I glance over my shoulder to see him staring at what must be red marks across my backside, maybe even the imprint of his fingers. His expression is a mixture of awe and guilt.
“Hey,” I say softly, reaching for his hand. “I’m okay. More than okay.”
He sets the washcloth aside. “You’re too perfect,” he murmurs, a hint of wonder in his voice. “You’ve ruined me for anyone else. Not that there was ever going to be anyone else.”
I can’t help the swell of pride that fills my chest. “Yeah?” I ask, unable to keep the smile from my voice.
He laughs, the sound warm and genuine. “Definitely.”
He brings himself to a stand. “Let me get a shower running for you. Warm water will help with the soreness.”
“Are you saying I look like I need help, Wolfe?” I call after him.
He slips back into the room after a minute, that familiar glint of amusement lighting his eyes as I bring myself to the edge of the bed, wincing when my feet hit the floor.
“You gonna make it, or do you want me to carry you to the shower?”
I roll my eyes. Every muscle in my body is deliciously sore, thoroughly used in the best possible way.
“I’m perfectly capable of walking,” I insist, taking one step forward before my knees buckle.
Rowan’s arms are around me in an instant, lifting me effortlessly against his chest. “You were saying?”
I loop my arms around his neck. “This is very caveman of you.”
“Get used to it, Larkin.”
thirty-one
. . .
Violet
I’ve been skipping Sunday dinners, which in my mother’s world is basically the equivalent of staging a family coup. To be fair, I had decent reasons. Emotional whiplash. Dad pissing me off.
Still, the guilt’s been simmering. I finally cave and call her while I’m folding laundry at my condo.
“Hi, Mom,” I say, already bracing myself.
“Well, look who remembered she has a mother,” she replies, and I wince. She’s only half joking.
“I know. I’m the worst,” I admit. “Things have been…busy.”
“Mmhmm,” she says. “Too busy for baked ziti?”
“Iloveyour ziti.”
“Then where have you been, Violet?”
I chew on my lip. This is the part where I should just say it. It’s not like it’s some guilty confession. “I’ve been spending a lot of time with Rowan,” I say, heart thumping. “And after how Dad reacted at the coffee shop…”
There’s a pause on the other end. “Your father is protective,” she says, but there’s a sigh underneath her words.
“I’m not sixteen anymore, Mom.”
“No, you’re not.” Her voice softens. “Are you happy?”
“I really am,” I whisper.
