Chapter 14
TIANA
The following evening, I show up at Griffin Hayes’s front door with two suitcases, one overstuffed tote bag, a laundry basket full of shoes, and the false confidence of a woman who has absolutely not thought through the emotional implications of temporarily moving into her hot, broody boss’s house.
It is fine.
Everything is fine.
I am a professional. I am here for Sylas. I am here to work, make money, help a sweet little boy, and not stare at his father’s forearms.
The door opens before I can knock a second time.
Griffin stands on the other side in dark cargo pants and a black sweater pushed up to his elbows, the veins in his forearms popping.
Damn it. I’m already staring.
His eyes drop to my bags, then lift back to my face. “You brought a lot.”
I blink at him. “Hello to you too.”
His jaw flexes, as if he has to physically force manners through his system. “Hello, Tiana. Do you need help with the bags?”
“No, I thought I’d drag them in one by one while you stand there looking judgmental and rich.”
I step aside and roll my largest suitcase over the threshold. The wheels catch on the lip of the door, and before I can yank it hard enough to break either the bag or my wrist, Griffin reaches down and lifts the whole thing with one hand like it weighs nothing.
My eyes widen.
He carries it inside and sets it down beside the stairs. “What?”
“Nothing,” I say, because I am not about to compliment my employer’s strength five minutes into my first official evening here.
Griffin’s eyes hold mine for half a beat too long, and the air between us changes.
I clear my throat and tug my tote higher on my shoulder. “Where’s Sylas?”
“At a friend’s house for another hour. I thought it might be easier to get you settled before he tries to unpack everything for you.”
“Oh, thanks.”
Griffin takes the tote from my shoulder before I can protest, his fingers brushing my skin. The contact is brief, but it still sends a tiny pulse through my wrist.
His hand tightens around the strap before he looks away. “Ladies first.”
I head toward the staircase. When we get to my new room, Griffin pushes the door open with his shoulder and steps inside, setting my suitcase on the floor and tote on the bench at the foot of the bed.
I slow in the doorway.
The room is the same as yesterday. But now there are folded towels on the bed and a welcome basket on the dresser.
“You didn’t have to do all this.”
Griffin’s hands slide into his pockets. “I want you to be comfortable.”
I touch the edge of the basket. Toothpaste. Deodorant. Hair ties. A new pack of makeup wipes. Lotion. Feminine products tucked discreetly in the back.
“Did you buy this stuff?”
His gaze drops away. “Yeah, I…”
I look back at him, and for a second, the banter slips away. He looks uncomfortable, as if being caught doing something considerate is worse than being caught doing something rude.
“That’s really thoughtful. Thank you.”
His attention returns to me. “You’re welcome.”
The room goes quiet.
I turn toward my suitcase. “Okay, do you have anything I need to know? House rules? Secret passwords? Forbidden rooms?”
“There are house rules.”
I pause with my hand on the zipper.
“They’re mostly about Sylas.”
“Mostly?”
His expression stays neutral, which tells me there are definitely rules about me too.
“Come downstairs when you’re done. I printed them.”
I slowly turn my head. “You printed them.”
“Yes.”
“On paper?”
“That’s usually how printing works.”
“How many pages?”
“Three.”
I stare at him. “Three pages of rules?”
“Guidelines.”
“Oh, no. That’s worse.”
He looks like he wants to argue, but instead he dips his chin toward the hallway. “I’ll be in the kitchen.”
I watch him leave, broad shoulders disappearing past the doorframe, and I wait until his footsteps fade before I fully unzip my suitcase.
“Well,” I whisper to the empty room, “this is going to be a nightmare.”
I unpack quickly because I do not trust myself alone with my thoughts in this room for too long. Clothes into drawers. Skincare on the dresser. Shoes lined up in the closet. I put my laptop on the desk and my ring light in the corner.
By the time I go downstairs, Griffin is standing at the kitchen island with a stack of papers in front of him.
“You were serious,” I say, stopping at the edge of the kitchen. “There’s a packet.”
He slides it toward me. “It’s easier to have everything clear from the beginning.”
“Ah. Control.”
“Structure,” he corrects.
“Same toxic little family.”
He leans one hand against the counter, and I try very hard not to notice the way his sweater pulls across his forearm. “Would you like to go over it or would you prefer to continue mocking it?”
“I can multitask.”
Griffin ignores that. “Breakfast is usually at seven. He likes oatmeal, scrambled eggs, toast, fruit, or yogurt. No sugary cereal unless it’s a weekend.”
I gasp. “No sugary cereal? Do you even know what joy is?”
His jaw tightens. “No candy or chocolate before meals.”
“Logical.”
“No screen time after school.”
I lift my head. “None?”
