Daddy and Uncle Charlie were the only two people who knew about my rebirth, having experienced the same thing themselves. And whileI had not told them muchabout my first life, they were aware that it was—to put it mildly—decidedly unpleasant.
Of all people, I knew they would both understand my dilemma, but I wasn’t in the mood to deal with my Daddy’s insistent nagging.Overthinking really should burn extra calories. Daddy’s my best bet.
I exhaled, shut my eyes, and pressed his number before I changed my mind. The phone rang a few times before a familiar voice answered.
A familiar voice, butnotmy father’s.
“Violet?”
My eyes snapped open as I sat up.Shit! Rowan?My heart quickened at the deepened accent that curled in mockery even when he wasn’t trying.Why is he answering Dad’s phone?
The image of him flashed to my mind: an imposing figure, a stern brow with an aquiline nose framed by his pearly white hair curling around his ears down an angular jawline.
Rowan had been orbiting my life since we were kids, and we had butted heads every time our families came together. He’d always been there, always in the periphery, a storm wrapped in human form. I could vividly recall his younger years: rebellious, angry, feral. The kind of boy who set fires just to watch them burn.
But that boy had grown up and transformed into something controlled and disciplined. A different type of dangerous that allured women, myself included. Despite my better judgement, his aggravating personality didn’t stop me from stealing the occasional glance at his gorgeously toned body or admiring what I considered his best feature. . . the palest set of blue eyes I’d ever seen, like falling snowflakes.
We’d never gotten along. Oil and water. Fire and ice. Pick your cliché.
My thoughts were derailed as I thought of what to say. “Uh. . . Rowan?”
He must have caught the confusion in my tone, because a chuckle came through the line, warm and irritatingly self-satisfied. “Are you already drunk in the second week at school? It is barely past lunch on a Tuesday.”
The lilt of his accent did things to my insides that I absolutely refused to acknowledge. Growing up, I’d thought his accent was charming, theway he rolled his R’s in Russian like Mom and Aunt Dawn did when they spoke Spanish.
Now his voice irritated me. Everything about Rowan Monroe irritated me.
I gritted my teeth. Frustration rose sharply in my belly, hot and unrelenting as it battled with arousal. “I’m glad you know your days of the week. I was trying to get in touch with my father.”
“Obviously. I assumed that is why you called his cell,” he teased. I could imagine his smug smile and perfectly white teeth.
“Are you at the office?” I asked, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice. “Is Daddy nearby?” He’d been working at Daddy’s business for years now, carving out his place with methodical patience.
“We are not at the office, and Levi is not nearby, no.” Another pause, perfectly timed to annoy the hell out of me. “We decided to take lunch at the house. I was in the kitchen, grabbing myself a beer, when I saw your call.”
“So, you took it upon yourself to answer his phone? And a beer, Rowan? You’re only twenty.” Exasperation laced my words, feeling oddly exposed at my plan gone awry.
“Do not compare me to the boys you hang out with, Violet. I can handle my own. . . unlike you,princess.” Hetskedbefore he continued. “Besides, I thought it was the business phone ringing. Would you like me to get your daddy for you?”
I pinched the bridge of my nose hard enough to hurt, vexed by the mocking nickname he used for me before replying calmly. “No. Just tell him I need to come home this weekend. Ask if he can pick me up.”
“I will do this. Is there anything else I can do for you,ma’am?” The sarcasm dripped like honey, and he even attempted a Southern accent that sounded absurd with his Russian lilt.
My patience snapped. “Yes. Go fuck yourself.”
I hung up before he could respond, tossing the phone onto my nightstand with enough force to send it sliding, then flopped back on the bed. My pulse raced as if I’d just run a marathon instead of having a two-minute conversation with the most insufferable man I knew. Rowan had that effect on me. Simply just talking with him poked at every nerve until I was raw and bristling from only a few words.
The door opened, and my roommate walked in, bringing with her the scent of vanilla and of the library. It had taken me two weeks to remember her name was Alice, having been distracted by my multiple-life crisis. She was everything I wasn’t: tall where I was average, soft-spoken where I was sharp, careful where I was reckless, with raven hair and deep chocolate eyes on a perfectly heart-face. She moved through our shared space like an apology, always trying to take up less room.
“Hey,” she said, setting down her mahogany leather bookbag with care. She wore a beige oversized trench coat over her tank top, along with tailored navy wool trousers. Given it was August in Atlanta, I had no idea how she wasn’t dying from heat exhaustion.
“Hey.” I didn’t sit up. I couldn’t summon the energy for small talk.
“Did you go to the involvement fair?” She was already unlacing her shoes, placing them perfectly parallel by the door. She had a few OCD tendencies that I didn’t mind compared to my messy nature.
“No.” I hadn’t gone anywhere near campus activities. Eighteen-year-olds planning fundraisers and themed parties felt like watching children play house.
She nodded, peeling off her tank top to reveal a navy bra underneath. “I signed up for the business club. They meet on Thursdays.”
