by Addison Cole
There was no sight more beautiful than watching Violet love him. The memories of the look of pleasure that came over her when she’d loved him had played in his mind so many times while they were apart, the scent of jasmine could conjure them.
Her hair fell around their faces. Her brow wrinkled and she said, “Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Never mind. Just close your eyes.”
He did, and she began kissing her way down his chest.
“Baby, you feel so good,” he said as she kissed his pecs. “That’s it. Damn, baby, your mouth is magic.”
She looked up at him. “Stop saying sweet things.”
“Why?”
Her eyes flamed. “Because it turns me to mush, and I can’t drive you crazy when you do that to me.”
He looked down at his arousal and said, “Apparently you drive me crazy when you’re mushy, so we’re good.”
She glared at him, and he chuckled.
When she lowered her mouth to his skin again he buried his hands in her hair and said, “That’s it, baby. You feel incredible.”
She stopped cold, glowering at him.
“I can’t help it,” he said with a laugh. “Sweet stuff just comes out. What do you want me to say—take it all, baby?”
She shot him a death glare.
“There’s no middle of the road, babe. I love you, so you get what you get.”
“Forget it.” She grabbed his shirt from the floor and said, “Am I going to have to gag you?”
In one swift move he swept her beneath him, both of them laughing.
“You blew it with all your nice talk,” she said with a laugh. “I wanted to rock your world.”
“You rock my world by just being. No more hiding. I like my mushy Violet as much as I like my fierce Violet. Now, sweetheart”—he kissed her deeply—“I’m going to make love to you good and hard, and I’m going to say sweet stuff until you surrender to your inner softness. Got it?”
VIOLET TRIED TO suppress her smile, but it broke free as she said, “I will never surrender.”
His eyes darkened and he said, “You’re so sweet, my love. I missed you.”
His tender words made everything feel more intense, more loving, unfurling the knots of aggression that had been her constant companion, her armor, for as long as she could remember.
Except when she was with Andre.
She struggled to hold on to the edginess she’d hidden behind for so long, but his love was too powerful, her desire for him inescapable. As she loved him, his emotions poured out heatedly like a beautiful cascading river, “I love the way you feel, the way you move,” and her need for control fell away. She surrendered to their love, fisting her hands in the sheets. When their bodies became one, she wrapped her arms around him and said, “Stay right there. I missed you so much. I just want to feel you, feel us, for a minute, like this.”
He brushed his lips over hers and said, “You’re never going to be able to escape the feel of us again.”
A LONG WHILE later Violet lay in Andre’s strong arms, listening to the peacefulness of his breathing. Even after all their time apart, his sounds were comfortingly familiar. She moved carefully out from his arms and sat on the edge of the bed, taking stock of her emotions. She eyed their clothing strewn across the floor, his shirt bunched up at the head of the bed where she’d dropped it after threatening to gag him. She smiled, looking at the patient, determined man who was unwilling to let her hide behind her aggression. He really was beautiful, inside and out. She pressed a kiss to his cheek, and then she climbed off the bed and padded softly to the bathroom.
When she returned, he was still fast asleep.
She glanced at the bedroom door, and her pulse quickened. How did I ever leave you? She slipped into bed beside him and pulled the covers up over them. He made a sleepy sound as his arm circled her waist, pulling her tight against him.
“You didn’t leave,” he said sleepily, lacing his fingers with hers.
She snuggled deeper into the curve of his body and said, “Why would I leave when I finally realized this is the one place I belong most?”
Chapter Eight
VIOLET LOOKED UP from the fruit she was cutting in the kitchen of the inn and watched Andre flip a pancake. He looked delicious in a pair of jeans and a forest-green shirt. She still couldn’t believe this was really happening—he was real, and there, and he didn’t hate her. That was good, because she probably carried enough self-loathing for both of them. She must have been out of her mind to leave him behind.
