by A. J. Pine
“Violet! Walker!” he heard from behind. “We forgot one box of champagne flutes. It’s not that heavy if someone wants to come and grab them.”
“I’m on it!” Violet called back to Dorothy as Walker squinted at the building. Violet was already halfway back to the door, and he was certain she was capable of taking care of the last remaining box, four-inch heels or no.
He shrugged and started gingerly loading his inventory into the empty trunk, fitting them in like fragile puzzle pieces. Well color him impressed. What her car lacked in legroom, it made up for in storage space.
He heard the crash of glass against pavement before he heard the scream. Violet’s scream.
She was only ten strides from the car, but he felt like he was moving through a thick swamp as his brain flashed from the present to when he was barely a teen—when Jack cried out for their father as he crashed down their home’s wooden stairs, when the police and paramedics had burst through the front door and Walker was still too scared to leave his room, fearing he’d see his brother dead at the bottom of the steps.
“Walker! Hey—are you okay?” Violet’s voice broke through the invasion of the past. “Because I could use a little help.”
His vision cleared, and he realized he wasn’t peering down at his dead brother. He was standing over Violet. Broken glass lay scattered in front of her, but it looked as if she’d fallen away from it.
“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice strained.
She rolled her eyes. “A bruised ego and anticipation of your I told you so for carrying a box in these shoes, but other than that, yes. I could use a hand, though.” She reached out for him and then gasped as they both took in the same sight—a piece of glass embedded in her palm, blood trickling down her wrist and forearm. “Okay,” she added, a slight tremor in her voice, “I might be a little less than okay.”
“Oh no!” Dorothy came running up behind them. “What happened? Did the box break? Our packers are so good at making sure—”
“It was my heel,” Violet said, now cradling her injured hand in the palm of the other. “It caught in a crack in the pavement. I dropped the box. And then, well, I dropped myself, too.”
She forced a smile.
Walker was squatting next to her now. “Dorothy, are you folks good to clean all this up while I get Ms. Chastain to the ER?”
Dorothy nodded vigorously, shooing them toward the car. “Yes! Go! We’ve got things under control here.”
With that Walker scooped Violet into his arms and carried her to the car. He set her down next to the vehicle, and she leaned against the passenger door.
“Before we get you all strapped in, I want to see if we can slow the bleeding, okay?”
She bit her lip and nodded.
“It doesn’t look like the glass is in there too deep. If I can get it out—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, mister. You’re—you’re going to pull it out?” Her throat bobbed as she swallowed.
“I’m going to try,” he told her. “I have a feeling you’ll be a lot happier if I can. But if there’s even the slightest bit of resistance, I’ll leave it. I don’t want to open the gash more. Getting it out, though, means I can wrap it up nice and tight—staunch the blood flow and probably make it hurt less.”
She forced a smile. “I’m a big fan of less pain.”
He cleared his throat. “Do you trust me?”
She nodded, though he guessed she didn’t have much choice. Trusting him was pretty much her only option.
He untied the belt from her dress.
She gasped. “Wait, what are you—”
He raised a brow and tossed the belt over his shoulder. “Tourniquet.” Then he placed her hand in his palm. “Close your eyes. It’s easier if you don’t watch.”
She squeezed her eyes shut. “For you or for me?”
He huffed out a small laugh. “Both of us, probably.”
It was a clean cut, a little deeper than he’d let on, though she’d probably guessed that based on the amount of blood. But if the entry point had nothing jagged jutting off either side, it should come out easily enough.
As he reached for the shard, Violet started humming quietly enough not to distract him but hopefully, he guessed, enough to distract herself.
He pinched the glass between his fingers, and she sucked in a breath. It slid out with zero resistance, and he quickly wrapped the cotton belt around her palm until he’d used its entire length, tucking the end under where the makeshift bandage hit her knuckles.
“If I had a lollipop,” he said softly, “I’d give it to you for being such a good patient.”
Her eyes fluttered open, and she gaped at his handiwork, rudimentary as it was.
