Chapter 10
TIANA
Saturday shows up, and I park at the curb in front of a not-quite-mansion-but-not-remotely-regular house in a quaint neighbourhood. There’s a deep wraparound porch with a swing, and an extra-wide lot with a second driveway curling toward a detached garage.
On the side, a kid scooter and bike are tipped together next to a fern. Built-in shelves are visible through the front windows, stacked with bins and books instead of designer objects.
Money, but lived in.
Big, yet cozy.
And a reminder that Griffin Hayes isn’t just comfortable—he’s rich rich.
My stomach does a ridiculous little flip.
Suddenly, I feel self-conscious. I smooth my sweatshirt, grab my tote, and head up the wide steps.
Before I can knock, the door opens.
Griffin fills the frame in a T-shirt and jeans, his shoulder-length auburn hair slicked back. His mouth is a firm line; his eyes are impossible to read.
“Morning!” I say all chipper.
“Morning,” he rumbles back. His gaze flicks to my face like he’s bracing for impact. “Before we start…” He exhales through his nose. “Guess I owe you an apology for Willow’s.”
“You do.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, clipped.
I arch a brow, folding my arms. “Go on…”
“I handled it badly.”
A pause.
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Uh huh. Thank you. Apology accepted.” The sting I pretended not to feel on Thursday eases a notch. “Let’s start over.”
Griffin’s brow furrows just a touch as I extend a hand toward him.
“Hi. I’m Tiana Jones.”
He looks at my hand, then back at my face, like he’s trying to decide if I’m serious. After a second, he huffs something that might be the ghost of a laugh and takes my hand.
“Griffin Hayes.”
His grip is warm and solid. Grounding in a way I wasn’t expecting. We let go a second too late.
He clears his throat and steps back, gesturing inside. “Come in.”
The foyer opens into a massive, bright living room.
I take in the space: there’s a couch sturdy enough to survive a trampoline session, and what looks like blueprints stacked on the coffee table.
On a sideboard is a framed photo of Griffin standing next to a woman whose smile is warm, a toddling boy on her hip.
My chest tugs at the sight.
Mya had briefly mentioned that Griffin was widowed, but I didn’t press for details. I figure if he feels comfortable bringing it up, he’ll talk about it himself.
Tiny footsteps thump on the floorboards behind me. A boy skids into view, hair sticking up, his T-shirt featuring a robot with claws. His eyes are the same blue as his dad’s, just sunnier.
“Hi,” I say, crouching down. “You must be Sylas.”
He peers at me, wary and curious. “Are you the trial?”
I bite back a smile. “I am the trial. My name is Tiana, but you can call me TJ.”
He thinks this over, then nods. “Okay, TJ. Do you know how to make a fort?”
“Do I ever.” I tug my tote higher on my shoulder. “But I only reveal my best constructing secrets to people who beat me at Go Fish.”
This earns a grin that shoves his dimples into full bloom. “Challenge accepted.”
Griffin’s voice comes from behind me. “Breakfast first, Sy.”
“Is it cereal?” Sylas asks, instantly suspicious.
Griffin glances at me like he’s about to confess to a crime. “It’s… often cereal.”
I slip the to-go container out of my bag like a magician. “Lucky for you, I brought food. Banana-oat pancakes and syrup with smashed strawberries.”
Sylas’s eyes go huge. He looks at his dad, and I have to turn my laugh into a cough. Griffin scrubs a hand over his jaw, trying not to smile and failing a little.
“Lead the way,” he tells Sylas, who promptly bolts in the opposite direction.
“Come on, TJ! I’m starving!” he shouts as he rounds the corner.
I laugh and follow him, knowing full well I dressed for confidence this morning.
I’m wearing black leggings that lift, sculpt, and leave very little to the imagination.
And it’s not because I planned to impress Griffin Hayes.
Okay, maybe a little because of that.
As I walk ahead, I sway my hips just enough to test the theory. The sound of his footsteps falters behind me.
I glance back over my shoulder and catch him mid-stare.
Busted.
A slow grin curls my mouth, and I turn forward again.
I can practically feel his scowl, but I saw the faintest shade of pink touching his ears. That’ll teach you to judge a book by its cover.
In the kitchen, I stare at the white cabinets, butcher-block counters, and a fridge calendar packed with school events and sticky notes. I heat the pancakes while Griffin goes to the coffee maker. He moves efficiently keeping enough of a distance, and I realize he’s giving me space to lead with Sy.
He sets a mug by my elbow. “Here.”
“Oh, thanks.” I take a sip and blink. It’s exactly the way I like it—oat milk, a little vanilla, no sweetener.
“How did you…?” I start, glancing up. For a half second, his eyes go wide.
“Just a guess,” he says with a shrug, though he looks uneasy. “You look like the kind of girl who’d pick oat milk over regular and espresso over drip.”
The comment pricks, but I swallow it. “Lucky guess.”
From the island, Sylas pipes up. “We never have oat milk.”
Griffin stutters. “Yes we do. You just never noticed.”
“That’s not true,” Sy says, thinking hard. “Joyce once brought oat milk home and you said it was fake milk.”
