Chapter 11
GRIFFIN
The house is loud with silence now that Tiana has left.
Sylas is in the backyard again, narrating to himself like a kid-science podcast. I’m in the kitchen, staring at the two coffee mugs in the sink—hers with the faintest ring of oat milk at the bottom, mine black and bitter.
I run the tap and rinse them both over and over like that’ll wash the guilt off.
I knew it was risky the second I put the carton of oat milk in my basket yesterday.
Oat milk, vanilla syrup, and a fresh bag of beans for the espresso machine I barely use.
I told myself it was politeness. She’d be here all weekend; there wouldn’t be time for her usual coffee-shop circuit or the farmer’s market stand she likes. I was just being accommodating.
Sure.
The truth is uglier and simpler: I wanted to see her face when she took that first sip and realized it was exactly right. I wanted the hit of satisfaction I got when her shoulders eased and her mouth did that small, surprised curve. I wanted to make something easy for her.
Why?
I grab a towel and dry the mugs. My ring clinks against porcelain, sharp as a reprimand.
I replay the moment anyway and picture the way her eyes lifted to mine, that quick flash when she realized… And me, the world’s worst poker player, freezing and then blurting out something that came off kind of judgemental.
You’re an idiot, Hayes.
She seemed to almost flinch at my words, and now I can’t stop thinking about it.
There’s a story behind that reaction. I’m assuming people think they know her because they’ve skimmed her profile page. Maybe I just proved I’m one of them. I swallow a curse and set the mugs back in the cabinet.
Out the window, Sylas holds up the claw like a trophy and yells, “Version two!” to no one before bolting for the garage, the screen door slapping twice in his wake.
Tiana was good with him. And not the performative kind of good, the real kind. She let him lead and gave him choices. Got him to dry dishes without making it feel like a chore.
I’ve hired project managers who couldn’t read a room that fast.
Sylas warmed to her in under five minutes, which he doesn’t do for just anyone.
I don’t blame him. She has this calming pull.
I felt it too. Throughout the whole day there was a pressure valve turned down inside my chest, like the weight I always carry shifted and I wasn’t bone-tired anymore.
I can’t remember the last time I felt that.
I also noticed—because I notice everything about her—that she never touched her phone. Not once. For someone who lives online, she gave my kid her undivided attention; that earned more of my respect than anything I could’ve put on a job description.
I hate admitting it, but Mya might’ve been right. Though I’m not saying it out loud yet. We still have tomorrow to get through. Then I’ll ask Sylas what he thinks, and we’ll decide together. And if my gut keeps saying what it’s saying now, I’ll hire her.
I’m already building a mental spreadsheet: pros and cons, risks and boundaries.
Pro: She’s competent and Sy liked her, which is the whole ballgame.
Con: She’s… her. The woman from my screen, head-to-toe real in my kitchen, in leggings that should be illegal, taking up space exactly the way I didn’t plan for.
I wipe the kitchen counter, straighten the calendar magnets, catch myself smoothing the edge of a sticky note and feel ridiculous.
Then, I open the fridge.
The oat milk sits on the top shelf; I consider tossing it, but don’t. That’s not fixing the problem. I slide it behind the regular milk instead, as if hiding it makes it better.
My phone buzzes on the counter.
Mya
How did round one go?
I stare at the screen long enough to see it dim.
I type “Better than expected” and delete it. Type “She’s good with Sy” and delete that too.
Finally, I send:
Good.
I pocket the phone and lean on the island, palms flat on the surface. My ghost account burns in my pocket like hot coal. I haven’t opened it since I saw Tiana at Willow’s on Thursday.
I should have deleted it months ago. It’s not harmless anymore—maybe it never was. It’s a door I cracked so I could look into a room I had no business entering.
I take my phone out.
Delete it, Griff.
I shove it back in my pocket.
Coward.
