Chapter 9
GRIFFIN
Istumble onto the sidewalk like I’ve been shoved.
The cool air hits my face but it does nothing to calm my nerves.
My hand is still buzzing where I touched Tiana. I flex my fingers, jaw grinding, pulse in my throat.
Of all the women Mya could’ve recommended. Of all the lives I could’ve kept separate, Tiana is Mya’s fucking sister. I didn’t put it together—how could I? Mya called her “TJ.”
Her Instagram handle flashes across my brain like a neon sign I can’t switch off.
I know what her laugh sounds like when she messes up a transition.
I know the gold flecks in her eyes only catch when she tilts her head toward a window.
I know the cadence of her voice when she’s talking to the camera versus when she’s talking to friends, because I’ve watched enough to hear the difference.
I’m a grown man with a stalker account and a problem.
I brace a palm against the brick and bow my head. “Shame,” I mutter.
I’m not a teenager. I’m a single father of almost forty. I build towers out of steel and concrete for a living. And yet one smile in real life and my spine turns to glass.
I stare at my wedding ring until it blurs. The metal is warm from my skin. Five years and I’ve never taken it off, not once. The weight keeps me honest about what I lost, about what I owe, about the kind of man I promised I’d be for my son.
I drag air into my lungs, hold it until it hurts, and let it out slowly.
Boundaries. That’s what I need. Hard ones.
I can delete the account. I can tell Mya no.
And I can find someone else, anyone else, even if it takes another eight interviews and a month of cereal for breakfast. I can keep the lines where they belong: work is work, home is home, and Tiana stays behind a screen where I can’t touch her.
Except I already touched her. She looked me in the eyes and my body forgot every rule I’ve lived by since Lila.
I scrub a hand over my mouth and force my feet to move back toward the office. If Mya corners me, I’ll play the gruff card. Too young. Not a fit. End of discussion.
And later, when I’m alone, I’ll open my phone and do the right thing.
I tell myself that twice, then a third time, like a prayer I might believe if I say it enough.
Back at my desk, I bury myself in blueprints, pencil tapping the paper like it can drown out what just happened.
“What the hell was that back there?” Mya demands from the doorway, arms folded.
I barely glance up. “Nothing. But I’ll pass.”
She scoffs. “Pass? You didn’t even talk to her, Griff.”
“I don’t need to.” My tone comes out clipped. Good. Maybe it will end this quicker.
“Tiana is good with kids and she’s responsible. At least give her a chance before you decide.”
I lift my head. “She’s too young, Mya. A twenty-one-year-old isn’t a fit for raising my son.”
And I know exactly how old she is because I’ve known for months.
The thought makes heat crawl up the back of my neck.
Mya doesn’t seem to notice and leans in, relentless. “Age doesn’t automatically disqualify her. She has experience, Griff. She’s thoughtful, dependable, and she loves kids. Your son would adore her.”
“I said no.”
She studies me, like she can see past the excuse to the mess underneath. I look back at the page in my hands, not trusting what my face is doing.
“Give her a shot, Griff. A weekend. And if it’s really not a good fit, then I’ll back off.”
My pen stills. I raise my eyes slowly. “Why do you care so much?”
“First, you’re my friend and I don’t want to see you struggle any longer.
Second, because Tiana needs the money. Her dream has always been to have her own business.
That cafe has been her life for almost five years, and the owner is finally ready to sell, but she doesn’t have the down payment saved for the loan.
So this would be perfect for both of you.
She’d get the extra income, and you’d finally have a reliable nanny until you find a permanent one. By living at your ho—”
“By living at my house?” My voice spikes before I can rein it in. “Nope.”
“What?”
“She’s not fucking living under my roof, Mya.”
Mya throws her hands up. “Why the hell not? It makes sense. Easier for school drop-off, easier for mornings and evenings with your son. You’d both benefit from this.”
“Sounds like you’ve got my entire life figured out.”
“I do, actually.” She grins. “In fact, I already told Tiana that you had a work-related meltdown, which is why you bolted from Willow’s, and she’s coming on Saturday morning for a trial run.”
My jaw drops. “I should never have told you about my nanny situation.”
“Too late,” Mya sing-songs, already turning toward her desk. “Oh, and Griffin?”
“What now?”
“Tiana expects an apology.”
Mya’s exit is all triumph. I sit there a long beat, staring at the white margins of the blueprint like they can swallow me.
I drag a palm over my mouth and tell myself the reason I didn’t fight more is about practicality, a mutual benefit. About my kid, who deserves someone he can count on.
But it’s not, and that’s the problem.