Chapter 15
GRIFFIN
The universe must really hate me, because Tiana Jones has slipped into my house like it was built for her.
Every morning, I wake up to the sound of her talking softly to Sylas downstairs, her laugh threading through the halls like some kind of goddamn home fragrance.
And every night, I go to bed reminding myself that she’s my nanny.
My employee.
Too young.
Off limits.
Not my type.
Except that’s a lie because my type seems to be whatever the hell she is. And I hate how much I don’t hate it.
I stare down at the architectural drawings spread across my desk, pencil rolling between my fingers while I revise a structural detail for one of Damian’s absurd luxury projects.
Normally, drafting calms me down, but I’ve spent the last ten minutes redrawing the same staircase because my concentration is completely shot.
My phone buzzes on the desk.
It’s a notification from Instagram.
I go completely still.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I stare at the screen as if I can somehow reverse what I’ve done by sheer will.
I’ve watched Tiana’s content for months and never interacted once. No likes. No comments. Nothing that could draw attention back to me.
Then yesterday evening I saw her come into the house carrying what looked like half of IKEA in her arms, struggling with boxes bigger than she was.
I offered to help—like any normal person would—but she refused, muttering something about grumpy old men thinking that women can’t do things just as well as them.
Stubborn as hell.
She posted a video of herself putting everything together alone, and the second I saw that crooked shelf, I couldn’t fucking help myself.
Not because I actually care about the shelf—okay, maybe a little because I care about the shelf—but mostly because some irrational part of me thought that maybe if I pointed it out, she’d ask me for help fixing it.
Which is completely insane.
I don’t even understand why I care this much about helping her settle into the house. Why do I keep feeling this pull to involve myself in every little part of her life?
It’s as if some deeply repressed domestic instinct suddenly woke up and chose violence.
And now I’m paying for it, because not only did Tiana notice the comment, she replied to it.
I should’ve never commented in the first place.
She’s going to figure out it’s me. Maybe not today or tomorrow. But eventually Tiana’s going to connect something.
I let my hand fall with an exhale and shove the phone into my pocket.
Calm down.
She has thousands of followers. One faceless account means nothing.
The next morning, I find Sylas at the kitchen island, legs swinging under the stool as he works through his breakfast, while Tiana stands across from him, leaning slightly against the counter, completely unaware of my presence.
“Dad,” Sylas says around a bite, spotting me first. “TJ made breakfast for you.”
Tiana glances toward me. “Morning.”
“Morning,” I answer, forcing my voice to match hers as I move closer to the island.
I glance at the food in front of Sylas, then at the serving Tiana left near the edge of the counter. Two identical plates, both drowning in enough maple syrup to qualify as soup.
“I see we’re having a little pancake with our syrup this morning,” I mutter.
Sy grins, mouth full. “TJ says maple syrup is happiness juice.”
I raise a brow. “Oh, does she?”
Tiana meets my stare, unapologetic. “Don’t judge us, Mr. Black Coffee and Sad Eggs.”
I try not to smile, but it slips anyway. “I don’t eat sad eggs.”
“You do, Dad,” Sy says.
“Traitor.”
Tiana smirks, pushing the plate toward me. “Eat.”
I step forward, close enough now to catch her sweet and warm scent.
She catches my gaze, and for a second, it lingers. She looks away first.
A small part of me rejoices that Tiana might be affected by me.
I clear my throat, reaching for a mug. “You free after breakfast?”
Tiana wipes syrup from Sy’s chin, then nods. “Yes, sir.”
Sir.
I should not like that as much as I do.
“We’ll go over the schedule for this week,” I say, forcing professionalism back into my voice.
“Sure.”
Tiana rinses her plate at the sink while Sylas chatters beside her, sticky fingers tapping against the counter as he tells her some long-winded story about a kid in his class who apparently cried because someone stole his dinosaur eraser.
A small part of me is starting to worry about what will happen when she leaves.
Because Tiana will leave.
This was always temporary. Tiana made that clear from the beginning. She’s here to save money, build her future, and eventually buy Willow’s from the owner before some soulless corporation gets its hands on it.
And once she does that, she won’t need this job anymore.
I should create some distance before I get too used to this version of things.
Instead, I stay where I am.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say instead, watching her rinse syrup off another plate. “We have a dishwasher.”
Tiana glances over her shoulder, unimpressed. “I know how a dishwasher works.”
“Doesn’t seem like it.”
Her eyes narrow slightly, but there’s a spark behind them. She jerks open the dishwasher and sets the plate down.
I push off the counter and move closer without thinking, reaching past her. “Stack them properly. If you load it like that, it won’t clean right.”
Tiana turns her head to look at me. “Oh. You’re one of those.”
“One of what?”
“Control freaks.”
My jaw tightens. “It’s not about control. It’s more efficient.”
