen door creaks open, and the guys step inside. Rowan takes a look around at all the boxes. “I’m still not convinced you needed to bring seventeen throw pillows.”
I don’t have a chance to respond before I’m cut off by the buzz of his phone. He pulls it from his pocket, glancing at the screen.
“I need to take this,” he says.
My eyes follow him as he disappears onto the front porch, the screen door slamming shut behind him.
“What was that about?” Whitley asks, voicing the question hanging in the air.
I shrug, trying to keep my expression neutral. “Probably work.”
Beau doesn’t say anything, but his expression has shifted, too. “I should probably head out,” he says, setting his empty bottle on the counter. “Got an early morning tomorrow.”
“Yeah, of course. Thank you so much for coming to help.”
He offers a curt nod before heading to the door.
Whitley starts to unpack a box of baking supplies, and I try to ignore the nagging feeling that something’s off.
Before I can analyze it further, the screen door opens and Rowan steps back inside.
“Everything okay?” I ask, trying to keep my voice casual.
“Yeah, all good,” he says, tucking his phone into his pocket. Rowan moves toward the stack of boxes near the kitchen entrance and picks up a box labeled Books. “Where do you want these?”
“Living room shelves,” I answer, watching him carefully.
There’s something in the deliberate way he’s avoiding my eyes that sets off warning bells. I’ve seen Rowan take work calls before. They don’t usually drain the color from his face like this.
The rest of the evening passes in a blur of unpacking and pizza delivery. Whitley leaves around nine, giving me a tight hug and whispering, “Call me if you need anything,” with enough emphasis to make me wonder if she’s picked up on the strange tension, too.
When the door closes behind her, I turn to find Rowan leaning against the kitchen counter, eyes distant as he stares at nothing in particular.
“You going to tell me what that call was about?” I ask softly.
He exhales heavily, running a hand through his hair. “It was work. They want me to extend the trip to Mexico.”
My stomach drops. “By how long?”
“A few days.” He moves to the living room and sinks onto the couch. “Which means I wouldn’t be back in time to catch our flight to Scotland.”
I follow him, my legs growing weak. “But the wedding—”
“I could meet you there,” he says quickly. “I can fly straight from Mexico City to Edinburgh. I’d miss the first few days, but I’d still be there for the ceremony.”
I bite the inside of my cheek and swallow the tiny, stubborn flare of disappointment that wants to turn into a storm. He’ll still be there, just…later. That’s fine, right?
“I—okay,” I say finally, forcing the words. “That could work.”
He runs a hand over his face. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, voice low. “I hate that it’s this way. I was really looking forward to going with you from the start.”
I step closer, my frustrations fading away a little. “I know,” I say softly. “It’s okay.”
“Let’s get cleaned up and go to bed,” I suggest, threading my fingers through his, pulling him up. “I’m exhausted.”
He nods, allowing me to lead him upstairs to our bedroom.
In the bathroom, I turn on the shower, letting steam fill the space while I strip off my filthy clothes. Moving day has left a layer of grime on my skin that I’m desperate to wash away. I’m about to step under the spray when Rowan enters behind me.
He stands in the doorway, eyes fixed on me.
Without a word, he pulls his shirt over his head, letting it fall to the floor.
My gaze drifts over his broad shoulders, the line of muscle along his arms. Then he steps out of his jeans and boxers, my eyes catching on the thickening evidence of his desire.
“Mind if I join you?” he asks, voice low.
I shake my head, unable to find words as he steps into the shower with me. I expect him to press me against the tile, to claim my mouth with the hunger I’ve grown accustomed to. Instead, he reaches for the shampoo, pouring some into his palm.
“Turn around,” he murmurs.
I do as I’m told, then his fingers slide into my hair, massaging my scalp.
His touch is gentle as he works the shampoo into a lather. I close my eyes, surrendering to the sensation.
“Feels good,” I tell him, tilting my head back.
He makes a soft sound of agreement, his fingers working methodically through my hair, massaging in slow circles.
“Rinse,” he says softly, guiding me under the spray.
I tilt my head back, letting the water cascade through my hair. When I open my eyes, Rowan is watching me with an expression I can’t quite decipher. Longing? Regret?
“What?” I ask, water droplets clinging to my lashes.
He shakes his head slightly. “Nothing. Just… You’re beautiful.”
Before I can respond, he reaches for my bodywash. The familiar scent of lavender curls around us as he begins to trail his hands over my shoulders.
I reach for the conditioner, letting it slip through my fingers and into my hair. My hands work the silky strands, but I can’t help stealing glances at him, noting the way his chest rises and falls as his hands move down my body.