A laugh slips out of me before I can catch it. Griffin slides the plate of pancakes in front of his son like he can plug the conversation with food. “Eat.”
While we sit around the island, Sylas asks me six questions about forts, three about my favorite dinosaur, and one whispered, very serious question about whether whipped cream can be considered “engineering foam.”
After breakfast, we clear plates together.
I rinse, Sylas dries, and Griffin hovers like he wants to help but also wants to audit the process.
Not in an overbearing way —just watching and tracking.
I hand him a dish towel without looking, and he takes it, our fingers brushing for a blink.
Warmth zings up my arm, rude and uninvited.
I ignore it and busy myself with the sink.
Griffin sets each plate down in the rack, adjusts the first one a fraction of an inch so they line up, does it again with the next.
I glance at him. He doesn’t seem to realize he’s doing it.
Interesting.
“All right,” I say, clapping once. “Tour?”
Griffin nods. “Let me show you the lay of the land.”
He walks me through the downstairs —two living rooms, a half bath, a playroom, a home theater, and a big office with tidy stacks and a whiteboard covered in neat block letters. In the hall hangs a framed blueprint with a red tag in the corner: W.H.M. — FIRST BUILD.
He straightens the frame as he passes. Barely a touch, but it was already straight.
Upstairs, he pauses outside a door and pushes it open. “This is Sylas’s room.”
The second I step inside, I’m hit with the chaos of a six-year-old boy’s universe.
Griffin lingers in the doorway as I take it all in. There’s pride in his eyes. “He insisted on the rocket theme.”
“It’s perfect,” I say, because it is.
We go back into the hall. He gestures toward another door on the right. “And this would be yours,” he says, clearing his throat a little. “If… this works out.”
It’s a massive room with a king bed covered in simple linen, a nightstand, an empty bookcase, and a small desk tucked under the window.
“It’ll be cute once I make it homier,” I say, already picturing a throw, a plant, a lamp…
“Over there is the closet,” he adds, opening a sliding door. “And that one is the en-suite.”
I nod, then glance down the hall. “Where’s your room?”
He points to the far end in the opposite direction. “Down there.”
I bite back a smile and arch a brow. “Keeping me at a safe distance?”
He simply grunts and moves on.
When we get back downstairs, Sylas appears with a shoebox. “It’s my robot claw prototype,” he announces. Inside is a mess of popsicle sticks, string, and paper clips.
“It’s awesome!”
“It doesn’t work,” he admits, then brightens. “Yet.”
“Yet is my favorite word. Give me twenty minutes and a roll of painter’s tape, and we’ll give Dr. Claw a handshake.”
Griffin’s mouth tilts at the corner. “Tape is in the garage. Tools on the pegboard. If you move anything, put it back where you found it.”
“Copy,” I respond with a mock-salute.
We follow him to the garage; I locate the roll, zip ties, and a hand drill that Griffin passes me with one lifted brow, like he’s not convinced I can use it. I check the battery by squeezing the trigger and it whirs. “We’re good.”
Sylas and I sit on a workbench and Griffin leans against the wall, watching us, occasionally passing a tool without being asked as if he’s reading the map I’m drawing in real time.
We get the claw to pinch with a gentle tug of twine. Sylas gasps. “It works!”
“Version one,” I say, grinning. “Version two gets finger pads so it can pick up slippery things.”
Time passes and we break for water, Griffin and I standing in the doorway to the backyard while Sy does test grabs on pinecones.
Griffin clears his throat. “Thanks for the pancakes. And for not making this weird.”
I tilt my head. “You mean by not mentioning how you ran away from me?”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Yeah. That.”
“You apologized. We’re square.”
Griffin holds my gaze and nods.
“But just to make sure we’re on the same page…” I continue. “I won’t change who I am to fit into your mold. I’m professional and I’m careful around kids. I do some work on social media, so I’m still going to be online. Not sure if you recognized me from my page or one of the ads I’ve done…”
He coughs and looks away but doesn’t answer my question. “As long as my son’s not on your accounts.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I say seriously. “So, communication: you tell me what you need; I tell you what I can deliver. If I mess up, I’ll say it. If you mess up—”
“I’ll say it,” he finishes, eyes steady on mine again.
“Lastly,” I add, because I can’t resist, “no more dramatic exits.”
Something like embarrassment flashes across his face. “No more exits.”
“Great. Then I’ll add a bonus: I make a mean meal prep, so your mornings stop being cereal roulette.”
A low sound that might be a laugh escapes him. “That would be welcome.”
I lean on the doorframe, then tip my chin toward the yard, where Sy is still testing the claw. “For what it’s worth, I’m good at this.”
“I’m starting to believe that,” he says quietly.
The screen door bangs and Sylas barrels back in, victorious. “It picked up a grape!”
“Add it to the lab notes,” I say, and he salutes, running for a marker.
I glance at Griffin and can’t help the small, smug curl at my mouth. In just a couple of hours, I’ve won the kid and cracked a hairline in the dad.
Not bad for a Saturday.
Tomorrow, I will kick it up a notch.
I fully intend to test just how much teasing it takes to make a very grumpy man lose his very serious composure.