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170 pages, Kindle Edition
First published May 3, 2012
“Shut up,” he said, and then he kissed her, because there was no other way of conveying how he felt.
There was something about the way he was looking at her that made her feel even more nervous.
“So? I remembered you like the peach schnapps. It’s not a big deal.”
“Isn’t it? I remember that you hate escargot. And that you refuse to see any movie with Kate Beckinsale in it. And that you have every George Michael album ever made.”
She blinked. “Why would you remember all of that?
“I don’t know. I used to think it was because you annoyed me.” He took a step toward her. “I used to think it was because your perfume would get in my clothes and stay with me for days afterward, even though I’d barely brushed up against you.”
He took another step toward her and something powerful and undeniable thudded in the pit of her stomach.
“You hate me,” she said, staring at him, knowing she should put some distance between them before this became something it shouldn’t.
“Do I?”
”Thank you,” she said.
He looked bemused. “For what?”
“For everything. For being amazing in bed and endlessly patient, for sacrificing … for me and bringing me all the way around the world simply because you were worried about me, even though it meant you were probably going to spend your holidays alone. For the way you always put your hand on the small of my back to guide me across the street and the way you let me be in charge of the television remote control and the way you have never, not once, judged me or mistrusted me or made me feel small or unwanted.”
“Violet, sweetheart…” He blinked and she realized that he was close to tears.
Her Martin. Mr. Uptight. Mr. Repressed.
Because she wasn’t a natural-born slut. She wasn’t feckless and troubled and attention-seeking. She wasn’t a nuisance, an embarrassment, a liability to be written off at the earliest possible moment. She was loved. She was valued. She counted. She took a deep, cleansing breath, then let it out.

E, be real. These people are the walking dead.” Violet’s gaze swept over the well-dressed crowd attending the Heart Foundation’s annual fundraiser. “Older than Moses, richer than God and more boring than a truckload of accountants.”
He was wearing a classic black tuxedo, but he somehow managed to look stuffy rather than suave. But that was his gift—taking anything stylish, fun or frivolous and stifling the life out of it.
“Maybe I just have a good memory.”
She was starting to feel uncomfortable. Or perhaps exposed was the better word.
“You have an appalling memory. You forget Elizabeth’s birthday every year.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do.”
There was something about the way he was looking at her that made her feel even more nervous.
“So? I remembered you liked the peach schnapps. It’s not a big deal.”
“Isn’t it? I remember that you hate escargot. And that you refuse to see any movie with Kate Beckinsale in it. And that you have every George Michael album ever made.”
She blinked. “Why would you remember all of that?
“I don’t know. I used to think it was because you annoyed me.” He took a step toward her. “I used to think it was because you were always wearing short skirts and low cut tops and laughing too loud. I used to think it was because your perfume would get in my clothes and stay with me for days afterward, even though I’d barely brushed up against you.”
He took another step toward her and something powerful and undeniable thudded in the pit of her stomach.
“You hate me,” she said, staring at him, knowing she should put some distance between them before this became something it shouldn’t.
“Do I?”
“Shut up,” he said, then he kissed her, because there was no other way of conveying how he felt.
Protective and aroused and amused and admiring were only the tip of the iceberg. Every minute, every second with Violet was a revelation. She was astounding—strong and fragile, fiery and gentle, shy and bold. A walking, talking contradiction. A puzzle. A mystery a man could spend a glorious lifetime unraveling.
“Thank you,” she said.
He looked bemused. “For what?”
“For everything. For being amazing in bed and endlessly patient, for sacrificing the Savage Club for me and bringing me all the way around the world simply because you were worried about me, even though it meant you were probably going to spend your holidays alone. For the way you always put your hand on the small of my back to guide me across the street and the way you let me be in charge of the television remote control and the way you have never, not once, judged me or mistrusted me or made me feel small or unwanted.”
“Violet, sweetheart...” He blinked and she realized that he was close to tears.
Her Martin. Mr. Uptight. Mr. Repressed.
