Wild about violet wild h.., p.1
Wild about Violet (Wild Hearts of Alaska Book 2), page 1
WILD ABOUT VIOLET
SARA BLACKARD
Inked Heart Press, LLC
Copyright © 2022 by Sara Blackard
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Chapter One
-Violet-
I glance across the small coffeehouse table at my date.
Date?
Maybe.
Well, not technically, since I had agreed to just hang out with the man to help my sister’s fiancé, Bjørn Rebel. But with the hunkalicious specimen seated across from me, I’m claiming this an official date, whether or not he knows it.
Seriously, though, how is it that the Rebel family is chock-full of hotties? It doesn’t seem logical or fair, yet, here I am, sitting across from the most gorgeous man I’ve ever met, trying not to stare or drool.
Maybe both.
I sigh, then cover the childish sound by taking a long sip of the cookies-and-cream blended coffee I’m currently obsessed with. The frigid drink hits my tongue, expanding the blood vessels in my mouth and instantly rushing blood to my meninges. Sharp pain, like fire, explodes behind my eyes, and I squeeze them tight.
“Brain freeze?”
Magnus Rebel’s sexy voice is all gravelly and low, like the forest fires he spends most of his time fighting have settled in his chest as smoky tones meant to lure women in. It works as it slides warmth down my spine.
Even his name is purr-worthy.
Magnus.
Maaagnusss.
I can imagine whispering it in his ear before kissing down his strong, stubbled jaw.
That is, if the first kiss works the way it should.
I shake the thought off. Thinking about kissing when we’ve only been here thirty minutes is not what needs to be occupying my mind. I’ll just psych myself out.
“Yeah.” I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth to shrink those little blood vessels back to normal. “I seem to get them a lot.”
He chuckles, and I’m a goner.
When Bjørn had asked if I’d keep his brother company while Bjørn and my sister Sadie went on a search-and-rescue mission, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to play host. If I didn’t have to teach my art class later this afternoon, I would’ve totally squeezed my way on the mission. Rescuing lost souls beat keeping company with little brothers any day.
Except today.
When the little brother wasn’t so little.
I’m not sure what I was expecting, but the tall, built man who’d met me outside my favorite Seward coffee shop wasn’t it. Nope. I got the most pleasant shock of my life when he strolled up to me, his dark navy T-shirt stretched tightly across his shoulders and hugging his chest like a baby monkey.
What would it feel like to wrap my arms around him? Probably pretty darn good. Especially if he uses those large, muscular hands to hold me close.
He breaks a piece of his scone off and pops it in his mouth. A crumb balances on his lip before he licks it off. The temptation to lean over the table and kiss him overwhelms me, which has never happened. Trust me, with my memory, I’d know.
I sip my drink, hoping to cool off my overactive hormones. It would not look good to launch myself across the table at the poor, unsuspecting man. I may have the whole artsy persona going on, but that would be overkill.
This man is dangerous in all the good ways. I can’t get my hopes up, though, not with how my dating life has been going.
“So, what’s it like being a smokejumper?” I put my drink down, determined to have a normal conversation.
“Hot.” But Magnus isn’t helping with his wink and lopsided grin.
The giggle that bubbles out of my mouth totally infuriates me. I’m not an airhead-without-a-brain type of person. Rolling my eyes, I take another sip to focus my bouncing brain shuffling data and seemingly useless facts at me. I snag on one and regurgitate it out.
“I still find it incredible that only thirty-seven years after the Wright brothers invented the plane, men willingly jumped out of them into the middle of a raging fire.” I bob my straw in my cup and shake my head. “Amazing. Can you imagine what it would’ve been like to be one of those first jumpers?”
Magnus shifts forward in his seat, his gaze intensely focused on me, and—oh, boy—I’m liking the effect. “Jumping has come a long way since then, but in some ways, I wish I could’ve been in on those first few years of it.”
“Blazing trails in the firefighting world?” I wag my eyebrows at him, gaining another chuckle from him. “Did you know that in that first year the smokejumpers fought fire, they saved the government over thirty-thousand dollars? Back then, that would’ve been a lot.”
“How do you know all this?” Magnus’s voice is full of awe.
Now, to just keep it there.
I shrug, hoping to look nonchalant. “My brain just snags on to details. Plus, I went through a whole firefighting phase.”
“Aw, lured in by the flames, but not willing to get burned. Few are.” Magnus sits back in his chair.
“No, it wasn’t that.” I fiddle with my straw. “My sister was in an avalanche, but you probably already know that. Her best friend died, and Sadie would’ve too, if she hadn’t been walking toward the door to get more wood from the porch. Made me decide that search and rescue is where I want to be.”
“Not any money in that.” Magnus twists his cup on the table.
“No, but it’s not full-time either, so I have time to work at the kennel we all own and do my art.” I pull my straw out of my cup and lick the whipped cream off.
Magnus follows the motion, his eyes dilating in the most fascinating way. So, I’m not the only one attracted.
Interesting.
He shifts in his chair, sucks in a breath, then tears his gaze away from my lips. They tweak into a grin, but I press them into submission.