“None.”
“What if I need to pee in peace?”
“Then he can color.”
I give him a look. “Have you met children?”
“I have one,” Griffin retorts.
“That is not the point.”
He looks down at the paper like he is fighting for patience. “If you need to adjust something, adjust it. I’m not unreasonable.”
I raise my brows. “You handed me a three-page rule packet within the first hour of me moving in.”
“I handed you care guidelines for my son.”
The shift in his voice is slight, but I hear it.
My teasing softens. “I know,” I say. “And I’m not taking that lightly.”
His shoulders lower a fraction.
“But,” I add, because I’m still me, “I’m still going to make fun of it.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Fair.”
I look back down before I accidentally smile. “Okay, what else?”
“Bedtime starts at seven-thirty. Bath, pajamas, two books, lights out by eight.”
“Noted.”
Griffin clears his throat and straightens. “There’s one rule that isn’t negotiable.”
“Okay.”
“No filming Sylas. No posting him. No accidental background appearances. Nothing that identifies this house, his school, his routine, or where we live.”
I nod immediately. “Of course. I’m serious about content, but I’m careful. I can film my own stuff when I’m off, but I’ll keep your house private.”
He studies me. “Thank you.”
“See? Look at us. We agreed on something.”
“I wouldn’t get used to it.”
I shrug. “You did say to use my judgment.”
“I’m already regretting it.”
“You’re going to regret a lot of things, Mr. Hayes.”
His eyes return to mine, slowly. “I’m starting to think that’s true.”
The way he says it makes my stomach flip.
For once, I don’t have a fast enough response.
A door opens down the hall before I can find one, and then tiny feet pound across the floor.
“Dad!”
Sylas comes flying into the kitchen with his hoodie half-zipped and a dinosaur clutched in one hand. His whole face lights up when he sees us, and whatever strange tension had wrapped itself around the room loosens instantly.
“TJ!” I crouch just in time for him to crash into me.
“Hi, bug.”
“You came back!”
“I told you I would.”
I stand with Sylas’s hand tucked in mine, and when I look at Griffin again, something warm has settled in his expression, but it disappears quickly.
“Come on,” Sylas says, tugging me toward the hall. “I have to show you my new toy.”
“I would be honored.”
As he leads the way, I glance back once.
Griffin is watching us with an expression I can’t quite read.
I have a feeling that this is going to be harder than either of us expected.
By six-thirty the next morning, I’ve learned three things about the Hayes household.
One, Sylas wakes up with the energy of a caffeinated raccoon.
Two, Griffin does not function properly before coffee, despite giving off the vibe of a man who should rise at dawn to chop wood.
Three, the dinosaur cup is apparently more important than oxygen.
“I need the green one,” Sylas announces from the kitchen table, both hands planted on either side of his plate.
I look down at the blue cup in front of him. “This one has dinosaurs.”
“But it’s blue. The green one is for breakfast.”
“The packet did not mention color-coded emotional support cups.”
From the coffee machine, Griffin mutters, “Top cabinet, left side.”
I turn and find him standing with one hand braced on the counter, hair slightly damp from the shower, dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves not yet rolled. He looks annoyingly good for a man who is only half alive.
“Good morning to you too,” I say.
He lifts his mug. “Morning.”
I open the cabinet and find an army of cups arranged by type, size, and what I assume is Griffin’s deeply concerning need for order. The green dinosaur cup sits exactly where he said it would. I swap it for the blue one.
“Thank you,” Sylas says.
“You’re welcome.”
This morning is my first real shift, and I can feel Griffin trying not to hover. It’s subtle only because he thinks standing six feet away with his arms crossed counts as casual supervision.
But he managed not to say anything.
Growth.
“Eggs?” I ask Sylas.
“No.”
“Oatmeal?”
“No.”
“Yogurt?”
“No.”
“A gourmet tasting menu prepared by a tiny chef in Paris?”
Sylas pauses. “Huh?”
Griffin’s mouth twitches behind his mug.
I point at him without looking. “I saw that.”
“You saw nothing.”
I turn back to Sylas. “Okay, here’s the deal. You can pick between eggs, oatmeal, or yogurt.”
“Can I have toast with peanut butter?”
“Yes,” I say immediately. “And banana slices.”
I move around the kitchen easily, because Griffin’s terrifying organization does have one benefit: everything is exactly where logic says it should be.
Peanut butter in the pantry. Bananas in the fruit bowl.
Kid plates in the lower drawer. I cut the banana into circles while Sylas tells me about Steggy’s breakfast preferences and Griffin stands there pretending he is not watching my every move.
When I slide the plate in front of Sylas, he picks up a banana slice, sets it on top of the toast, and nods. “Good.”