Free The Violet Hour by Brynn Chapman Page B

built into a hillside, now housed a large boat, precariously positioned at the top.
    “Like what you see?”
    Brighton is on the steps, his grin so wide and contagious, I cannot help but return it. I blush at his double entendre. It is the other Brighton. The carefree one.
    I nod. “Yes. It’s amazing.”
    He rolls his eyes as if this hulking contraption were a mere house of cards, built solely for his amusement. “It’s nothing, a distraction from life. It is, however, ready.”
    His eyes sparkle like a child’s. My breath catches and holds, but my brow furrows with confusion. I wonder how long this altogether different Brighton shall stay?
    “It is ready?”
    “Come take a ride.” He thrusts out his hand. “Or should I say, a plunge?”
    “I.” My eyes shoot up, and I lick my lips, taking in the height, the greased wooden track. I envision the boat barnstorming the slide and shake my head. “I don’t know.”
    He steps down and gently extricates my hand from where it is adhered to my side.
    “Ouch!” I quickly withdraw my hand from his.
    His eyebrows knit. “Whatever is the matter?”
    I shake my hand vigorously. I don’t wish to admit my weakness, but his direct stare searches my body for injuries and I flush.
    I reluctantly extend my hand. “My. My index finger. I have been playing so much, what with my music lessons, and the new symphonies. I believe I may have injured it.”
    He reaches down and snatches my hand without permission, his gaze ticking back and forth over my digits and palm. My first finger, which undoubtedly endures the most abuse when I play, is noticeably swollen.
    He nods. “Aye. I have something for that, but don’t have it on my person.”
    He releases my hand and my heart hammers hard against my ribs.
    “In the meantime, come take a ride. It will get your mind off it.” His voice is so playful; I feel the quiver of a smile breaking through…until I glance upward.
    I stare up; taking in the full, dizzying height of the structure and my heart takes flight in my chest as my feet ache to do the same.
    As if hearing its protestations, he says, “Don’t be daft, girl. You will love it. I promise.”
    He pulls me up the stairs, shuffling me in front of him—trapping me with his arms. I’m quite sure so I could not flee.
    In my mind, I hear the snap and splitting of the tree as it struck his shoulders.
    Indeed, if Brighton wished to detain me, there would be naught I could do to stop him.
    My boot falls echo on the steps and we rise higher and higher; my heart seeming to mimic our ascent in its journey toward my mouth.
    A group of Charleston’s Fancy employees, both men and women, wait at the top, chattering and tittering with excitement.
    I chance a glance over the side and my stomach flips. “Are you quite certain this is safe?”
    He pulls me close, too close for convention, and leans forward to whisper in my ear. The tingle on my chest ignites like his many fireworks.
    His scent consumes me, and my eyelids drift half-shut.
    His stubble grazes my cheek. “I would never put you at risk. You are safe with me. No matter the place.”
    If I only turn my head, I may taste his lips.
    He pulls back with a wistful half-smile but his eyes are deadly serious.
    “Oy, Brighton. Quit mucking about. We haven’t all day—we aren’t the bloody patrons ye know.”
    A curvy blond adds, “Yes, do hurry Brighton. Silas will roll our heads down this track instead of your lovely little boat.”
    Brighton turns with a wicked grin and hauls me up the steps, into the crowd.
    One by one we clamber into the wide boat.
    Brighton and I slide…into the front row.
    I peek over the edge and panic surges, closing my throat. Vertigo tilts my vision and I jam my eyes shut.
    It was a very long way down. I’d only ever been so high on the Ferris wheel at the Great Exposition.
    Brighton slides closer. I try to focus on the feel of his thigh against mine, ignoring the river of fear flooding my mouth. He