He glanced over as he placed a heap of bacon on a stack of paper towels and winked, unleashing a flutter of butterflies in her stomach. She hadn’t stopped smiling since she’d woken up at dawn to his tender kisses and his cavity-evokingly sweet whispers. Gosh, how I love them. They’d lain in bed kissing and talking for more than an hour before deciding to surprise Desiree and Rick with breakfast before they left for their honeymoon.
She set the plate of fruit aside, thinking about the boxes of art supplies in Andre’s cottage, and said, “After breakfast I’ll show you my studio upstairs. Maybe you can put your stuff up there and we can share the space.” She heard Desiree and Rick talking and grabbed two mugs from a cabinet.
“Good morning,” Violet said as they came into the kitchen holding hands. They looked happier than she’d ever seen them, which said a lot, because they were two of the happiest people she knew.
“Whoa.” Desiree’s gaze drifted over the platters of pancakes, fruit, bacon, and eggs. “Am I in the right house?”
Rick grinned and lowered his voice as he said, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Violet cook,” as if his comment were meant for Desiree’s ears only.
“I’m not cooking.” Violet nodded at Andre and said, “That’s what he’s for.”
“Violet wanted to surprise you before you left for your honeymoon,” Andre explained.
Violet looked away, but not before noticing the sentimental look in her sister’s eyes.
“You wanted to surprise us?” Desiree walked into Violet’s line of sight, studying her face. “You’re smiling, too. Oh, Violet!” She threw her arms around her and said, “Your happiness is the best wedding present ever!”
Violet wriggled out of her arms, and Rick chuckled. Violet glared at him. “You’re egging her on. You know that, don’t you?”
“She loves you, Vi. It’s a beautiful thing. Besides, we’re leaving right after breakfast, so I have to get my pestering in now.” Rick snagged a piece of bacon and leaned against the counter beside Andre. “Buddy, this is awesome. Thank you. And thank you, Violet, for being so thoughtful.”
Violet rolled her eyes. “How about making yourself useful and carrying breakfast out to the table before the vultures arrive.”
“Too late!” Emery said as she and Dean came through the kitchen door, both wearing workout clothes. “We’re here and…Holy moly. Violet hasn’t scared Andre off yet?”
Violet thrust the plate of fruit into her hands. “Fill that trap with fruit or knuckles. Your choice.”
“You’re all bark, no bite.” Emery giggled as she carried the fruit outside.
“Hey, man,” Dean said to Andre. “Does the whole delicious-breakfast-incredible-sex thing carry over to everyone who stays at Summer House?”
Rick and Desiree laughed.
“Shoot,” Violet mumbled, noticing the confusion in Andre’s eyes. She handed Dean the platter of pancakes and said, “No, it does not.” She handed Rick a plate of eggs and pointed to the door. “Out.”
“I’m going,” Rick said, and then he and Desiree carried platters of food outside, leaving Violet and Andre alone. Finally. She hadn’t counted on getting grief from the gossip girls.
Andre wrapped his arms around her and said, “You look hot in purple.”
She looked down at her dark purple tank top. “Thanks.”
“But pink looks better on you.” He kissed her cheek, and only then did she realize her
cheeks were warm and probably flushed. “What did he mean by delicious-breakfast-incredible-sex thing?”
“Desiree loves to cook, but when she and Rick have great sex, she makes breakfasts that could make a dead man weep.”
A slow grin spread across Andre’s face. “In that case, I’ll have to up my game.”
“You up your game any more and I won’t be able to walk.” They’d made love three times last night, and she was sore in places she didn’t know could hurt.
His eyes narrowed and he said, “I meant my breakfast game.” He grabbed her butt and slanted his mouth over hers.
“Get a room,” Chloe said as she came into the kitchen. “I’m just grabbing coffee. Hey, Andre, you don’t happen to have a single brother hanging around anywhere, do you?”
“Not that I’m aware of. But I hear Justin is single.”
Chloe poured her coffee. “No thanks. I’ve done the bad-boy thing. I’m holding out for someone who smiles once in a while.”
