“Mildly concerned about the statistical probability of this ending in emotional carnage?”
He barks out a laugh that fills the cab of the truck. “There she is.”
I press my lips together, but it’s useless—I’m already smiling. The kind that feels more like surrender than amusement. It’sdangerous how easily he does that. That deep, unguarded laugh is like a match striking something dormant inside me.
Rowan pops the glovebox open with his knuckle and doesn’t even look when he tosses something my way. The bag lands in my lap with a soft thump.
Peach rings.
My breath catches. “You remembered.”
I can’t tear my eyes off the bag, but he’s there, in my periphery. His hand on the wheel, forearm flexed just enough to be distracting, profile lit by the golden spill of the setting sun.
“I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again as many times as you need me to. I remember everything about you, Violet. Plus,” he continues, “I figured we both could use something sweet to take the edge off.”
I laugh, tearing open the package, the sugary scent filling the truck cab. I offer him one first, and he takes it, his fingers brushing mine for the briefest second.
“You look good, too, you know.” The words tumble out before I can catch them.
Fantastic.
Heat floods my cheeks as his eyes find mine again. One corner of his mouth tilts up, slow and smug and entirely too aware of the effect he has on me. My stomach does an undignified drop.
Becausegoodis a lie of omission. Good doesn’t cover the way his shirt pulls tight across his chest or how my fingers itch with the sudden, overwhelming desire to test the fabric’s durability. It definitely doesn’t cover his forearms—bare, inked, unfairly solid—doing insane things to my imagination.
I tear my gaze away and fixate on the blur of streetlights outside my window.
“You think so?” His voice has that rough edge to it, like he’s pleased but trying not to show it.
“Don’t fish for compliments,” I mutter. “Your ego is healthy enough.”
He laughs, and the sound slips under my skin. “My ego where you’re concerned has been on life support for years, Larkin.”
There it is again.Larkin.
Everyone else says Violet in a sweet and polished way.
But my last name, from him, is like a tether. Like he’s reaching back through time to that girl I used to be, and saying,Hey. I remember her, too.
He saves Violet for when it counts. When his voice drops and sheds the humor, turns honest and heavy. For moments that matter—sitting on his porch, admitting it was wrecking him not to touch me. When he says Violet, it sounds reverent.
“I’d say your ego is doing just fine,” I mutter, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. “Mr. I’ll Let You Win.”
He chuckles. “That was strategy, not ego. I wanted to make sure you’d say yes.”
“By challenging my competitive nature?”
“By reminding you we’ve always been good at this part.” His eyes stay on the road, but the weight of his words settle between us. “The teasing. Even when everything else was complicated, we always had that.”
He’s right. Through all the years of almost-somethings and not-quites, the banter never faltered. It was more than just teasing—it was our lifeline. We could joke when the world was heavy and laugh when everything else threatened to crumble. It was our safe ground.
He eases the truck into the arcade parking lot.
“You ready?” he asks, cutting the engine but making no move to get out.
I raise a brow. “Areyouready to be publicly humiliated?”
He huffs a laugh, reaching for the door handle. “Cocky. I like it.”