“You did it!” she whisper-shouted, grinning now, but he noted the sheen of moisture on her lashes. It had definitely hurt.
“How about we go and get you fixed up for real now, okay?”
She nodded, allowing him to help her into the car.
“And when you’re all better, we’re going to have a serious discussion about your shoes.”
Violet snorted with laughter as he slammed her door, then rounded to the driver’s side.
She handed him the keys after he adjusted the seat to fit his much taller build. But before she let them go, she squeezed his palm in hers.
“Thank you, Walker. That’s twice now you’ve come to my rescue. I’m beginning to think you’re a bit of a hero.”
Heat spread from her hand to his, warming his entire being from the inside out.
He pulled away and started the car.
“I’m anything but, Ms. Chastain. You’ll figure that out soon enough.”
He headed out of the parking lot and onto the street, mentally kicking himself for talking to her like such a dick—distancing himself with the formality of her last name. She needed comfort, and all he could do was think of himself, of how he’d love to be whatever it was she thought she saw in him. But he knew that was impossible.
Walker Everett sure as hell wasn’t any kind of hero, but when it came to Violet Chastain, pretending was what he did best. Maybe—just for today—he could be hers.
Luckily, midafternoon on a Wednesday was not a high traffic time at the ER, and Walker and Violet got right into an examining room.
She sat on the exam table, swinging her legs below her as she investigated her belt bandage.
“I guess this part of my dress is ruined,” she said with a small laugh.
Walker was sitting in the chair against the wall, the one meant for the family member or loved one who was there for moral support. He’d spent plenty of time in hospitals as a kid when his mother was sick. But in later years, he was usually the one on the table himself. This was an odd vantage point for him.
The curtain flew open, and in walked a nurse—an older woman with short gray hair, a sturdy build, and a warm maternal smile. That was, until she saw him.
She looked at the chart, brows furrowed. “Walker Everett. Walker. Everett.”
“That would be me,” he said coolly.
“So you’re not the patient?” she asked, her eyes meeting his.
Violet cleared her throat and waved her bandaged hand. “Um, no. I’m Violet? The name on the chart. I’m the patient.” She turned to Walker. “Am I missing something here?”
He stared at the older woman long and hard until it finally clicked. Walker spoke before the nurse could.
“I, uh, broke my nose a couple months ago,” he said. “Work injury. Nurse—” He squinted at her ID badge. “Nurse Sheila was on call when I came in to get it looked at.”
He thought back to what he must have looked like when Jack brought him in after sleeping it off in a jail cell, his clothes full of blood and eyes so black and blue he was practically unrecognizable. He kept a picture on his phone as a reminder in case he sat down with the whiskey bottle one night and decided not to pour it back in. Speaking of his old friend, he was sure he smelled like he’d bathed in that bottle on tha
t night a couple months ago, which he practically had. Walker knew about doctor/patient confidentiality and such but wasn’t sure if nurses fell under that jurisdiction. He hoped to hell they did.
“You’ve healed nicely,” Sheila said, scrutinizing his face. Then, seemingly satisfied, she turned her attention to Violet. “So tell me what you’re in for today.”
Walker let out a stealthy breath of relief.
Violet held up her hand. “I dropped some glass, fell on some glass, and cut my hand on some glass. Guess you could say it’s a work injury, too.” She winced when she glanced at Walker. “First day on the job. I really am the worst, aren’t I?”
She forced a laugh, and Walker opened his mouth to say something to reassure her, but wasn’t quite sure what the right words were. Jenna—Jenna would be perfect in a situation like this. She knew how to be someone’s cheerleader even if they’d done something as silly as tripped over their own shoes—or fallen through a tavern window. But being the kind of person you depended on was out of Walker’s realm of experience. Didn’t stop him from wanting to figure out how to do it now, for Violet at least.
Sheila put down her clipboard and approached Violet, carefully taking the injured hand in her own. “Let’s look at what we’re dealing with here, okay? Then I’ll get you cleaned up before the doc takes a look and decides whether or not you need sutures.”