Andre laced his fingers with Violet’s and said, “Sometimes you’ve got to fight for smiles, but that just makes them that much more special.”
“Can you please not say that sappy stuff about me?” Violet said as Chloe took her coffee out the door.
“Who says I was talking about you?” He chuckled at her deadpan stare. “Like I said last night, you’re not going to scare me off, and I’m not going to change how I show my love for you. So you’d better get used to being mushy most of the time.”
“Most of the time? Sounds horrifying.”
“You love it. Besides…” He backed her up against the wall and boxed her in with his hard body. His eyes turned raven black as he ground his hips against hers and fisted one hand in her hair. “I said most of the time. I’ve seen your softer side, and it’s as much a part of you as the wild woman you show everyone else. Once you stop fighting what you really feel and allow yourself to be mushy and loved like you did when we were overseas—when I know you’re all in—we’re going to let rough-and-wild Violet out to play—gags, silk ties, whatever you want, baby. I’m all yours.”
ANDRE LOVED HAVING breakfast with Violet and her friends. The girls were hilarious, relentlessly teasing her about how domestic she’d become, which of course parlayed into jokes about their sex life. Violet took it all in stride, ignoring most of their comments and tossing in enough snarky barbs of her own to put them in their places. Rick and Desiree shared their honeymoon plans, and Drake and Dean asked Andre if he’d like to go running with them in the mornings. Emery insisted he and Violet join her for yoga at some point—unless it interfered with their ability to make breakfast, of course. It was easy to see why Violet had finally been able to settle down enough to stay put.
It was one of the most enjoyable mornings he’d had in a very long time, made even better because it had started out by waking up with Violet in his arms. But this morning had also brought to light things about Violet that he hadn’t recognized when they were overseas, like the fact that she didn’t seem to like to be hugged by anyone other than him and—he reluctantly admitted—Justin. And she didn’t take credit for anything she did. It went much further than simply not signing her artwork. He felt bad for Rick and Desiree. Violet had given them each a quick hug when they were saying their goodbyes, and she acted like she wasn’t going to miss them. Then she’d stood at the end of the driveway with a mix of happiness and longing in her eyes, watching them drive away. She didn’t leave that spot until their car had disappeared around the corner. She wasn’t fooling him. She was definitely going to miss them, despite the way she’d announced, Finally. Now we have the inn all to ourselves for three and a half weeks. Except maybe for breakfasts, when the moochers will be back.
As he followed her upstairs to her pottery studio, he thought about how she hadn’t taken credit for planning to surprise Desiree and Rick with breakfast. That brought his thoughts back to something Steph had said last night at the coffeehouse. She’d told him that Violet had dropped everything to help Rowan with Joni many times and that she had become a surrogate sister to Steph. Steph had explained that her younger sister, Bethany, had been Ashley’s best friend, and when they’d lost Ashley, Bethany had lost herself in drugs. Steph’s sister had been in and out of her life ever since, and apparently Violet had been a godsend, stepping in to help her deal with the roller coaster of emotions her sister’s visits evoked.
As much as he would have liked to have learned those things from Violet, he had a feeling it would take an act of congress for her to pat herself on the back. Trusting him enough to bring him into the secret world she kept hidden from everyone, including her own sister, had been a huge step. Even after just a few days it was clear how much her friends on both sides adored her. He just wished their breakup hadn’t caused her to create such a divide in her daily life.
“Here it is,” she said as he pushed open the studio door.
Bright light flooded the large, high-ceilinged studio. Incense hung in the air, mixing with the smell of clay and paint. He followed her into the unfinished room. His gaze was immediately drawn to the chaos of works in progress to his right, where several wooden tables were littered with clay vases, cups, pencil holders, tools, and sketches. They were as familiar as the woman who made them. Old newspapers and magazines were scattered about tabletops and on the hardwood floor beside a mass of canvas tarps. Fabric was piled high on a round table by a bay of nearly floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the beach, and batiks were draped over long wooden bars that hung from ropes tied to exposed rafters in the ceiling. A few wooden chairs were strewn throughout that side of the room, each one boasting dried clay streaks left behind by the artist’s hand.
