Page 63 of Almost Yours
She leans into my side a little as we inch forward. “Did you ever date anyone?” she asks.
I look down at her, but she’s fixed on the menu board. It’s in the way she’snotlooking at me that I understand my answer matters a lot more than she’s letting on.
“No,” I say after a beat. “Not really.”
She’s quiet for a second, then shifts on her feet, teeth biting the inside of her cheek. “So…like, hownot reallyare we talking?”
My brow arches. “You want a number?”
She finally meets my gaze and scrunches her nose. “No. I mean, not unless youwantto tell me. I just…” Her voice drops. “I haven’t really dated much. I guess I don’t want to seem stupid or naive.”
“Violet.”
She blinks up at me, but doesn’t look away.
“I wasn’t a monk. I won’t lie to you. There were people, but no one ever got close to what you were to me. What youare.I never let them.”
She swallows hard, her lashes lowering as she nods slowly. “Okay,” she whispers. “That’s…okay.”
I wince. It’s anything but okay. She’s giving me grace I don’t deserve, and that does something brutal to my chest. I want to go back and find that younger version of me and shake him until he gets it through his thick fucking skull.
I didn’t protect her. I punished us both.
By the time we reach the counter, she’s smiling again,ordering her lavender honey latte with extra whipped cream. I get plain black coffee because some habits die hard, and we find a small table by the window.
“So,” she says, wrapping her hands around the steaming mug, “what’s on your agenda today?”
I take a sip of my coffee, savoring the bitter warmth. “Fixing the fence. A tree came down in that storm last week and took out about twenty feet of it.”
“Need an extra pair of hands?” she asks. “I’m useless with tools, but I’m very good at offering moral support and looking concerned when you swear.”
I laugh, reaching across the table to brush my thumb across a smudge of whipped cream at the corner of her mouth. “I wouldn’t say no to the company.”
She catches my hand, pressing a quick kiss to my palm that sends heat curling through my veins. “Then it’s a date. Me, you, and manual labor.”
I still can’t get over the fact that Violet Larkin kisses me whenever she feels like it.
The bell above the door chimes, and I glance up. My entire body goes rigid as David Larkin, Violet’s dad, walks in with her mom trailing behind him. Violet hasn’t noticed yet, still sipping her coffee with a small, content smile on her face.
“Violet,” I say quietly, warning in my tone.
She looks up, brows furrowed, then follows my gaze. Her smile falls in an instant.
twenty-four
. . .
Violet
Could today get any worse?
Dad’s gaze finds me first before sliding to Rowan. Recognition flickers there—a slow blink, the tightening of his jaw.
Mom’s reaction is gentler, her smile tentative.
“Dang it,” I whisper. Dad’s making his way toward us, Mom trailing half a step behind with a tight smile.
“Violet,” Dad says, curt and to the point. His gaze moves to Rowan, and something about the way his mouth sets seems like a test. “Rowan.”
