Page 65 of Almost Yours
I can’t. If I look at him, I’ll break. The humiliation burns hot under my skin, shame crawling up my throat. Tears prick behind my eyes, and I blink rapidly, trying to hold them back.
“Violet,” he says, softer this time.
When I finally meet his gaze, the first tear spills over. Apparently, crying in public is my thing now.
“He had no right to talk to you like that.”
“It’s okay,” Rowan says.
“It’s not.” My voice breaks as more tears follow. “It’s not okay.”
Rowan looks down at our intertwined fingers before meeting my eyes again. “Look, your dad…he’s not entirely wrong.”
I freeze, my tears suddenly forgotten. “What?”
“About me,” he clarifies, his voice low. “I’mnotgood enough for you?—”
“Stop.” My voice comes out sharper than I intend. “Just stop.”
He blinks, caught off guard.
“Don’t you dare sit there and tell me my dad is right about you.” The anger rises fast and hot, but it’s not at him. It’s at the idea of him doubting himself, ofanyonedoubting him. “He doesn’t know you.”
“Violet—”
“No.” I lean forward, gripping his hand tighter. “I get to decide who’s good enough for me. Me. Not my father, not anyone else. Do you understand?”
His eyes widen a fraction.
“I watched you walk away once,” I continue, my voice trembling. “I’m not doing it again.”
He swallows hard, his gaze never leaving mine. After a moment, he lifts our joined hands and presses a kiss to my knuckles.
“You’re something else, Violet Larkin,” he murmurs.
I give him a small smile. “Yeah, well. You bring it out in me.”
We sit there for a moment, the world slowly coming back into focus around us. The chatter of other customers, the hiss of the espresso machine, the bell above the door as people come and go.
“Let’s get out of here,” I say finally. “I believe I promised to supervise your fence repair.”
His lips quirk up in a half smile. “Yes, ma’am.”
I’m stillseething.I can’t believe my dad did that. And right after that run-in with Travis, to top it all off.
No, he didn’t go all southernget your hands away from my daughterwhen he could have. But he did ensure his words landed maliciously.
I storm down Rowan’s back steps with a bottle of water clenched in one hand, ready to launch into another internal rant, but I stop dead in my tracks.
Rowan’s shirt is long gone, tossed carelessly onto the porch rail, and now he’s just bare skin and muscle and sweat. So much sweat.
My brain refuses to cooperate. Every line of his shoulders, the way his arms flex as he stretches, the gleam of sweat tracing the ridges of his chest… It’s absurdly, ridiculously sexy.
I blink. Hard. BecauseJesus.
For a second, I forget I’m angry at all. His jeans hang low onhis hips, and a slow trickle of sweat trails from his collarbone down the center of his stomach before disappearing into the edge of his waistband. I’m not even sure I’m breathing.
I meant to bring him water. That was the plan. Hydration. Basic kindness.
