11. Violet #3
That wasn't true. The real reason was sitting right in front of me.
Six foot three of him in a tailored black suit at a dinner table in his own house, casually asking me probing questions about my sex life and openly smiling at my flustered answers.
Every time he did something dangerous like that, my grip on the word professional slipped another fatal inch.
"Is it because you're scared it would lead somewhere?" he challenged.
I leveled a glare at him. "Do we seriously have to talk?"
He laughed, a short, easy, rumbling sound. "We don't have to. But wasn't the silence earlier strange? Back in the car?"
A startled laugh slipped out. "You felt that too?"
"Of course I felt it." He set his silver fork down and leaned back in his chair. "The two of us are so used to talking constantly. It's calming, honestly. We could sit here talking about the different breeds of goats, and I'd be content."
I laughed, bewildered. "Why?"
He held my gaze. "What do you mean?"
"Why would you be content? Talking about goats."
He cleared his throat. He picked up his fork again, stalling. "I think you're amazing, Violet," he said quietly.
My heart knocked hard against my ribs, once, then sat there hammering.
"When Elena died," he began, his voice dropping low and even, "everyone in my life looked at me like I was a ticking bomb about to go off.
The hollow condolences kept coming, even weeks after the funeral.
People treated every interaction with me like they might break something.
" He paused, turning his water glass in slow circles on the table.
"But you… when I finally came back to work, you just resumed.
You pulled up the morning briefing. You told me the schedule.
It was a gentle, necessary reminder that life goes on, and there's no use holding onto the past." He looked up to meet my eyes.
"I felt calm for the first time in weeks. You brought me peace."
I went still.
I stared at my plate. I stared at the wood grain of the table. I looked anywhere that wasn't his face, because his expression was open and vulnerable in a way I'd never seen before, the reserve he usually carried gone, leaving just him, looking right at me.
"We should really stop talking about sad things," I whispered.
He burst out laughing, breaking the tension. "I honestly thought you'd love to hear about how you bring me peace."
The terrifying truth was, I loved hearing it more than he'd ever guess. I kept my eyes on my plate.
"Fine," I conceded. "Goats it is."
He smiled, the warmth reaching his eyes.
We pivoted to other things. Easy, filling, mundane topics that asked nothing heavy of either of us. I ate fast, but he ate slow, his attention elsewhere, the food secondary to the conversation.
I glanced at his plate. He was still picking at the first half of his meal.
"Why are you eating so slow?"
He looked down at his food like he'd forgotten it was there. "Food really isn't my best thing anymore."
"What do you prefer, then?"
He lifted a slow, wicked eyebrow at me.
I stared at him one long second, taking in the implication, then shook my head hard. "Unfortunately for you, you have no one to do that with."
I grabbed my empty plate and retreated to the kitchen to load it into the dishwasher.
I heard his heavy footsteps trailing right behind me.
The air in the kitchen changed. It grew warmer, closer, the particular shift that happens when the space between two people contracts without either of them announcing it.
I yanked open the dishwasher, slid my dirty plate onto the rack, and straightened up.
He was right behind me. We weren't touching. But he was close.
"What book would you recommend," he murmured, "to help a man improve his abilities in bed?"
I laughed, nervous. Then I turned around to face him.
He was right there. Closer than I expected, close enough that turning fully brought us almost face-to-face, and my nervous laughter died the second I felt how little space was left between us. He was staring at me. The smile was gone. His gray eyes locked on mine, unflinching.
I took a step back. His hand shot up and caught my wrist, the pressure so faint I could have pulled free. I didn't.
"Talk to me, Violet," he said, coaxing the words out of me.
I looked up at him and couldn't make myself look away. My pulse hammered in my wrist, right where his long fingers were wrapped.
"I don't have any idea," I lied, my voice breathless, coming out thinner than I wanted. "What you're asking."
"I really want to learn." His voice dropped lower. "I want to meet your expectations."
He leaned in.
I took a sharp breath. His cologne was close now, so warm, the woody scent of him I'd learned by heart over two years of standing near him in offices, elevators, and cars. It moved through me, not loud, but sinking all the way down to my bones.
"Whose expectations?" I whispered.
He leaned in again. His lips hovered close to mine, close enough that I could feel the heat of them without any contact, which was its own kind of devastating problem.
My heartbeat quickened.
He held my wide-eyed gaze.
"What do you think?" he asked.