Chapter Seven
Violet
I’m totally beside myself. Jason just told me he'd like to do this again, I said I'd like that too, and now we're sitting here with the remnants of a shared cannoli between us, and I can feel my carefully constructed emotional equilibrium completely reorganizing itself.
This is the kind of situation that happens when a ridiculously attractive hockey player looks at you like you're the most fascinating person he's ever met and your brain starts short-circuiting in ways that definitely aren't covered in any engineering manual.
I'm staring at the last bite of cannoli, trying to process the fact that this perfect evening is real and that Jason wants to do it again, when his voice breaks through my thoughts.
"You're thinking really hard about something," he observes, setting down his coffee cup. "I can practically see the gears turning."
"Sorry," I say, snapping back to reality. "I was just... processing."
"Processing what?"
How to explain that I'm processing the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles, or how his laugh makes my stomach do things that probably violate several laws of physics? And wondering what it would feel like if those hands were touching me instead of gesturing about grilled cheese methodology?
"The evening," I say finally. "It's been really nice."
"Just nice?" he asks, and there's something playful in his tone that makes me look up from my cup of coffee.
"Okay, better than nice," I admit. "Significantly better than nice."
Jason grins. “That's quite a compliment coming from someone who probably has actual data on dating experiences."
"I don't have data on dating experiences," I protest. "My sample size is embarrassingly small."
"How small are we talking?"
"Let's just say if this were a research study, the results would be statistically insignificant."
"Good thing this isn't a research study then," Jason says, and something in his voice makes my heart skip. "This is just two people who like each other having dinner."
Two people who like each other. The simplicity of it should be comforting, but instead it makes everything feel more intense somehow.
Because I do like him—more than like him, if I'm being honest with myself.
Somewhere between the puck disaster and the coffee date and tonight's dinner, I've developed feelings that are way beyond casual interest.
"We should probably get the check," I say, glancing around the restaurant and realizing we've been here for over two hours. "I don't want to take up their table all night."
"Already taken care of," Jason says, and when I start to protest, he shakes his head. "I asked you out, remember? This one's on me."
"But I can pay for my half—"
"Violet," he interrupts gently, "let me do this, okay? I wanted to take you to dinner, and that includes actually taking you to dinner."
There's something about the way he says it—firm but not condescending, like he genuinely wants to treat me but isn't trying to prove anything—that makes me nod instead of arguing further.
"Thank you," I say. "For dinner, and for... this. All of it."
"Thank you for saying yes," he replies. "And for not running away when I compared your eyes to flowers within five minutes of meeting you."
"That was actually really sweet," I admit. "In a completely unexpected way."
"Unexpected how?"
"Most guys either don't notice things like that, or they notice and then try to use it as some kind of pickup line. You just... said it. Like you couldn't help yourself."
"I couldn't," he says honestly. "You looked up at me, and it was the first thing I thought. Before I could filter it or make it sound cooler."
The way he's looking at me right now—like he's still having those unfiltered thoughts and doesn't particularly want to hide them—makes my skin feel warm and electric.
"Come on," he says, standing and offering me his hand. "Want to walk around a little? It's a nice night, and I'm not quite ready for this to be over."
I take his hand, and the contact sends a jolt through my system that has nothing to do with static electricity and everything to do with the way his fingers feel wrapped around mine.
Warm, steady, slightly calloused from hockey but gentle in a way that makes me wonder what those hands would feel like touching other places. Focus, Violet. One step at a time.
We leave the restaurant and start walking down Pine Street, and I'm hyperaware of everything—the way our hands fit together, the way Jason shortens his stride slightly to match mine, and the way the evening air feels cool against my skin after the warmth of the restaurant.
"So," Jason says as we pass a bookstore with a vintage neon sign, "what's the verdict? Did my restaurant choice meet your research-based expectations?"
"It exceeded them," I say honestly. "The food was great, the atmosphere was perfect for conversation, and the service was efficient without being intrusive. Plus, the acoustics were surprisingly good for a space with hard surfaces and minimal sound dampening."
Jason stops walking and stares at me. "Did you just analyze the restaurant's acoustic properties?"
"I... may have noticed that we could talk easily without raising our voices despite the ambient noise level," I admit, feeling my cheeks warm. "Which suggests good design for speech intelligibility."
"That's..." Jason pauses, shaking his head with a grin. "That's the most Violet thing you've ever said."
"Is that good or bad?"
"It's perfect," he says, tugging gently on my hand to get me walking again. "I love that your brain works like that. You notice things other people completely miss."
"Most people think it's weird."
"Most people are missing out," Jason says firmly. "I think it's incredible that you can enjoy a dinner date and simultaneously analyze the engineering principles that made it enjoyable."
The fact that he gets this about me—that he finds my analytical tendencies charming instead of annoying—makes something warm and fluttery bloom in my chest.
We turn onto a quieter side street lined with old maple trees, their branches creating a canopy overhead that filters the streetlight into interesting patterns.
It's quieter here, more intimate somehow, and I'm increasingly aware of the way Jason's thumb is tracing small circles on the back of my hand.
"Can I ask you something?" he says, and something in his tone makes me look up at him.
"Sure."
"Why engineering? What made you decide you wanted to spend your life designing mechanical systems?"
"Honestly?" I consider the question, trying to find a way to explain it that doesn't sound completely nerdy.
"I like solving problems. I like figuring out how things work and then making them work better.
