Chapter 26
TIANA
Iwake with a groan, sunlight slicing through the blinds and stabbing my skull. What the hell happened last night? I vaguely remember too much wine and regret.
I blink, my vision adjusting through the blur, and turn onto my side. That’s when a scent hits me.
Man.
Not just any man.
Griffin.
My sheets smell like cedarwood and fresh laundry. Clean, warm, and masculine. It lingers in the air, on the pillow, like he sank into this mattress and left a shadow of himself behind.
God.
I bury my face into the cushion and inhale, because I have no self-control. My stomach flips, toes curl into the sheets, and warmth spreads through my chest, down to my very irresponsible lower half.
This is embarrassing.
And then another memory comes flooding back: Griffin picking me up outside the club.
Sigh.
I definitely cried. Probably said something embarrassing —like asking him to stay in bed with me. I flop onto my back, hands covering my burning face.
I didn’t just ask him to stay. I asked him to kiss me.
I can almost feel my soul trying to leave my body.
At least Griffin had the decency to leave before I woke up and spare me the humiliation of facing him right away. That alone should be enough to lessen the shame, but it doesn’t. Because even though he’s gone, his scent is still here. And worse? It makes me feel safe and warm.
I open my eyes again and stare at the ceiling.
Griffin didn’t take advantage of me, didn’t ask questions, and he didn’t make me feel weak for crying. He just… stayed.
I exhale a shaky breath, pushing the blanket off, still in yesterday’s clothes after being rescued like some damsel in distress.
I drag myself to the bathroom to shower and get this horrid mascara-crusted tragedy off my face. The warmth of the water hits my skin, washing away last night’s makeup, sweat, and shame.
By the time I’m drying off, I already feel a little more like me again. Time to find coffee.
Clean, bare-faced, hair thrown into a damp low bun, I pad down the hallway toward the kitchen, trying to ignore the dread of potentially finding Griffin there.
He’s by the marble island, hair damp from his own shower, gray t-shirt, broad shoulders, mug in hand.
When he sees me, he doesn’t comment on my puffy eyes or oversized hoodie. He just slides a latte and a white box from Willow’s across the counter.
I blink. “You didn’t.”
“Open it,” he says.
I lift the lid. Cinnamon roll. Croissant. Chocolate Danish. Lemon loaf.
Everything I love.
How does he even know my favourite pastries?
Did he leave bed early this morning to get me these? This can’t be the same Griffin I’ve had the pleasure of knowing these past weeks.
My mouth waters just looking at the treats, and when I reach for the cinnamon roll, warm icing smears across my fingers. I take one bite and moan from pure, unfiltered pastry joy.
Griffin chuckles. I haven’t heard that sound from him in a while.
“I noticed that you have a big sweet tooth,” he says, shaking his head. “You’d probably kill someone for frosting.”
I wipe icing from the corner of my mouth, narrowing my eyes at him. “Is that why you’ve been calling me Sugar?”
He freezes, then clears his throat and looks away. “It’s fitting. Because of the desserts. That’s all.”
He’s retreating again. This is my opportunity to make things go back to the way they were: Griffin grunting in annoyance while I tease him enough to make him squirm.
Because this thoughtful version of him stirs fluttery things in me I have no intention of feeling.
My focus needs to stay the same: work harder, save more, buy Willow’s. There’s no room for men.
Still, I hum around a slow sip of latte. “Is that why?”
He lifts a shoulder, trying to make it seem casual. “I can stop calling you that if you want.”
I look up at him too fast. “No.”
Smooth, TJ. Real smooth.
Griffin pauses, then nods. “Alright then.” His voice drops lower. “You okay, though?”
I swallow, remembering last night. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
His jaw, usually set like stone, eases. “Good.”
“Are you okay?” I ask. “You seemed a little murderous last night.”
I picture him on the sidewalk, the moment he saw my smeared makeup and wet cheeks. How his calm cracked and his eyes went lethal, like a man barely holding back. I genuinely thought he was going to go in there and break Markell’s face.
I didn’t want him to.
Not because Markell didn’t deserve it—he did—but because I didn’t want Griffin hurt. Not for me.
Nobody has ever been angry for me. No man has ever cared enough to even try.
But I’m sure it meant nothing. Griffin would’ve stepped in for anyone. Good Samaritan and all that.
“I’m great,” he says flatly, finishing his coffee and rinsing the mug.
He slides the pastry box closer, hand flexing on the counter, face carved into a scowl again.
And just like that, the soft version of him is gone, and we’re back to taut wires and quiet storms.
“It’s Sunday. Don’t you have things to record today, or whatever?” he adds.
