I hesitate for a moment, but I know she remembers the night I came home after my first shift at The Velvet Stag, practically bouncing off the walls and rambling about Callan’s hot-as-hell brother like I’d just discovered fire.
“Why would I bring it up? That would be weird as hell. Besides, the last time I saw them together, it wasn’t exactly screaming father-son bonding.”
“From what Dillon’s said, their relationship is complicated.”
I nod, but I already knew that much. You could see it in the way Christian looked at him, like a man staring down the barrel of a loaded gun and refusing to blink.
Violet’s face shifts, just for a second. The lightness in her expression dims, and something flashes behind her hazel eyes.Dillon. The man she once thought she’d build a life with. He’s the reason she gave thistown a shot in the first place and the man she let go of right before I showed up.
Dillon’s one of the good ones.
He’s the type of guy who’d give you the shirt off his back, his last twenty, and probably offer you a ride to the next town over just to make sure you made it there safe.He’s a good man in a world that doesn’t always know what to do with a heart like his, but watching him with my sister was like watching someone try to smother a wildfire with a wet paper towel.
My sister burns hot, just like me, and girls like us don’t do easy.
We don’t need soft.
We need a man who’ll fight our fire with their own flames.
But sweet, easygoing Dillon is the most go-with-the-flow man I’ve ever met, and in the end, they fizzled out. The love between them was real once, but their spark faded over time, leaving her with nothing but guilt.
I’m still lost in those thoughts when my phone buzzes in my hand, the vibration pulling me back to the present as I glance down at the screen.
TRAVIS: I’ll be there in an hour. Go for comfort, but make it cute. I plan on showing you off.
I roll my eyes, trying to fight the grin creeping in and failing miserably. I mean, I’ll wear what I damn well want, and if he doesn’t like it, that’s his problem, not mine. But still… what girl doesn’t get a little fluttery when a guy wants to show her off?
I cross the room and pull open my dresser drawer, fingers skimming the fabric before settling on a pair of worn-in denim cutoffs. I toss them on the bed, then add a fitted black T-shirt that clings in all the right places and a pair of scuffed black boots.
“Alright, out. I’m pretty sure you don’t wanna see the underwear I’m about to put on.”
“Definitely not,” Violet says, making a scrunched-up face. “But just check in, okay? I know you’re a grown-ass woman, and if you’re not coming home tonight, that’s your business, but I don’t want to sit up pretending I’ve got nothing better to do than wait for you to get back.”
“Okay, okay. I’m coming home. The most he’ll get is maybe a little over-the-underwear action.” She stands, and I catch the sound of her laughter echoing down the hallway as the door snaps shut behind her.
I straighten my long, black hair so it falls sleek and shiny halfway down my back, then swipe on some makeup—nothing wild, just a little dark-red lipstick and some mascara.
An hour later, my phone buzzes. It’s Travis, texting to let me know he’s outside waiting for me. There’s no knock at the door or gentlemanly come-to-the-front-porch move. Maybe I’ve read too many romance books, but at this point, my standards are basically fictional. And those men, the ones who exist only on my phone at two a.m., they’re filthy, thoughtful, and they’d knock. They’d wait for me to answer and have one hand braced on the doorframe like they owned it. They sure as hell wouldn’t send a “here” text like they’re delivering a pizza.
Still, I grab my bag, step outside, and immediately spot Travis in the most obnoxiously flashy, fire-engine red sports car I’ve ever seen. I slide into the passenger seat, the leather cool against my skin, and smooth my hands over my thighs as I glance at him. He takes one long, slow look at me, eyes dragging over every inch like he’s trying to memorize the view, and when he lets out that low whistle, I feel it right down to the tips of my toes.
“You look hot as hell.”
“Thanks,” I say, trying not to smile too hard.
Apparently, I’mthatgirl now who goes all soft over a half-decent compliment and a pretty face.
Travis shifts into gear and pulls away from the curb with one hand draped casually over the wheel. It’s June, so the evening light lingers longer, painting the sky in those soft, dreamy shades of dusk—pink at the edges, with hints of gold. The warm air floats through the open windows, carrying the scent of pine and freshly cut grass, and when I breathe in, I catch his cologne. It’s that boyish, sun-soaked scent that has you picturing sweat-slicked skin and messy hair and gets your mind wandering somewhere it probably shouldn’t.
“So… are you gonna tell me where we’re going?”
“You don’t like surprises?”
“I don’t like murderers,” I deadpan, and when he throws his head back with a laugh, his dark-blond hair falls away from his forehead.
“Okay, fair. But if I promise I won’t hurt you, does that help?”
“Not really,” I say, grinning.
