“Praise baby Jesus and all the slutty angels!” Violet screeches so loud that I have to yank the phone away from my ear.
“Yeah… you might want to hold off on the celebration.”
“Please don’t tell me you’re growing his demon spawn. I refuse to be Aunt Vi to anything that slithered out of that dickwad’s DNA.”
“Fuck no!”
“So if it’s not pregnancy, what is it?”
I lower my voice, whispering into the phone. “I kissed Christian.”
“I’m sorry, you wanna run that by me again? Because it sounded like you just said you made out with your boyfriend’s dad, which is—Jesus, I don’t even know what to say.”
“Ex-boyfriend,” I correct, feeling the need to hammer that point home. “And for the record, I wanted Christian before I even met Travis. So I don’t feel bad about it. Not even a little.”
“You shouldn’t, but the guy’s old enough to be your father.”
“Good thing Daddy is exactly my type.”
We both crack up, but the laughter dies down too quickly, replaced by the kind of silence that tells me Violet’s thinking way too hard about this. I hear the shift in her tone when she speaks again, her voice more serious now.
“Do you realize how twisted this could get? Like, I get it—Christian’s hot. The Crawfords are basically carved out of stone, but he is and always will be Travis’s dad first.”
“Doesn’t feel twisted when he touches me, and Travis can eat shit at this point.”
“Just be careful, Pip. Small towns have the biggest mouths, and the last thing I want is for this whole mess to blow up in your face. Travis and Christian could kiss and make up and leave you standing on the sidelines looking like the villain here.”
“Travis would probably try that, but not Christian. He isn’t like that.”
He’s already chosen me once. But I keep that part quiet—Violet doesn’t need to know about Travis’s hands getting rough. She’d go full psycho sister on his ass, and orange isn’t her color.
“Just be careful, that’s all I’m saying. Opinions get formed fast and aren’t changed easily.”
“This is a good town with good people, and if you didn’t think so, you’d have moved away the second you and Dillon broke up.”
“Yeah, well, I’d already settled here, and it’s not exactly like we have other family. Aside from Aunt Bea, but she’s batshit crazy.”
“Why do you think I moved in with you as soon as I could?”
“Exactly. Rosewood is home for us both now. Don’t screw it up.”
I roll my eyes so hard I almost sprain something. “Yeah, I get it. Bye, Vi.”
I drop my phone onto the bed, cutting off whatever lecture she’s about to launch into. Because right now, the only thing I care about is the man out there.
My mouth waters as garlic and rosemary drift under my door while I get dressed. I slip into a pair of black high-waisted leggings and an oversized cream top that slides off one shoulder, casual but with just enough effort to make me feel put together, and when I round the corner into the kitchen, I nearly forget how to breathe.
Christian’s at the stove, all broad shoulders and rolling muscles under his fitted black T-shirt as he moves around in a way that shouldn’t be so fucking attractive.
Suddenly, he freezes, like time itself hit a brick wall. “That’s not your usual perfume. It’s not the one you’ve been wearing,” he says, drawing in a deep breath. “This one… I know this scent.”
When he turns, that devastating smile of his makes my pulse stumble over itself. He leans back against the counter, crossing one ankle over the other, and somehow manages to fill every inch of space in the kitchen. It’s not just his physical presence, though God knows that’s plenty distracting. It’s the way he carries himself, like he knows exactly what he does to me and is enjoying every second of my reaction.
“It’s my favorite,” I say softly. “It’s the one I wear at the bar.” The truth is, Travis picked out that other perfume, and wearing it was easier than arguing about it.
Christian moves toward the kitchen table and pulls out my chair. There’s something about watching this man—this big, capable man who had me crying out in pleasure just hours ago—play gentleman that does things to my insides. When I settle into the seat, his hands brush my shoulders as he helps push me in. After setting two plates offood in front of us, he circles the table and drops into the chair across from me.
Suddenly, this all feels real. Like a real date, complete with a home-cooked dinner and lingering looks across the table. It’s intimate in a way that has nothing to do with physical attraction and everything to do with how right this feels.
