Chapter 13
TIANA
By midday, I’ve barely exchanged more than five syllables with Griffin.
He opened the door this morning, gave me a half grunt, half mumble that was probably supposed to be “good morning,” and then vanished like a broody ghost into the depths of his property.
Which is totally fine.
Great.
Amazing.
Except for one teeny-tiny problem… From the dining room table, where Sylas and I have been working on his next big engineering project for the past two hours, I have a clear, full, unobstructed view straight into Griffin’s workshop through the glass doors.
And he’s being a menace.
He’s shirtless —despite the chilly, cloudy day— sweat glistening down his chest, catching on the fine trail of hair that disappears beneath… Well, lower.
He’s in distressed cargo pants that hang low on his hips, sawdust stuck to his skin like he’s been dipped in cinnamon sugar. A backwards cap sits on his head, pushing his shoulder-length auburn hair off his face while he maneuvers a saw through a slab of wood with ease.
His biceps and forearms flex, bulge, and shift under all that ink, and every time he adjusts his grip, the tattoos ripple like they’re alive. His pectoral muscles twitch with each push and pull of the saw.
I swallow hard.
Behave, Tiana. You are not here to objectify your potential new boss.
A sound startles me. Sylas is waving a piece of cardboard in my face. “TJ, can you glue this part?”
“Oh, right. Yes!” I squeak, reaching for the hot glue gun. I lean over to help Sylas, telling myself to focus on him and not his father’s chest, but an instinct pulls my gaze back toward the workshop. And Griffin is looking directly at me.
Our eyes lock.
My stomach flips. Somersaults, actually.
I turn my head so fast I almost give myself whiplash.
God, this is embarrassing.
Thankfully, Sylas is too absorbed in his cardboard architecture masterpiece to notice me thirsting after his father like a feral gremlin.
“More glue, TJ,” he says.
“Yup! On it.”
I finish gluing the piece, shake out my hands, inhale deeply, and resist the urge to fan myself.
Seconds later, the door opens. I look up—and it’s a big mistake.
Griffin strides inside, still half-naked, his muscles carved as if by the gods.
He doesn’t look at me as he wipes his forehead with the back of his wrist, then grabs a glass from the cabinet and fills it with water, his back muscles shifting like tectonic plates under his skin.
Sylas chats beside me about something I can’t hear because all I can think is: Do. Not. Stare.
Do. Not. St—
I stare, while pretending to examine Sylas’s project like it’s a world-class art installation.
Griffin takes a long drink of water, throat working, and I swear I black out for a second.
This man has audacity. He’s grumpy, barely speaks, and avoids me like I’m contagious. Yet he has the nerve to walk around like that?
I force myself to clear my throat and glue another Popsicle stick, refusing to let my eyes drift his way again.
But I absolutely do not have any willpower.
Griffin meets my gaze like he’s been waiting for me to look again.
“You finished staring?”
“Do you always have the habit of parading yourself around half-naked in broad daylight?” I shoot back.
His mouth curves. Not fully a smile, but close enough to make my stomach pull tight. “Apologies. I didn’t realize my shirtlessness would have such an effect on you.”
Heat prickles the back of my neck. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
A deep laugh escapes him, and I gasp.
“Are you… laughing?”
Griffin crosses his arms over his chest, a small grin still pulling at his mouth. “I do smile, you know. I guess I just don’t smile at you.”
I flip him off. Sylas is still too entrenched in his project to notice my feud with his father.
“Cute,” Griffin says with another chuckle.
Then he turns toward the back door, still shaking his head to himself, and the sound of his laughter lingers long after he’s gone.
By the time I get Sylas down, my voice is hoarse from reading Goodnight, Goodnight, Construction Site three times in a row. A storm started to roll in halfway through the second read, thunder rumbling loud enough to make him sit up and glance nervously toward the window.
“It’s just noise, buddy,” I’d whispered, rubbing his back when another crack sounded in the distance. “You’re safe in here, I promise.”
I tiptoe out of his room, easing the door shut the way I used to when my brother JJ was a kid and got scared during storms. I start down the dim hallway and collide straight into a wall of warm muscle as Griffin walks out of his bedroom, and suddenly we’re chest-to-chest. His hair is damp from the shower, the dark auburn strands curling at the ends.
A gray t-shirt clings to him, outlining the bulk of his chest and shoulders, and joggers hang low on his hips.
“Sorry.” He clears his throat and steps back first, giving me room to breathe. “Did Sy fall asleep okay?”
“Out cold,” I whisper. “The thunder freaked him out a little, though.”
Griffin’s expression softens. “Yeah, storms have done that since he was little.”
