Page 42 of Twisted Violet (Lovesick Villains #4)

FORTY-ONE

VIOLET

I’m halfway through my turkey club when I hear the click of nails on pavement.

I look up and immediately groan.

“Ollie, no. Tell me he didn’t…”

But there he is. Trotting around the corner of the café patio like a distinguished little gentleman on a mission. Ears alert, tail wagging, head high, like he’s delivering royal correspondence.

Strapped to his back is a little khaki vest with bold black lettering stitched on the side:

OPEN ME.

I drop my sandwich with a sigh. “Oh, that’s low. Even for him.”

I slide off the bench and crouch beside Ollie, who stops with theatrical flair and lifts one paw like he’s offering a butler’s tray.

“And you’re his evil little accomplice,” I mutter, scratching behind his ear .

He leans into the touch with a smug little huff, like he knows he’s already won.

I glance toward the alley. The sidewalk. The street.

No sign of Dallas.

There’s a note tucked into the pocket on Ollie’s vest, perfectly folded.

Ollie missed you. I didn’t have the heart to tell him no.

I snort. “Your papa’s a manipulative bastard.”

Ollie tilts his head like he agrees.

Then I scratch under his chin and whisper, “He knows I can’t resist this face.”

Every day after that, Ollie shows up.

Same time. Same little vest. Same look on his face like, “Ma’am, your special delivery has arrived.”

It’s criminally effective.

Sometimes it’s a gift card to my favorite milk tea place across town. The one I once joked was my “emotional support sugar.”

Sometimes it’s a dumb little note in Dallas’ handwriting:

I’ve thought about it and San is my bias. Dimple gang!

Or:

Ollie thinks you like him better than me now. The little shit won’t stop bragging about getting to hang out with you all the time.

He never waits around.

Never tries to talk, just sends Ollie to hang out with me during my lunch break and then vanishes like some emotionally intelligent ghost of situationship’s past .

Until one day, I open the little pocket and concert tickets slip out.

Three of them.

Front row. Center stage. To the Stray Kids concert I once told him I’d trade a kidney to go to.

I stare at them for a full minute like they’re going to self-destruct.

Three tickets.

Of course.

Not two.

Not four.

Three.

The subtlety would be infuriating if it wasn’t so… him.

A quiet ‘ maybe’ , a gentle ‘ if you want’ tucked between card stock.

I sit with it for a while.

Then I text Stevie.

The concert is epic.

Pyrotechnics. Lights. Fog. People sobbing with joy. Someone behind me screaming like the guys just proposed marriage to her.

I should be euphoric.

But when the first slow song starts and I glance over to see Stevie wrapped in Ezra’s arms, with his chin resting on her shoulder like it’s his favorite place on earth, my chest twists.

I want that .

I want the guy who sends Ollie in a tactical vest like it’s a covert op for Operation: Win Back Girl.

The one who never asked for anything.

The one who was always there for me, even when I did everything I could to push him away.

I pull out my phone before I can overthink it.

My thumb hovers over the message, heart stuttering, then…

I hit send.

The response comes instantly.

I look around, and there he is. Walking down the aisle like this is the most normal thing in the world. A ticket in one hand. The other stuffed in his jacket pocket. That stupid, hopeful grin barely hidden behind his dimples.

He reaches me and doesn’t say a word.

Just holds out his hand.

I take it.

His fingers wrap around mine, warm, steady, familiar.

We don’t kiss, we don’t talk, we just stand there hand in hand.

In the glow of music and lights that make this moment feel like a new beginning.