Getting Real (Getting Some 3)

That’s what this is like for me, sitting next to Violet.

The muffled chatter of conversations continue around me and the world keeps turning—but my brain is on pause—caught on a single phenomenal, indisputable, truth.

I’m in love with this woman.

Deeply, undeniably, rapturously in love.

She’s perfect for me—precious to me. In every conceivable way.

“It’s a line from Fight Club, Connor,” Violet says, misunderstanding my silence.

I clear my throat, managing to get out, “Yeah, I know.”

She smiles and my heart pounds with devotion.

“Oh good—you had me worried there for a minute.”

The waitress sets Violet’s cocktail in front of her—a tall pink fruity thing with an umbrella. And, Jesus Christ Almighty, even the way she sips her drink . . . the way her pretty lips pucker, is completely adorable to me.

I fucking love her. My happiness is inexorably linked to hers—to her existence in my life—her presence in my home, my bed, my heart. There’s nothing I don’t want to share with her.

I want Violet to be a part of my everything and my always.

And for a guy like me—who once upon a time believed I’d had that and ended up running face-first into a brick wall of mistaken—it’s a huge realization.

Life altering. Future changing. Not just for me, but for my kids.

Still, the massiveness of it doesn’t make it one bit less true.

And I’m almost sure Violet feels the same way about me. But “almost” only counts in horseshoes.

So I have to be sure. I have to tell her—go out on a limb and be the half of the couple who says it first.

And find out if Violet’s up for everything and always with me too.

* * *

The sad but pervasive truth about life, that I think I know better than the average person—is that it’s short and unpredictable. When you find happiness, you can’t take it for granted.

You need to grab onto that shit with both hands and hold on tight. You can’t waste time, you can’t hesitate—if you do, chances are good you’ll regret it.

And regrets suck ass in an especially brutal way.

I thought about telling Violet how I feel about her last night when we came back to my place from the hibachi restaurant. But Violet gets frisky when she’s buzzed—and naughty. I’m not sure how much alcohol was in those umbrella drinks . . . but she started doing a striptease as soon as we walked through my bedroom door.

Not that I’m complaining. At all.

But I don’t want Violet to think the first time I tell her I love her, that it’s just the orgasm talking.

I want it to be perfect and right—I want her to know the words are coming straight from my soul. I’m also going to ask her to move in with me and the boys, full time—which is definitely a conversation she should be sober for.

It’s a big step, but because it’s her . . . it just feels easy.

“I’m walking across the parking lot right now,” Violet tells me on the phone. She left for work from here this morning and was on shift until 8 p.m. “I’m going to head home and shower and then I’ll be over in about an hour and a half for this late dinner you’re cooking up for me.”

Brayden and Spencer are sleeping at Ryan and Angela’s, and Aaron’s out with his friends and won’t be home until midnight—so there won’t be any interruptions.

“Sounds good, Vi.”

“Do you need me to bring anything?”

“Just you, baby,” I tell her. “All I need is you.”

She releases a breathy, happy little sigh, and cool, cocky pride rushes through me at being the reason for it. When she speaks again, her voice is softer, sweeter.

“I’ll see you soon, Connor.”

“Okay. See you soon.”

* * *

Forty-five minutes later, the lights in the dining room are dimmed and the table is set for two, with candles just waiting to be lit. One of the benefits of my re-upped bachelorhood is that I learned how to cook better. Not a wide variety of dishes, but the ones I know I’m Gordon-fucking-Ramsay-level awesome at.

So the homemade mashed potatoes are whipped and creamy, the foil-wrapped asparagus is dressed with butter and fresh-grated Parmesan cheese, and the steaks are perfectly seasoned and ready to be tossed on the grill.

It’ll take me ten minutes to hop in the shower and change my clothes—and then everything will be set for the ultimate romantic night.

I don’t lock the front door when I’m home—I don’t think anyone in Lakeside does. So when I hear it open and footsteps walking into the house, it’s unexpected but not unusual.

I’m at the counter drying my hands on a dishtowel when my brother Garrett walks into the kitchen. I’m about to ask him, “What’s up?” but the words get lodged in my throat when I see his face.