Owning Violet (The Fowler Sisters #1)(98)

Violets.

I smile as I tease the velvety petals with my fingertip, looking for a card, but there isn’t one. The flowers brighten what ended up being a completely horrible day. Starting with the argument I got into with Ryder and the conversation I suffered through with Zachary not even an hour ago. The man is persistent. I’ve put him off for days, but he cornered me. Kept trying to convince me to come back to his place so we could reunite like old times, he said with a suggestive leer that wasn’t one bit sexy.

A firm no was my answer and he didn’t like that at all. Did he really believe I would fall into his bed as if nothing had ever happened? I suppose, considering I’d done it before. But I was a different person then. I’m stronger now.

My smile fades and I wonder if Zachary sent the flowers. I can’t keep them if he did. I don’t need any more unnecessary reminders of him in my life. I spent twenty minutes after lunch trying to put together a small going-away party for him, much to my irritation. My heart simply wasn’t into it. Though I should view this dinner as a celebratory, “yay, he’s out of my life” type of party.

I’m awful.

I turn to my computer, ready to shut it down for the evening, when I see the new email in my in-box. From Ryder. The subject line reads, “I’m sorry.” I click on it and read:

My sexy V,

I’m an *. I know I’ve said this to you before and you’ve agreed readily. I can’t blame you for agreeing because we know the truth.

I’m not good enough for you. I never will be. But I want you. I can’t let you go. Not yet. I’m a selfish motherf*cker but trust me, you benefit from this arrangement just as much as I do.

At least I hope you think so.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry for the horrible things I say. I’m sorry for the horrible things I do.

But I’m not sorry for the things we’ve done together. Or for the way you’ve made me feel. What we share means … so much. Too much.

I hope you like the gift I sent you. If I had my choice, I would scatter the violet petals all over your naked skin. But you might think that’s a waste of a good flower. I’m not sure.

Yours,

R.

Stinging, sweet pleasure blooms in my chest as I read his email over and over again. He still wants me. He’s the one who sent me violets. No man has ever done that before. You’d think they would; given my name it’s an easy choice.

But I guess no one is as thoughtful as Ryder.

If he knew I believed he was thoughtful he’d probably flip.

I hit REPLY and start typing.

Dearest R –

Thank you for the violets. They’re beautiful. And thank you for the apology. It was beautiful, too.

You say you’re not worthy of me but I think you’re wrong. I love the idea of you scattering violet petals all over my naked body. But only if I can do the same to you.

Yours,

V

I hit SEND before I can second-guess myself or add more. My gaze snags on the flowers and I stare at them, reaching out to rub my finger over each individual petal. I’m torn between wanting to leave the pot on my desk or take it home. Maybe I can do both?

My cell beeps and I grab it, smiling when I see Ryder’s name.

I see you.

Glancing up, I find him leaning his shoulder against the door frame, gazing at his cell phone. He slowly lifts his head, those beautiful blue eyes locking with mine, and I remain still in my chair, waiting for his next move.

“Come home with me,” he says, his voice low, his gaze heavy.

Everything within me goes hot and fluttery at his request. His demand. I’m scared to say yes. Going home with him is a risk. I could lose my head. My body. My heart. My soul.

But I’m more scared to say no.

“Violet,” he starts, but I cut him off.

“Yes.” I stand, pressing my fingers against the edge of my desk, as if that can brace me somehow. “I will.”

We left the office and have been riding to his apartment building mostly in silence, sitting in the back of a taxicab while the driver listens to a baseball game on the radio, turned up at maximum volume. The crowd cheering with every play grates on my nerves and I tap my fingers on the empty space between us, tracing the cracks in the vinyl seat.

I’m desperate to reach out and touch him, but I don’t.

Keeping my gaze affixed to the window, I watch the city pass us by as we head downtown. I have no clue where we’re going. I know nothing of Ryder’s personal life besides what he shows me.

And he doesn’t reveal much.

Another ball is hit and the crowd roars, the sound coming from the tinny speakers within the car deafening. I wince and close my eyes, hating how nervous I feel. Hating more that Ryder won’t talk to me.

Maybe he doesn’t know what to say either.

I feel something brush against my pinky and I still my fingers, almost afraid to look. But I know it can only be Ryder touching me. His finger strokes over mine tentatively. Like a test. I keep my hand steady, pressing my lips together when each of his fingertips settles over the length of my pinky. Stroking up and down in the softest, most sensual touch I’ve ever experienced.

Goose bumps form on my skin and a shiver steals through me. My nipples harden beneath my bra. I grow damp between my legs. I feel restless. Uneasy.

Aroused.

His hand slips over my fingers achingly slowly, almost as if he’s afraid I’ll push him away. Deny him. I keep my gaze averted, not wanting to look at him, scared of what I might see. Or what I might not see.