What I don’t say is that if I walk away knowing that the plate is sitting wrong, it’ll stay in the back of my mind like a splinter I can’t dig out.
I’ll fixate on it until I come back and move it anyway.
Tiana hums like she doesn’t believe me, then shifts—just enough that I have to step closer to her if I want to fix what she did.
Our shoulders brush. She doesn’t move as I adjust the plate, my arm grazing hers again.
Her breath catches—barely—but I hear it. Feel it.
Then Sylas hops off the stool. “I’m gonna go watch TV!” And the spell breaks.
Tiana clears her throat. “Go ahead, Sy. Blanket is on the couch.”
I grab the sponge and rinse it, my pulse a little too loud in my ears.
I dry my hands slowly, eyes tracking the way Tiana moves around the kitchen. My thumb drags over the band on my finger before I even realize I’m doing it.
I press my thumb harder against it, then drop my hand to my side like I can shake the feeling off.
I look up, and find Tiana watching me.
There’s something in her expression that settles heavy in my chest the second I recognize it.
Pity.
She’s staring at me like I’m something fragile, broken. Something that needs sympathy.
My stomach twists when she glances at my ring finger.
She’s been in this house long enough to notice what’s missing, to see the photos, the absence, the fact that I still wear a ring I have no reason to keep on.
“What?” I ask, sharper than I intend.
Her brows pull together. “Nothing. I just—”
I shake my head, stepping back. “You don’t have to do that.”
“Do what?”
“That look. I don’t need it.”
Her lips part, confusion settling across her face. “Griffin, I wasn’t—”
“I’m fine, Tiana. You don’t need to worry about me. I don’t need your pity.”
I don’t wait for her to respond and walk out of the kitchen.
“Griffin, wait!”
Her footsteps follow behind me as I head down the hall, my jaw clenched, frustration simmering under my skin.
I shouldn’t have reacted like that, but I can’t stand that look.
“Griffin,” Tiana calls again, closer now.
I finally stop, turning around to face her. My hand braces against the edge of the hallway table, an attempt to keep myself together.
“You don’t have to explain yourself.”
Tiana crosses her arms. “I’m not explaining anything. I’m correcting you.”
That makes me pause.
Most people would’ve backed off by now, but Tiana doesn’t quit. And instead of pissing me off more, it does the opposite: grounds something that was starting to spiral under my skin. She doesn’t let me get away with it—doesn’t let me disappear into my own head.
“I wasn’t trying to make you uncomfortable. And I definitely wasn’t pitying you,” she adds.
“Well, I don’t need sympathy. From you or anyone else.”
“Good. Because I didn’t offer you any,” she shoots back, not raising her voice, but not backing down either.
Silence stretches between us as we stare at each other.
“Come on. You wanted to go over the schedule, right?” Tiana says, ending the discussion.
Grateful, I nod.
She turns away and grabs the laundry hamper in the hall. It’s too full, overflowing with small shirts, socks, and pajamas. The basket is barely contained in her arms and she keeps having to adjust her grip.
“Here,” I say, stepping forward. “Let me take it.”
“I’ve got it.”
“I know, but I still want to help, Tiana.” My voice comes out firmer than I intended, and she lets me take it. The way her breath hitches again doesn’t go unnoticed.
I follow her to the laundry room. When we enter, I set the basket down, and Tiana kneels beside it, sorting through the clothes while I pull out my phone from my back pocket.
“We may have a few late nights this week. I have conference calls with Singapore: last stage of planning, so it could go long.”
“Just let me know which days,” Tiana says, reaching for a pair of dinosaur pajamas.
They slip from her hands and fall to the floor.
I move to pick them up at the same time she does, and our fingers collide.
For a long moment, neither of us moves.
The contact is barely more than a brush, skin against skin. Still, every muscle in my body locks like she’s touched me somewhere far more dangerous.
My gaze drops to our hands.
Hers are almost swallowed by mine, smaller and softer, her fingers delicate where mine are broad and rough from work I don’t have to do anymore but still find excuses to.
My hand could close around hers completely if I let it.
I am suddenly, violently aware of the size of me and the space I take up in this cramped laundry room. The width of my shoulders nearly blocks the doorway and I have to angle myself around Tiana, because if I stand too close, there’s nowhere for her to go.
Her lips part slightly, and for a moment, the air between us goes so thick I can feel it against my skin. She’s close enough that I can smell the clean sweetness of her perfume underneath the dryer sheets.
Then it clicks and we both pull back abruptly as if we’ve crossed an invisible line.
Tiana rubs her hand against her thigh, while I gather myself.
I reach for my phone and send her a message, already turning toward the door.
“Just sent you the rest of the schedule. Look it over and let me know if you need any changes.”
I don’t wait for a response and step out of the laundry room, because I can feel the loss of control creeping in again.
And whatever this is, it’s not something I should be entertaining.