He started to back out of the room, but Violet worried her bottom lip between her teeth. “Walker, can you—I mean, I’ve never had stitches before. I know it’s silly, but would you stay?”
He stopped and nodded, then slowly made his way to her side. Without really thinking, he took her good hand in his, and their fingers threaded together.
Sheila smiled, then busied herself with unwrapping the wound.
“Ooh, yeah,” she said when the injury was visible. “This one’s a beauty. Small but deep. A nice clean line, though. Dr. Chloe might even be able to do it with glue. Let me irrigate it and put some gauze on top to start, and we’ll have you out of here in no time.”
Violet nodded and squeezed his hand tighter. Despite what sounded like good news, all Walker heard was Dr. Chloe. She was the same ER doc who fixed up his nephew Owen when he and Jack were both hit by a car. She was also the same doctor who’d set his nose, which meant he was basically surrounded by women who knew the real him, at least enough so that they could let slip who that real him might have been—and possibly still be. He felt the facade he’d built with Violet threaten to crumble, so he simply stood there, gripping her uninjured hand as tight as she gripped his back, while Sheila went to work.
“Knock, knock,” someone said from outside the curtain. “Can I come in?”
“All ready for you, Doc,” Sheila called over her shoulder, and the curtain opened to reveal a pretty young woman, her straight dark hair pulled into a tight ponytail. The white coat and stethoscope around her neck were the dead giveaway for who she was.
“Hi, Violet. I’m Dr. Chloe.”
Violet chuckled. “Don’t doctors usually use their last names?”
The woman smiled and nodded. “I’m kind of the go-to for all the minors who come into the ER,” she explained. “And they connect better with less formality. After a while I got used to introducing myself that way.”
Violet let go of Walker’s hand and reached out for an awkward left-handed shake.
“Nice to meet you, Dr. Chloe. I connect better with less formality, too.”
The doctor then looked Walker up and down until her eyes widened with recognition.
“Walker Everett?” she said with unmasked incredulity. “You look like you’re feeling a lot better these days.”
His jaw tightened. “I am, thanks.”
She stared at him for another few seconds. “Not too bad for my first nasal fracture,” she said. Walker’s eyes widened, and the doctor winked. “I’m kidding,” she said. “Been around longer than you think.” She turned back to her patient. “Right, now, let’s see that hand, Violet.”
Nurse Sheila stepped back and made room for the doctor. Chloe lifted the gauze, dabbed the wound to clean away fresh blood, and then grinned.
“Sheila, can you prepare the surgical glue. This will be a quick fix.”
Sheila’s eyes brightened. “See? What’d I tell ya? If you’re going to fall on some glass, do it however you did.”
Violet laughed. “Maybe I should carry fragile items in spiked heels more often.”
“No!” they all answered in unison, and Walker couldn’t help laughing along with everyone else.
Fifteen minutes later Violet was patched up and signing her release papers.
“So, you can get the wound wet, but don’t submerge it. The glue is strong, but too much water will eat away at it. And if you’re right-handed,” Dr. Chloe said, “I’d take it easy tonight and maybe for the next day. The wound will heal pretty quickly, in about a week, but you want to give the glue time to really set, and you don’t want to agitate the cut while it’s still so fresh. It’s tough when the cut is in a place that gets used so often.”
“Driving’s not a big deal, right?” Violet asked. “I’m headed to Santa Barbara after this.”
Dr. Chloe shook her head. “If you can avoid it, I would. Driving is such a subconscious activity that even if you tell yourself you won’t use your right hand, the next thing you know you’re white-knuckling the steering wheel, slamming on your horn, and shouting your favorite expletives at the jerk in the sports car because he cut you off and almost caused a pile-up.” She blew out a breath. “Not that I’m speaking from experience.”
Violet let out a nervous laugh. “O…kay. No driving. I guess I could find a place to stay in town tonight.”
Walker cleared his throat. “Sheriff’s girlfriend runs the B and B. She’ll put you up for the night.”