There's something satisfying about taking something that's broken or inefficient and fixing it. "
"Like our equipment room," Jason says.
"Exactly. When I first saw that chaos, all I could think about was how much time everyone was wasting looking for things, how much space was being used inefficiently. It was like a puzzle that needed solving."
"And you're good at puzzles."
"I'm good at systems," I correct. "Understanding how all the pieces fit together, what happens when you change one variable, how to optimize the whole thing for better performance."
Jason stops walking again, and this time when he turns to look at me, there's something intense in his expression that makes my breath catch.
"What?" I ask.
"I was just thinking," he says, stepping closer, "that you've been optimizing my performance since the day you started working with the team."
"I don't know what you mean."
"Sure you do," he says softly. "Making sure my equipment is perfect, staying late to watch me practice. You've been quietly making sure I have everything I need to play my best."
My heart starts beating faster, because he's right and because he noticed, and because he's standing close enough now that I can feel his body heat.
"Maybe," I admit quietly.
"Definitely," he corrects, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. The gesture is gentle, but the contact makes my skin tingle. "Question is, why?"
"Because you're good," I say, my voice coming out slightly breathless. "Because you deserve to succeed, and sometimes the best equipment managers are the ones who pay attention to details other people miss."
"That's not the only reason," Jason says, and it's not a question.
He's right. It's not the only reason, and we both know it.
I've been taking care of his equipment and watching his practice sessions because I care about him.
Because somewhere along the way, Jason Harrison stopped being just another player and became someone I wanted to see succeed, someone I wanted to be around.
"No," I whisper. "It's not."
Jason's hand is still near my face, his thumb now tracing along my cheekbone in a way that makes it hard to think about anything except the way his touch feels and how much I want him to keep touching me.
"Violet," he says softly, and my name in his voice sounds like a question.
I know what he's asking. I can see it in the way he's looking at me, in the way he's standing close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his body, in the way his eyes keep flickering to my lips and then back to my eyes.
"Yes," I breathe, answering the question he hasn't quite asked.
And then he's kissing me. It starts soft, tentative, like he's giving me time to change my mind. But I don't want to change my mind. I want this, want him, want the feeling of his lips moving against mine and his free hand sliding to the small of my back to pull me closer.
I let go of his hand so I can wrap my arms around his neck, and the kiss deepens, becomes less tentative and more urgent.
Jason tastes sweet, and kissing him feels like solving the most complex equation I've ever encountered—challenging and satisfying and absolutely right.
When we finally break apart, I'm breathing hard and feeling slightly dizzy.
"That was..." I start, then realize I don't have words for what that was.
"Yeah," Jason agrees, slightly breathless himself. "That was definitely something."
"Good something or concerning something?"
"Very, very good something," he says, pressing a quick kiss to my forehead. "The kind of something I've been thinking about for weeks."
"Weeks?" I ask, surprised.
"Since the first day you walked into the equipment room and reorganized everything in under an hour," he admits. "I took one look at you and thought, 'I'm in trouble.'"
"Just one look?"
"Well, one look and then you started explaining your organizational system with this enthusiasm that was completely adorable," he clarifies. "That's when I knew I was definitely in trouble."
I laugh, because I remember that day—how nervous I was, how desperately I wanted to make a good impression, how I probably talked too much about storage optimization.
"I was so nervous that day," I admit. "I wanted everyone to take me seriously."
"Trust me," Jason says, his hands still resting on my waist, "everyone takes you seriously. Especially me."
There's something in his voice when he says that—something sincere and warm that makes my heart do those fluttery things again.
"Jason," I start, then pause, not sure how to articulate what I'm feeling.
"What is it?"
"I really like you," I say simply. "Like, more than I've ever liked anyone. And that's kind of terrifying because I have no idea what I'm doing."
"Hey," he says gently, cupping my face in his hands. "I don't know what I'm doing either. But I know I like you too—more than like you—and I know I want to figure it out with you."
"Even though I make spreadsheets when I'm nervous and analyze acoustic properties during dinner dates?"
"Especially because you do those things," he says firmly. "You're brilliant and funny and beautiful, and you make me want to be better at everything. Including this."
"This?"
"Whatever this is," he says, gesturing between us. "Dating, relationships, all of it. I want to be good at it because it's with you."
The sincerity in his voice, the way he's looking at me like I'm something precious, makes my chest feel tight with emotion.
"I want to be good at it too," I whisper.
"Then you will. We both will," he says, leaning down to kiss me again.
This time, when his lips meet mine, it feels less like a question and more like a promise.
When we break apart again, Jason keeps his arms around me, and I realize I never want to leave this spot—this quiet street with its canopy of trees, this moment where everything feels possible and new and exactly right.
"So," Jason says eventually, his voice slightly rough, "what does the rest of the evening look like according to your optimization algorithms?"
I laugh, because even after kissing me senseless, he's still teasing me about my systematic approach to everything.
"I don't have algorithms for this," I admit. "This is completely uncharted territory."
"Good," he says, smiling. "I like the idea of figuring it out as we go."
As we start walking back toward his car, Jason keeps hold of my hand, and I can't stop smiling. My lips are still tingling from his kisses, my heart is still racing, and my brain is trying to process the fact that this incredible, sweet, talented guy actually likes me back.
For once in my life, I'm not trying to analyze or optimize or systematically approach the situation. I'm just enjoying it, one perfect moment at a time.