“So, you’re an artist.” He points to all the pieces filling the walls of the Resurrect Art Coffee Shop. “Any of these yours?”
Now, normally I’m not a showboaty kind of person. I don’t paint for the accolades or the money, though both are pretty good. Colors call to me, make my fingers itch to release the abundance of thoughts jumbled in my head into something concrete. My mom used to call me spastic, but after I got diagnosed with Highly Superior Autobiographical Memory (or as I like to say, H(ey)-SAM!), they realized I was just overloaded.
Basically, I have the uncanny ability to remember every detail of my life. EVERY detail. The good. The bad. All replaying in my mind in technicolor wonder every day, from sunup to sundown and beyond.
Not very many people know. My parents never wanted me to have all that attention or for others to think of me differently. I totally agree, but it leaves few to talk with about it or understand what I’m going through. Art became my outlet. The way for me to process it all.
“Yeah. The three big ones back there are mine.” I point my thumb over my shoulder. “I have a few others hanging around.”
“Those are yours?” Magnus’s chair scrapes the hardwood as he scoots it back and crosses the room.
I follow, reluctantly. Not everyone likes my style. I don’t take a realism approach or even impressionism. Rather, the painting emerges in colors and emotions as I stroke onto the canvas. It’s a bunch of styles of art meshed into what I call Violetism.
Normally, I don’t care what others think of my art. People have all kinds of tastes. I’m not always a flavor they enjoy.
Yet, as I follow Magnus across the hardwood floor, a weight of unease settles on my shoulders. I’m putting way too much into his reaction, especially since we haven’t even finished our coffees yet.
He stops and stares at the one I call The Stormy Sea. Dark blues and greens crash around a commercial fishing boat. I inhale, remembering the fear and adventure that piece had infused into my being. I can hear the chug of the engine as it strains against the beating waves. Can feel the frigid saltwater clinging to my skin.
“It’s incredible.” Magnus’s softly spoken praise releases the breath I’m holding.
“Thanks.” I smile at him, and he raises one eyebrow at me like I surprised him.
“Intriguing.” Is he talking about me or the painting?
He runs the back of his fingers along my arm, leaving a trail of fire burning in the wake of his touch, then threads his fingers with mine. Oh, this man is trouble with a capital T.
“Tell me about the painting.” He tips his chin to the boat.
The next two hours are bliss as we talk about art and fire and anything that pops into our heads. We left the coffee shop over an hour ago, after he bought The Stormy Sea for his sister, Astryde, who is a commercial fishing captain. We’ve been strolling through the Waterfront Park, talking as fishing boats motor in and out of the harbor.
I need to leave if I’m going to make it to my class on time. It’s the last thing I want to do, though. Magnus is perfect: smart, adventurous, thoughtful, handsome as all get-out. I mean, who buys a sister a thousand-dollar painting because she’ll love it?
Not me.
But apparently Magnus does.
He’s everything I’ve always imagined the man I’d end up with would be. There was just one more test to prove it. My eyes dart to his lips and back to the grass in front of me. I just don’t know if I want to experiment this time.
You see, I’m convinced that I’ll know the man I’m supposed to be with by the first kiss. You might think I’m crazy. My sister and cousins certainly do. The thing is, everything is so vivid in my memory that if that first kiss doesn’t explode within my chest with purpose, I’m confident it never will.
Before you say that’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever heard, I’m here to tell you, I tested my theory out. I’ve kissed a lot of guys. At first, I’d kiss them several times just to make sure, but after they kept the spark to a minimum, often cooling to the heat of day-old coals, I knew my theory held.
I’ll know the man I’m supposed to spend the rest of my life with when we first lock lips. Wouldn’t it be amazing if that explosion happened with Magnus? I mean, it would make sense, him working with fire and all.
What would make a relationship with him even more fun is that Sadie is marrying his brother. Sadie and I will still have the same last name. The possibility makes giddiness bubble up like a pod of whales circling their prey.
“I probably should head back toward the coffeehouse.” I kick a spruce cone through the grass.
“You’re teaching a class, right?” Magnus steps closer.
His large, callused hand feels so amazing wrapped around mine. Can I talk him into walking me back so I can have more details in the memory bank?
“Yeah.”
“Maybe … I’ll join? It’s been a while since I took an art class.”
The image of him towering over the handful of eight-year-olds bubbles a giggle out. I love my kids, but they’d roast him. Or make him model—shirtless—which wouldn’t be so bad if they weren’t so critical. They are dead set on being serious artists, and having some random man join them won’t do.
“I don’t think my students would approve.” I look up at him just as my foot connects to a root.
I’m going down—arms flailing, voice shrieking down. This memory is about to go from one I want to replay every minute of every day to one that won’t stop haunting me. That’s the blessing and curse of being a H(ey)-SAMer.
“Whoa, there.”
Magnus’s strong arms wrap around my back and pull me close. I cling like a spider monkey to his neck. I’m not even feeling guilty about it, not with the way his smoky cologne fuses to my brain cells.