I chuckle. “Yes, old man, I have things to record on this thing called a cell phone. Have you ever heard of that?”
He looks unamused, which only makes it better. “You’re definitely feeling better.”
“Caffeine and sugar,” I declare, pointing at the coffee and pastries. “I’m unstoppable.”
At that, his mouth twitches. Almost a smile. “Eat your breakfast and be quiet.”
“Bossy,” I mutter, biting into the lemon loaf.
He holds my gaze. “You have no idea.”
My thighs clench. And suddenly, I’m assaulted with images of Griffin being bossy with me in very different ways, ordering me to my knees, his huge frame looming over mine, voice deep and rough as he takes what he needs, and—
“Tiana?”
I blink back to the kitchen.
Griffin’s watching me closely, arms still crossed, like he knows things.
Shit.
Can he tell what I was thinking?
Was I… panting?
I school my face into something vaguely human. “Hmm?”
He doesn’t say anything. Just looks, his gaze going to my mouth.
My heart does a dumb flip.
His brow arches. “You zoned out for a minute.”
I give a small, nervous laugh. “I was just thinking.”
“About?” His tone is light. His eyes are not.
“I was… mentally ranking the pastries.”
Lie. Very big lie.
“Right. Pastries.”
Griffin huffs a laugh, shaking his head as he steps out of the kitchen.
In the afternoon, I find myself sitting on the front steps of the house with an iced coffee in hand while two shirtless men dismantle my car.
Apparently the battery dying had just been a symptom of something else, and Griffin must have decided this repair job required reinforcements because Henson showed up twenty minutes ago carrying a toolbox and enough confidence to power a small city.
The second he spotted me sitting on the porch, his face lit up.
Unlike Griffin, Henson always looks genuinely happy to see me.
I try not to stare, but it’s like being confronted with a greasy Abercrombie ad come to life: both men are sweating, topless, and wearing half-destroyed jeans.
Henson is already elbow-deep in the engine, hair flopping over his brow as he peppers Griffin with questions. Griffin ignores him, but I get the sense he’s maybe five more dumb comments away from a brain aneurysm.
I sip my coffee and try to guess which one will break first. “Should I call a real mechanic?” I shout, just to see what happens.
Griffin glances at me from under the hood, a streak of black across his cheek like he’s been at war with the alternator and lost. “We’re real enough,” he says. “My dad was a mechanic, and I once owned a Toyota from the last century. What more could you want?”
Henson pops up, wipes his hands on his jeans, and winks at me. “Want me to Google the torque specs, Griff?”
I hold up my phone. “I could YouTube it,” I offer.
“See, she’s a team player.”
Griffin just grunts and bangs something under the hood with a little more force than necessary. “If you want to help, coffee refills would be appreciated.”
I lift myself off the porch. “Got it, boss. You want oat milk this time, or do you want to keep pretending you haven’t just been buying it for me?”
Henson snickers. Griffin glares at me. I grin.
“Actually,” Henson calls as I turn toward the house, “can you bring me a pen and some paper?”
I pause. “What year is it? I knew you guys were old, but not that old.”
“We need to write something down,” Griffin replies with a sigh.
“You have a phone.”
Henson points at Griffin. “He doesn’t trust technology.”
“I don’t trust you,” Griffin corrects.
“Same difference.”
I laugh and hold up my coffee in salute. “Coffee. Pen. Paper. Got it.”
The second I step inside, the noise from the driveway fades behind me.
The house is cool compared to the afternoon heat outside. I head straight for the kitchen, grabbing two mugs and starting the coffee maker. While it sputters to life, I open one drawer.
No pens.
Second drawer: takeout menus.
Third drawer: bingo.
My fingers close around a pen, but as I pull it free, a folded piece of paper catches and slides across the counter.
The paper is worn around the edges, folded and unfolded enough times that the creases have softened.
Curiosity gets the better of me.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I unfold it.
The handwriting is feminine. My stomach drops.
I shouldn’t be reading this. I know that, but my eyes betray me anyway.
If you find this, it means you woke up first for once *wink*
Kiss me before you leave.
My chest aches. Not because the note is overly intimate or dramatic. It’s a simple message that probably meant nothing when Lila wrote it and everything after she was gone.
Suddenly, a lot of things make sense.
I knew he loved his wife.
But standing here with evidence of it in my hands feels different somehow.
More real.
More painful.
Because no matter how much time has passed, I don’t think Griffin is ready to move on.
I don’t think he knows how.
And maybe that’s why Paris happened the way it did.
A part of me understands it. How could I not?
Lila was his wife. The mother of his child. The love of his life.