Page 45 of Almost Enough

“Anything.”

“What’s really going on with you and Beau?”

I open my mouth, then close it, the question catching me off guard. “I…don’t know,” I admit finally.

“Because you like him?”

“Because he’s impossible to read,” I counter, avoiding her gaze. “One minute he’s all stay away from me and the next he’s pressing me against a wall and making me see stars. It’s like he can’t decide if he wants me or not.”

Violet gives me a knowing look. “Or maybe he knows exactly what he wants but doesn’t think he deserves it.”

I blink at her. “What do you mean?”

“Rowan says Beau doesn’t do relationships. Like, at all.” She tucks her legs under her, settling in for what’s clearly going to be a heart-to-heart. “Apparently, he’s got some serious walls up. Family stuff, I think.”

“He’s never talked about his family,” I murmur, thinking back to the long drive.

“Because there’s nothing good to say.” Her voice softens. “From what Rowan’s told me, his mom was…unstable. Dad was worse. Beau basically raised himself.”

“I had no idea.”

“You wouldn’t, because that’s Beau.” Violet gives me a gentle smile. “But I’ve seen how he looks at you when you’re not watching. Like you’re this puzzle he can’t figure out but desperately wants to solve.”

I twist my hands in my lap, trying to process what she’s saying. “So, what, I’m supposed to just be patient while he figures out if he wants to keep torturing me with his hot-and-cold routine?”

“I’m not saying it’s fair,” Violet replies. “But maybe there’s something real beneath all that brooding. Something worth waiting for, if you’re willing.”

I collapse back onto the bed with a groan. “When did you get so wise? You’re about to get married. Aren’t you supposed to be having a meltdown right now?”

She laughs. “Oh, I’m definitely having an internal meltdown. I just hide it better than you do.”

We sit in comfortable silence for a moment. “I’ve known Beau for a long time,” she finally says. “Not well, but I think you scare him, Whit.”

I snort. “Scared of me? Violet, the man looks like he was carved out of granite by someone who was really pissed off. He’s six-foot-something of silent, broody intimidation.”

“Exactly.” She points a perfectly manicured finger at me like she’s cracked some ancient code. “And then you just…waltz in and bulldoze right through his emotional fortress.”

I chew on that for a second. “So, basically, I’m his walking nightmare.”

“Or,” she says, that annoyingly wise smile tugging at her lips, “you’re exactly what he’s been needing. Someone to wake him up and shake things loose.”

I sit up, pulling my knees to my chest. “When did this turn into a therapy session about Beau? This is your wedding weekend. We should be talking about you.”

Violet shrugs. “We’ll talk about me all day tomorrow. Pictures, vows, crying parents—the works. But tonight?” She grins. “Tonight, I get to play the wise best friend who doles out unsolicited relationship advice while wearing a silk pajama set and hydrating under eye patches.”

I laugh. “God help us all.”

Violet pushes off the bed and heads into the bathroom, humming “Going to the Chapel” under her breath. I’m left with the echo of her words in my ears and the burn of hope mixed with the higher voltage anxiety that always runs through me before something big.

I toy with the edge of my pillow, rolling the thought between my thumb and forefinger. Maybe Violet and Rowan are the kind of couple who can look at disaster and say, Sure, let’s try again. Some people are built for happily ever after, and I love that for them. But me and Beau? It’s like we were designed to test the will they/won’t they cliché until both of us snap.

I wonder what he’s doing now. If he’s still at the main lodge with Rowan, throwing back shots and not talking about anything that matters, or if he’s out somewhere under the stars, cataloging regrets. My chest pulses with something that feels a lot like longing, then morphs immediately into dread. It’s easier to want someone when you know deep down they’ll never really be yours—less risk of disappointment that way.

A tap on the window jolts me from my thoughts.

It isn’t a knock, more like a gentle clink. I freeze, the hair on my arms standing up. It’s after midnight, and the resort has a strict “quiet hours” rule.

The tap comes again, more insistent this time. It’s definitely not the wind. I untangle myself from the comforter and cross to the window. I tug the curtain aside an inch, blinking into the silver-blue moonlight.