His hand spreads wide on my back. The pressure from his fingertips and thumb span from shoulder to shoulder in the most captivating and delicious way. It’s not like I’m some petite thing, either. While effortlessly holding me up with one hand, he drags the back of his finger over my cheek, then rubs his thumb over my bottom lip.
“Violet?” His whisper is so low the breeze threatens to carry it away, but the way his gaze glues to my lips makes it very clear what he’s asking.
This has to be it.
He’s going to be the one.
I can feel it deep in the marrow of my bones. All fear of disappointment vanishes as I lean my lips closer. His small, happy grin might as well be a cheer of encouragement. I push to my toes, certain my search is finally over.
A hint of coffee and cinnamon gum fills my nose a second before Magnus’s lips firmly capture mine. His kiss is nice, firm, yet not pushing.
It’s also spark-less.
Not even an ember that might explode later.
Nada.
Rien.
Nic.
Nothing.
Chapter Two
-Kemp-
I ignore the giggling beside me as I troll my fifty-three-foot vessel, Cruiser Run, along the base of the craggy mountains jutting straight out of the ocean. The twin Caterpillar 660 hp Diesel engines hum the song of summer in my ears. It’s the sound of freedom—a sound so far removed from the stress of the snowboarding slope, or, more specifically, the stress of keeping my sponsor happy, that I could listen to it for days.
Moving to Seward, Alaska and buying a fishing vessel may have been the most spontaneous plan I’ve ever made, but I wouldn’t go back and do anything different. It’s what keeps my head and heart straight. At first, getting my sponsor to agree to the summer hiatus was tough. Most athletes in my competitive level train all off-season. But I just couldn’t do that anymore.
I had been on the verge of burnout and needed the off-season to not stress, to do something completely removed from the slope. In fact, though the move appeared sudden, I’d thought a lot about Alaska. Yes, there’s killer snow, the World Extreme Snowboarding Championships in Valdez, and vertical runs with rollers, gullies, and wind lips that have you clenching the bum tight.
It was all that but much more.
The happiest this southern boy ever remembers being growing up is when my family took a vacation to Alaska. Dad chartered a fishing trip, and, for once, we were all laughing as Mom, Dad, and I pulled fish after fish out of the water. Of course, when we got back home, my parents’ expectations hit in full force, and I eventually stopped talking to them altogether. But that one trip stuck hard in my head.
If fishing in Alaska could make my family happy, even for a little while, there had to be magic there. So when the grind of snowboarding professionally started weighing on me, my mind replayed the feel of the boat beneath my feet and the thrill of pulling in the big one in my heart, and next thing I know, I’m based out of Seward and the proud owner of the Cruiser Run. Thankfully, the move upped my game on the slope, so the sponsors are happy and so am I.
“So, Captain Kemp, where are you taking us now?” Stacy, the brunette who wore too few clothes for an Alaskan fishing trip, leans close … again.
She’s been flirting hard the entire day, in between giggling with her cousins, that is. Her approach reminds me of the snow bunnies I steer clear of all winter. I haven’t quite figured out what I’m looking for in the female department, but someone who’ll hang on whichever available male they can find isn’t it.
Maybe that’s why paying attention to Stacy has been a low priority today. When she first arrived, I thought she was with one of the guys on the tour. Looks like she was just flirting with him too.
“There’s a great spot just up the way I’m hoping will have some big fish for y’all.” I point out the front window and give her and her cousins a small smile.
Most of the time, I charter older guys and families out to sea. Having a gorgeous brunette hanging on my every word is kind of nice for a change. Breaking my no-dating-customers rule isn’t an option, though, so I just need to keep to my normal charm level I reserve for the tourist.
You know the one that has them having a good time with new friends.
My crew and I have become proficient at it, mainly because it’s a blast seeing the excitement of our guests as they pull in big fish.
“Come over here, and I’ll show you.” I motion for her to step up to the helm, and I lift the side of my mouth in a grin.
Stacy simpers and closes the distance between us. She smells expensive, like the cloying scents that used to fill my parents’ parlor every time my mom had friends over.
I wrinkle my nose, not liking her being so close. One thing I know for a fact that I want in a girlfriend and future wife is someone who is down to earth. I can’t stomach being with someone like my parents.
Just because Stacy smells like money doesn’t mean she actually has any. I learned that rather quickly in the snowboarding scene. So many people put on airs to impress.
I scan the rest of Stacy’s group, looking for signs of wealth. It’s there in the cut of their flannel and the sunglasses perched on their faces. No Wally World shopping for these folks. But I knew that the minute they booked the entire charter when we could fit twice as many people onboard. Could tell by the way they wrinkled their noses up at the vessel docked next to mine, laughing at what a dump it was.
What they didn’t know was that “dump” made the owner a high six-figure income every year.
That’s the thing I love about Alaska. No one gives a rip how much money you have or what your history is, and they definitely don’t broadcast it. Some of the other captains in town are multi-millionaires, but you’d never know by looking at them.
“So, Captain, what was it you wanted to show me?” Stacy purrs the title as she rubs up against me.
