Somehow the day has gotten away from me, I realize, as I take in the darkening sky around us.
I sit Violet on the edge of my bed before going to grab a warm face cloth. She’s banged up one of her knees pretty good. I make my way back to her, leaning down and dabbing at the wound.
Any other injuries?
She shakes her head violently and I notice she’s shivering.
Are you cold? Here— I pull off my sad jumper, as Billie called it, and hand it over to Violet before she can respond.
I watch Violet pull the sweatshirt over her shoulders, something like possessiveness gripping my chest. She reaches behind her head, her hand pulling her hair from where it was trapped behind her neck and tucked into the jumper. She looks down as she does this, lost in thought and eyelashes fluttering, the movement so casual I’m sure she’s done it a thousand times.
But never in my jumper.
The final flick of her wrist, setting the hair free, makes me forget my own name.
I am certain that if I do not touch her at this moment, I will lose myself entirely. One wee innocent touch will be enough to dissuade my racing thoughts. Right?
I reach forward, pretending a piece of her hair is still trapped behind the hood of my jumper—mine—and say quietly, Let me help you.
I’m greedy with my graze across the back of her neck, moving hair that isn’t there, and feeling her skin pebble with goosebumps. I want her mouth on mine, and I’m certain it’s written all over my stupid fucking face.
This, I think to myself, is more than I have ever felt for anyone.
Surely there’s a word for it, but it eludes me at this moment.
Violet lifts her eyes to mine and says, almost in a whisper, Thanks.
No bother, I say, hoping I don’t sound as off my head as I feel right now. So how come you were lurking outside my cabin?
Nothing like a little banter to distract us both.
Oh, right, she says, looking down to fiddle with the strings on my sweater. Again, that feeling sweeps through my entire chest. She gets like this sometimes, fidgety and unsure of herself.
I was coming to see if you wanted to go get dinner or something, she looks almost guilty, I ate all my cabin snacks.
Dinner or something. I’m not sure why my brain is so fixated on this point.
Come on, I say, pulling her up off my bed wearing my sweater. Dinner sounds grand.
Chapter 29
VIOLET
FINN DRIVES US ALL THE way into Sydney, taking us to a restaurant on the waterfront. We sit out on a patio, the air cool tonight, and I wrap his hoodie tighter around me.
I am disturbingly aware that this is the first time, ever, that I’ve worn a man’s sweater. It smells like him: that fresh citrus mixed with something darker that I can’t quite put my finger on.
What kind of cologne do you wear? The question is out before I register that it sounds like I want to bottle him up and take him everywhere, which is exactly the case.
He smirks at me, naming a brand I’ve never heard of, and I sear it to memory so I can look up the fragrance notes later.
When I don’t say anything, he nudges my foot under the table. Smells good, aye?
If I didn’t know any better, I would think he’s feeling slightly vulnerable by this question, so I don’t lie to him. Yes, I say in a shaky exhale, and determined not to look like a simpering puppy dog, I add in what I hope is a playful tone, But I can’t say it’s the best cologne I’ve ever smelled.
That smirk again. It makes my stomach drop, like I’ve fallen through the ceiling.
Do tell, darling Violet. Who smells better than me?