He wanted to know the stories behind those streaks and wished he’d been there to witness them coming to life. He pictured Violet working at the pottery wheel, crouching before the kiln in the corner of the room to carefully set her artwork inside. But his heart ached at what was so blatantly missing.
There wasn’t a sculpture in sight.
The opposite side of the room told a different story, one where paint cans and tubes were organized by color. Canvases and paintbrushes separated by size and type. An easel displayed a half-finished painting of the back of a man standing on a dock, the outline of a boat visible in one of the slips.
The only commonality between the two sides of the room was the unfinished floor, marred and scratched, speckled with dried paint and clay. This history of Desiree’s and Violet’s lives coming together.
He picked up a beautiful pottery bowl with fluted edges. “It’s all so familiar, and yet it’s not.”
“It’s been a long time.” Violet waved at the left side of the room. “That’s Desiree’s side. She paints, obviously. We share the studio.” She pointed to a closed door and said, “That’s a supply closet.” Then she pointed to another door across the room and said, “That’s the bathroom.”
“Did you give up sculpting? You were a natural. I always pictured you crafting beautiful sculptures of the kids you helped.”
She walked to the windows and looked out at the water. “I still sculpt, just not here.”
“Why not here?” he asked, joining her by the windows.
She shrugged, fidgeting with the edge of her tank top. The deep purple made her hair look even darker and her eyes even brighter. He wondered if her moods still influenced her clothing.
“Sculpting was our thing,” she said. The strain in her voice told him that revealing as much wasn’t easy for her. “It’s private, something I do for myself.”
He pushed his fingers into her hair and cupped her cheek, wondering if she knew how much that meant to him. “I’m glad you didn’t give it up. Where do you sculpt? I’d love to see that studio, too.”
Her eyes flicked toward the window, then back, with a hint of apology lingering in them as she said, “At Justin’s.”
That felt like a punch to the gut, but he pushed past it to try to understand. “You keep secrets from your
sister and all your friends, but not from Justin? Does he know about the coffeehouse, too?”
She shook her head. “We know some of the same people, but he doesn’t hang out there or anything. Dwayne is his cousin.”
He took a step back and said, “I’m trying to understand, babe. I really am. But if there’s more to you and Justin, please tell me.”
“There’s not.” She crossed her arms. “When I came here, I barely knew Desiree. She was like a figment of my imagination. The sister who was put in front of me for a few brief, uncomfortable days at a time. I had no idea if we’d get along or if we’d ever feel like real sisters again. She was the one my father chose to keep.”
The hurt in her voice slayed him. “I’m sorry, babe. I thought that was Lizza’s decision.”
He reached for her and she shook her head, but she didn’t step away.
“If you had a stepdaughter, would you let someone just take her away?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “But that doesn’t matter. You wanted to know why I don’t sculpt here. I had enough going on with Desiree and the inn and the freaking chaos Lizza had created. I didn’t want my memories of you added onto that. But I also didn’t want to forget you or what it felt like to be with you. When I told Justin that, he offered his studio where he does stonework. Our schedules worked out perfectly. In the spring and summer, he does most of his studio work during the day and on weekends. My summer schedule is the opposite. Between the gallery and the inn, I don’t have time to sculpt until late at night. This year we didn’t take any reservations after August because of the wedding, but we usually take them until late fall. And then mine and Justin’s schedules flip-flop.”
The sting over how much she’d shared with Justin took a backseat to the heartache she’d just revealed about her feelings toward Ted. Andre had met him at the wedding, and the guy had talked about Violet like a cherished daughter, not like a castaway. As much as he wanted to tell her that, the way she’d thwarted the conversation told him she had no intention of talking about that situation right now. He could only hope she’d open up more about it soon, as she had about other parts of her life.
