Viola Mccoy “I really want to work with Reynolds Publishing,” I say as I sit back on the bed, my legs crossed beneath me. My fingers tug gently at the hem of my oversized hoodie—Logan’s hoodie—and I avoid his gaze for a second longer than I should.Logan tilts his head, his expression unreadable. He’s been trying to convince me to at least meet with a rep from Shein Publishing. But I’ve been stubborn. Not because they’re not great—he even said they were one of the best in the business—but because I hate the idea of leaving the safety of what I already know.Of him.“You’re only saying that because of me,” Logan says.My brows lift. “That’s not true.”He gives me a look. The kind that sees right through me. The kind I can’t lie to, even if I wanted to.“Vi,” he says, stepping closer. “If that’s not true, then explore. Meet other companies. Go out there and figure out what you really want before you settle for mine.”Settle. My chest tighten. Settle. As if Reynolds Publishing isn’
Viola McCoyThe knock at the door echoes through the quiet apartment. My hand trembles for a second before I rise from the couch where I’ve been sitting, staring at the wall like it’s going to give me the answers I need.I wipe my palms on my lap and take a breath that feels too big for my chest.The knock comes again.I open the door.There he is—Logan, standing there with that cautious, hopeful look, like he’s holding his heart in his hands and just wants me to take it back.My throat tightens. Because yes, I’m hurt. Hurt deeper than I’ve let myself admit. But beneath that, there’s this gnawing question — did he really do something unforgivable? Or is it something I wanted all along, but was too afraid to ask for?I let the door stay open a crack, not sure what words will come out.He steps forward slowly. “Viola,” he says, voice low, almost breaking. “Can we talk?”I nod, stepping aside to let him in.He sits down carefully on the edge of the couch, like he’s bracing for impact. I
Logan ReynoldsShe’s not answering.Three calls. Four.Her name keeps glowing on my screen like it’s mocking me — Viola McCoy. Voicemail again.I curse under my breath and toss my phone onto the passenger seat, gripping the steering wheel so tight my knuckles crack. The engine hums beneath me, but I don’t move yet. I’m still parked outside the beach. Still staring at the empty table — two plates, untouched wine, candles now flickering alone in the dark like they’re mourning something.She’s gone.I should’ve chased her. I should’ve said more. I should’ve done a hell of a lot of things differently.My head thuds back against the seat, eyes closed, jaw locked.I fucked up.I reach for the phone again and call her one more time. Still nothing.I dial Amirah.She answers on the third ring. “Logan?”“She with you?” My voice is rough.There’s a pause. Then: “Yeah. She’s here.”Relief and heartbreak crash into me at the same time. “Is she okay?”“She’s… thinking. Quiet. Hurt,” Amirah says ge
Viola McCoyThe sea breeze isn’t soft anymore. It cuts through me like glass.I’m still holding his phone.The message is burned into my brain now—simple, direct, emotionless.“Julian’s been taken care of. He won’t be a problem again.”My fingers tighten around the metal edge of the phone, the screen going black between my hands. I don’t say anything at first. I don’t even look at him.I hear the crunch of his shoes in the sand. His footsteps are slower now. Hesitant.“Vi,” Logan says, quiet. “I can explain.”I finally lift my eyes.“What did you do to Julian?” My voice doesn’t sound like mine. It’s cold. Barely above a whisper.His mouth opens, but he doesn’t speak.I step back from the table. I’m still holding his phone. I can’t let go. My hands feel numb.“Logan.” I force myself to breathe, though my lungs feel tight. “Tell me the truth. All of it.”He drags a hand down his jaw, then finally meets my eyes. His shoulders fall.“I had him… convinced,” he says carefully, like that
Logan ReynoldsBy the time I get off work, the sun’s low on the horizon—spilling that burnt orange glow across the skyline. I roll my sleeves down, fix the collar of my black shirt, and try not to think about her too much. Which is stupid. Because I’ve thought about her all damn day.Viola. About our date tonight. She drops a text- Meet me here. The location tag is a quiet stretch of lakefront, not too far from the city. A place I used to drive to when I needed silence. And now she’s bringing me there on oh first official date? I leave the building without saying goodbye to anyone. Let the night fall. Let the world pause. Tonight’s about her.The roads are clear, the air is cool. I drive with the windows cracked. My pulse taps under my skin in excitement. When I pull up, I spot her silhouette right away—standing near the shoreline, framed by golden twilight. She’s dressed in a soft, fluttery dress that dances with the breeze, her hair pinned half-up, strands curling around her jaw.
Logan ReynoldsI step out of the shower, running a towel through my damp hair as steam clings to my skin. The mirror’s fogged over. My pulse is still a little fast, not from the water, but from her. Viola.She asked me out this morning.It wasn’t some big dramatic thing. No fluttering eyelashes or shy little stammer. She just said it. Bold. Soft. Honest. The kind of moment you know you’ll play over in your head a thousand times.I dry off, tug on a pair of sweats, and pad back toward the bedroom to grab a shirt—just in time to almost walk in on her changing.Shit.Viola’s halfway into a hoodie, arms raised above her head, the sunlight catching the smooth line of her bare back. I freeze at the threshold like a damn idiot, heart lurching up into my throat.“Sorry!” I say quickly, turning around so fast I nearly knock my shoulder into the doorframe. “Didn’t know you were changing.”“It’s okay,” she calls out casually, voice light. “You didn’t see anything scandalous.”That’s debatable.I