She pats my back.
“Shoo. Go get your anniversary kiss. Maybe more.”
I hear the wink in her voice. And behind me, Jason’s breath catches, soft, hopeful, scared, and so full of love it warms the air around us like a second summer.
Meemaw pats my shoulder, grounding me with that fierce gentleness only she knows how to wield.
“You did good, chickadee,” she murmurs before walking away and calling over her shoulder. “This dinner spread could seduce a man to martyrdom.”
I turn toward the sound of him, toward the way his pulse changes, toward the soft catch in his breath, toward the hush in the garden that seems to hold space for just us.
“It is a bright day,” I say softly, “and I’m glad I get to spend it with you.”
Jason’s fingers find mine, touching softly, as though he’s afraid I’ll slip through his hands if he grasps too hard.
“You always make things brighter,” he whispers.
My heart somersaults.
Behind me, Meemaw mutters, “Oh, for heaven’s sake, someone kiss someone before I throw bread rolls at you.”
Jason lets out a soft, startled laugh, and the tension in him finally cracks open.
He steps closer, warm and steady. And mine.
“Can I?” he whispers, breath trembling just above my lips.
I nod.
And I can feel everything—the garden, the lanterns, the cedar beams, the year we survived, the life we built—glowing around us as he leans in and presses his lips to mine.
“Finally, dinner can start!” Beau hollers, clapping loudly.
I laugh. “Something tells me you’re hungry.”
“My stomach thinks my throat’s been cut.”
“Don’t you dare sit at that table, Beau Bergen, until you’ve washed those hands.”
Beau makes it to the house and back in record time. “Bumped into Hattie. She says she’ll be here as soon as she gets off the phone with Mike. Start without her.”
I grin. Hattie and Mike have been dating for about six months. He’s a volunteer at Joe’s Animal Sanctuary, and he is nothing like her narcissistic ex.
We start serving, and I reach over for a roll. Jason stiffens.
“Violet…” His voice changes, turning urgent. “Why do you smell like blood?”
Oh, right.
I grin. “I wanted to show you something.”
His hands run over my arms like he’s searching for a hidden wound. “Where are you hurt?” he demands. “What happened? Violet, talk to me.”
“Jason,” I laugh softly, lifting my sleeve.
He goes still.
I’ve felt tattoos before—raised, warm, tender—but feeling my own still gives me a strange thrill. The skin over my inner forearm is warm and swollen, the fresh ink raised in familiar lines.