Violet shrugged. “Then I guess it’s settled. I’m staying in Oak Bluff tonight.”
In less than a day Walker had gone from figuring out how to avoid this woman, to holding her hand, to having her stay right next door to Lucinda’s Antiques—and the apartment he rented above. He was in over his head, and yet he couldn’t help the smile playing at his lips as they headed back out to Violet’s tiny car.
“Your chariot awaits,” he said, pulling open the passenger-side door.
She grabbed his hand and gave it a firm squeeze. “Thank you, Walker,” was all she said.
He threw on the heart-shaped sunglasses and flashed her a rare grin.
“Anything for you, Teach,” he said.
And he was beginning to think that might be the truth—that he would do anything for the woman who less than a week ago was a complete stranger.
Anything but admit who he really was.
Chapter Eight
I’m so happy to meet you!” Olivia Belle, the owner of the Oak Bluff Bed and Breakfast and girlfriend to the town’s very own Sheriff Cash Hawkins greeted Violet and Walker in the foyer of the B and B. “Ava told me all about you, said she’s so excited to have another woman on the Crossroads Vineyard team.”
Violet smiled as Olivia started leading her and Walker up a narrow flight of stairs.
“Ooh, I just thought of something,” Olivia said. “We’re doing a wine tasting here Friday night. A couple of new vintages from Ava’s family’s vineyard. Maybe you’d like to join and show me the ropes? I mean, I’m a wine drinker but not a connoisseur. If it goes well, maybe we make it a regular thing? Business has been growing, so there’s room in the budget…”
Violet’s head was swimming and her hand throbbing. Right now all she wanted to do was collapse onto a bed and rest.
“Shoot,” Olivia said. “I’m coming at ya too fast and too strong, aren’t I? It’s just that it’s not every day you meet someone who fits in perfectly to your whole business plan, you know?” She winced. “And there I go again. I’ll shut up now.”
Violet laughed. She could use all the income she could get. But she needed to decompress after th
e disaster that was today. “That would actually be amazing,” she said. “I could use the extra work. But is it okay if I hang in the room for a bit and get my bearings first? Then I’d love to talk more about it.”
Olivia beamed. “Of course! And if you’re really looking for some spare change, I’ve got connections. How are you with dogs?”
Walker rolled his eyes. “She’s not walkin’ the sheriff’s dog, Olivia.”
“Why not?” Violet shot back. “I love dogs.” She’d never owned one, but how hard could it be?
Olivia raised a brow at Walker, then turned her attention back to Violet. “She’s a great dog, and she usually rides along with Cash—the sheriff—but he’s been talking about getting someone to take care of her when he’s on duty for forty-eight hours or more at a stretch. I’ll tell him you’re interested.” Then she opened the door in front of where they’d been standing to reveal rich hardwood floors, a small fireplace, soothing periwinkle blue walls, and a plush queen-size bed. In other words—complete and utter heaven.
Olivia’s brown curls bounced against her shoulders as she clapped her hands together. “Do you like it? I’ve been doing a little bit of redecorating. No charge for the room tonight, by the way, and any night you stay and help with the wine stuff. Consider it part of your benefit package.”
“I love this room,” Violet said. “I doubt I’ll be able to say no to a ‘benefit package’ like that.”
Olivia grinned even wider. “I’ll take that as an almost yes,” she sing-songed. Then she squeezed Walker’s shoulder. “You take good care of her.” She winked at him and slipped out the door before Walker could say anything in protest.
Violet’s cheeks heated. He’d already done so much for her, and she didn’t mean only today. She was sure all he wanted was to get the hell back to his life—the one she seemed to keep interrupting.
“I’m fine. Really. You’ve taken care of me plenty already,” she said, surveying the room and trying to sound breezy. “I’m sure you’ve got enough to do now that I’ve monopolized your whole day. Again.” She shrugged. “At least no surprise dinner party, right? Thank you, though, Walker. You were really great today. You could have I told you so’d me so hard, and I would have deserved it. Also…I’ll pay for the glasses I broke.”