Sylas runs by the kitchen, and I push off the island after him, because I am, at the end of the day, a father. And fathers get out of their heads.
“Time to retire the claw, buddy!” I shout.
“But Dad…” Sylas’s voice ricochets from the hallway. “I need more foam!”
“Tomorow. It’s bath time,” I call, grateful for the excuse to move.
I head up the stairs, pausing near the guest bedroom. I stare inside, already picturing Tiana’s things everywhere.
I shake my head and rub my thumb over my wedding band, a habit as old as the grief it anchors, and feel the familiar weight pull me steady.
I can be two things at once: the man who keeps his promises to the past, and the father who makes the right choices for the present.
Sylas is out cold before the second storybook hits the nightstand. I smooth his hair back, switch the nightlight to the soft glow he likes, and watch his chest rise and fall. Today wore him out, in a good way.
I retreat down the hall to my room and shut the door.
Once the quiet folds over me, my head goes straight to Tiana.
I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose.
Her ass flashes behind my lids and I groan. Christ.
I sit on the edge of my bed and habit wins. I pull out my phone, muscle memory taking me to Instagram. Her circle is ringed and glowing at the top.
I tap on her story.
It’s a photo of Tiana in bed, hair tied up, a clay mask on, covers pulled up to her waist. The caption reads: had the best saturday I’ve had in a long time.
My heart punches my ribs before I can stop it.
No. Don’t get any ideas. Absolutely not.
I slam the phone onto the mattress like it burned me and scrub a hand over my face, heading for the bathroom. She’s my potential nanny. That’s it—the only category I can put her in if any of this is going to work. I need to reel it in, lock it down, remember who I am and what I’m responsible for.
In the shower, the freezing water hits me like needles, stealing my breath and shocking my skin to attention. It should help; it doesn’t. The heat inside me doesn’t care about the cold.
I twist the handle hard the other way to scalding. Steam climbs the glass, and I plant my palms on the tile and bow my head under the roar, trying to drown out the image of a smiling woman in a clay mask.
It still doesn’t work.
My dick is hard, a stinging, upward ache. I curl my right hand tight around it, grind the base into my palm, and for a split second consider stroking—going through the whole fast, stupid, guilty cycle just to get it over with.
Instead, I let go. I bite the inside of my cheek and tilt my head into the punishing spray, letting the water erase every other sensation but the pressure in my skull.
I stay like that until my skin prickles red.
After I shut off the water, I stand there, dripping, surrendering to the simple truth that a shower—cold or hot—can’t fix a problem I have now invited into my house.
Back in my room, I dry off, pull on sweats, and stare at the phone on the bed. It buzzes right as I lower my hand to pick it up and I almost jump.
Hey, it’s TJ. I got your number from Mya. Figure it would be easier to communicate this way.
I stare at the message, my heart beating fast. Seeing her name in text form shouldn’t be doing something to me. My thumb hovers before I change her contact name to “Trouble” and type back.
Right. It would make things easier, wouldn’t it?
Her reply comes fast.
Trouble
Yup. Something has to be easy when dealing with you…
Oops. Did I say that out loud?
I drag a hand down my face, a reluctant grin pulling at my mouth. She’s bold, I’ll give her that.
Funny girl.
Trouble
I try my best.
My fingers hesitate over the keys. I should end this conversation. Instead, I type:
Speaking of… Thanks for today.
Trouble
My pleasure. Sylas seems like a good kid.
He is… He had a great time.
Trouble
Did you?
That catches me off guard. I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling.
It’s not about me.
Trouble
Gasp! So you’re telling me that not everything revolves around your world, Mr. Hayes?
I exhale through my nose. She’s baiting you, I think. But I can’t not take it.
What made you think that, Ms. Jones?
Trouble
When I came in and turned it upside down, Grumps.
I stare at her last text until the screen goes black, a smirk still tugging at my mouth.
I toss the phone aside. Tomorrow is going to be a long damn day.