“He’s okay now.”
He glances toward the window as rain taps steadily against the glass. “You can wait the storm out a bit, if you want. Roads are probably crap right now anyway.”
“Sure, thanks.”
We head downstairs. In the kitchen, I pull my hair into a loose bun while he leans on the counter, arms crossed. His wet hair drips onto his shirt, leaving little dark spots.
He looks at me for a long moment. “Thanks for today.”
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing,” he counters, eyes holding mine. “And thank you for dinner. I haven’t eaten like that since Joyce left.”
“You’re welcome.” I smile. “So… about the job.”
“If you want it, it’s yours.”
My stomach swoops. “Yeah?”
“You’re good with Sy. He trusts you already.” His throat works as he swallows. “And it felt easier having you here this weekend.”
The way he says that does something to my chest. I ignore it.
“I accept, but… it’s only temporary.”
Griffin nods. “The café. Mya told me.”
His eyes stay on me while I lean back against the counter. “I know most people think influencing is all I care about, but it’s not.” I shrug. “Having my own business has always been the goal.”
“The videos are just funding the dream,” he says.
A small smile pulls at my mouth. “Something like that.”
“I just figured you were established online already.”
“I am. But social media doesn’t feel longterm. Willow’s does.”
“Well, we’d be glad to have you until then. I need someone reliable here while I look for a more permanent solution.”
At another rumble of thunder, Griffin reaches for a pan. “I’ll make a quick snack while we wait.”
“I’m fine, really—”
“Too late,” he mutters, pulling open a cabinet.
A few minutes later, the kitchen fills with the warm, buttery smell of something sweet. He keeps it simple—bread, a little butter, cinnamon, sugar.
I lean against the counter, watching him a little more intently than I should.
He slides a plate toward me. “Careful. It’s hot.”
I pick up a piece and take a bite. My eyes close before I can stop them.
A small, ridiculous burst of happiness settles in my chest.
“Good?” he asks.
I nod, taking another bite. “Yeah. Really good.”
We eat quietly after that. No awkwardness. Just the sound of the rain outside. When I’m finished, I set the plate down and reach for my tote.
“Okay, I’ll head out now and come back tomorrow evening with some of my stuff so I can start settling in.”
“Sounds good.”
I walk toward the entrance, but as I twist the doorknob, thunder cracks so loudly it rattles the windows. The second I pull the door open, wind hurls cold droplets of rain into the entryway, soaking my clothes instantly.
“Shit.”
“It’s getting worse,” Griffin says behind me. “You shouldn’t drive.”
“I’ll be fine,” I argue, even as lightning streaks bright enough to light the whole street.
“No, you won’t.” His tone leaves no room for negotiation. “Roads flood on this hill. Visibility is garbage. I’m not letting you drive in this.”
I swallow, because the last thing I need is to be stuck in this house with a man who already crawls under my skin too easily.
“I don’t have anything to wear to sleep,” I say weakly.
“I’ll give you a shirt and some pants,” he says, completely unfazed. “And I’ve got an extra toothbrush.”
I glance back outside. Trees are thrashing in the wind, and the rain is coming down in thick sheets.
Damn it.
“Fine.”
Griffin’s shoulders drop a fraction and he leads me back inside. “Come on.”
He heads up the stairs, and I follow, trying not to watch the way the muscles in his back shift under his t-shirt. He stops at the door before the guest room.
“Towels are in the closet. Uh… Give me a second.”
He disappears into his room, and I hover in the hallway, arms wrapped around myself as another rumble of thunder shakes the house.
He returns with a folded bundle pressed to his chest. Gray sweatpants and a black t-shirt that looks huge even in his hands.
He holds them out. “These should fit… or at least stay on.” Then he hands me a brand-new toothbrush still in the package.
“Thanks.”
“Sleep well, Tiana.”
I retreat into the bathroom and shut the door quickly. The moment I’m alone, I press both palms to the sink and breathe out hard.
“Okay,” I whisper to myself. “You’re fine. Everything is fine.”
Another clap of thunder booms outside, but the storm isn’t what’s got me rattled.
I peel off my clothes, cheeks heating when I catch my reflection in the mirror. Being in his house is one thing. But being naked in Griffin’s bathroom is another level of intimacy my brain wasn’t prepared for.
I think about showering but that feels like crossing a line I don’t need to toe tonight.
Instead, I grab the sweatpants first. They’re soft, worn in, and massive. I have to roll the waistband three times before they stay up. Then I pull the t-shirt over my head, and it practically swallows me whole, long enough to be a dress. It’s dripping in his scent.
Holy hell.