Violet consciously pushed the melancholy thoughts aside and refocused her attention on a man who was even more of a mystery to her than her late father or his flawed best friend.
A man whom she had less than two months to turn from an angry, ponytailed Louisiana resident into a Park Avenue–approved, boardroom-ready executive.
She had no illusions that it was going to be easy. She wasn’t even sure it was possible.
But she’d come armed with at least one weapon: the element of surprise.
Edith had given Violet Cain’s cell number, and she purposely hadn’t used it. If she was going to figure out how to change Cain, she needed to know what made him tick. And if she was going to do that, she needed to get a glimpse of the real man, before he had time to put up his walls.
There was, of course, every chance he’d ignore her or that he wasn’t even home, which led her to the second advantage, and it was a big one: she had the keys to Adam’s brownstone.
Cain’s father had given them to her for emergencies, and as far as Violet was concerned, this whole mess she’d agreed to definitely qualified. Still, she supposed the man deserved some semblance of warning, so Violet knocked rather than immediately letting herself in.
Ignoring the old-fashioned door knocker, she gave a pert rap to the door with her knuckles. Coco popped her head back out of the bag to investigate, but she was the only one. Cain either hadn’t heard the knock or was pretending not to.
Violet knocked again, more firmly this time. Still nothing. She shifted subtly to her left so she could look through the paned window.
She waited. And waited some more.
Her eyes narrowed; she was almost positive that she saw a blurry shadow of movement inside and heard the sound of footsteps, but still, the door didn’t open.
“All right, Mr. Stone, we’ll do this your way,” she muttered. “Mannerless and crude it is.”
Violet reached into her purse, Coco sneaking in a series of doggie kisses as her fingers searched for the key.
Finding it, she stuck the key into the dead bolt and was just twisting the handle when the front door swung open, pulling her forward with such force that she slammed into a wall.
But the wall was a man. A bare-chested man.
Startled, Violet’s free hand found the center of his chest as she pushed backward, only she overdid it and teetered on her stilettos.
Cain reached out to steady her, his hands warm against her upper arms, even as he scowled down at her.
Once she was steady on her feet, he released her as though she burned him. “What sort of idiotic shoes are those? And what the hell are you doing at my house, Viola?”
She gave him a withering look, because she didn’t think for one second he didn’t remember her name, and he knew exactly what she was doing here.
He crossed his arms, and even as they engaged in a staring contest, the details of their situation began to creep into Violet’s consciousness. The man was not only shirtless, but his jeans were very much unbuttoned, as though they’d been slung on in a hurry.
She chewed the inside of her cheek. “Button your pants.”
“It’s my house. Get out if you don’t like how I’m dressed.”
“Undressed,” she clarified.
Coco made her presence known to Cain for the first time, letting out a bark as though backing up her mistress’s assertion.
Cain’s gaze dropped to her bag, horrified. “What is that?”
She rolled her eyes. “It’s a dog.”
His scowl was skeptical. “In what world, Oz?”
Coco made a whining noise, and Violet frowned at Cain as she pointed at the little Yorkie. “You hurt her feelings.”
“I’m already exhausted by all the sleep I’ll lose tonight over that fact.”
Violet exhaled for patience. “New York manners dictate that you invite me in.”
“Manners everywhere dictate that you shouldn’t break into someone else’s house.”
“Touché and agreed. Perhaps you’re not a lost cause after all. But it’s cold out here, so…” Violet stepped inside, careful not to touch him as she scooted into the foyer.
“Also, isn’t it a bit soon to be calling it your house?” she said. “You’ve been here, what, a week?”
“A week too long,” he grumbled, shutting the front door.
She glanced his way. “You don’t like the place?”
Adam hadn’t done much with the outside of the brownstone, preferring to leave it to its timeless, stately appearance that the Upper East Side legacies liked to call classic but sometimes just translated to old. Inside, however, the man had spared no expense renovating it with modern amenities.
Unlike Edith’s and Violet’s homes, which had been deliberately decorated to preserve the prewar aesthetic, Adam had leaned into the twenty-first century. As far as Violet knew, the hardwood floors were just about the only thing original in the home. Adam had skipped right over contemporary and gone straight to modern.