Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
VIOLET
“Is that my last bottle of Barolo?”
I jumped, nearly dropping the wine glass I’d been filling. Griffin leaned against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, looking like he’d just rolled out of bed. Messy hair, low-slung jogging bottoms, bare feet. I wished he’d put a shirt on.
I set the bottle down slowly. “I didn’t realize it was special.”
“It’s not.” He pushed off the doorframe, padding barefoot across the tile. “Just surprised to see you drinking alone in the dark.”
I’d only turned on the under-cabinet lights, leaving the kitchen in a soft glow that barely reached the corners.
“Hazel’s finally asleep.” I lifted my glass in a mock toast. “Seemed like cause for celebration.”
Griffin nodded, reaching for a glass from the cabinet. “Mind if I join you?”
I shrugged. “It’s your wine.”
He poured himself a generous measure, then topped up mine without asking.
Bold move, but I wasn’t about to complain.
The wine caught the dim light, a deep, velvety red.
Expensive, no doubt. The kind of bottle you saved for important moments.
I was using it to recover from assembling baby furniture and managing a driver’s fragile masculinity.
Griffin leaned against the counter opposite me, a safe distance away. “Quite a day,” he muttered, swirling his glass.
“Yup.” I took a sip.
The wine was excellent. Velvety and complex, with notes of cherry and darker undertones I couldn’t place. Far better than the cheap bottles I usually shared with Cleo and Imani during our Friday night catch-ups.
Griffin studied the glass like it might contain answers to questions he hadn’t yet asked.
“So,” he said eventually, “I realized something today.”
I raised an eyebrow, waiting.
“We’re living together, and I know almost nothing about you.” He took a sip, studying me over the rim of his glass. “Beyond the obvious.”
“Which is?”
“Julian Carter’s daughter. Baby whisperer.”
I snorted. “Baby whisperer?”
“You knew exactly what to do with Hazel.” He gestured vaguely with his free hand. “Like you memorized an instruction manual.”
“Hardly.” I traced the rim of my glass with one finger. “Just experience. And a degree.”
“You have a degree in childcare?” He looked shocked.
“Psychology. My master’s was in early child development.” I shrugged, downplaying it. “I spent the last few months working at a children’s center in Tanzania.”
His brows lifted. “As in Africa?”
“That’s generally where it’s located, yes.” I couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at my lips. “I got back three weeks ago.”
“And here I thought you were just Julian’s go-fer.”
I stiffened. “I’m nobody’s errand girl.”
“Clearly.” He raised his glass in acknowledgment. “So, Tanzania. What was that like?”
The question caught me off guard. Most people barely asked, and when they did, they didn’t really listen to the answer. My father certainly never had.
“It was... intense.” I searched for words that wouldn’t sound trite. “Beautiful, heartbreaking, and exhausting. The children there have so little, but they’re incredibly resilient.”
Griffin’s expression softened, something genuine replacing his usual guarded look. “That sounds amazing.”
I nodded and took another sip of wine, surprised by the lump forming in my throat. “I miss it, actually. The simplicity of it. The purpose.”
Why was I telling him this? Griffin Michaels didn’t need to know what I missed or why I’d come back.
“And now you’re stuck here with us instead.” His tone was light, but guilt flashed in his eyes.
“It’s different,” I said carefully. “But Hazel needs help, too.”
Griffin nodded, his gaze dropping to his glass. “She deserves better than I can give her right now.”
The raw honesty in his voice surprised me. This wasn’t the cocky driver who dominated headlines with his exploits both on and off the track.
“You’re learning. That’s more than some parents ever do.”
He glanced up, searching my face like he suspected a trap. Finding none, his shoulders dropped.
“What about you?” I asked, steering us back to safer ground. “What does the great Griffin Michaels do when he’s not driving at death-defying speeds or changing nappies?”
A genuine smile spread across his face. “Would you believe I play the drums?”
“You’re joking.”
“I have a kit set up in the basement. Soundproofed, so the neighbors don’t murder me in my sleep.”
I tried to picture it, Griffin Michaels, the golden boy, pounding away at a drum set. The image was both ridiculous and strangely fitting.
“Any good?” I asked.
“Not remotely.” His grin widened. “But it helps clear my head after a race. Better than punching walls, which was my previous coping mechanism.”
I laughed despite myself. “Very mature.”
Great. Now I was laughing at his jokes. The wine had clearly done its job too well.
“I never claimed to be mature.” He took another sip of wine. “Your turn. What does Violet Carter do for fun when she’s not saving children or babysitting reckless drivers?”
“I read. A lot.” I shrugged, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “Not very exciting, I know.”
“What kind of books?”
“All kinds. Classics, contemporary fiction, psychology texts.” I hesitated, then added, “And trashy romance novels when no one’s looking.”
Griffin’s eyebrows shot up. “Now that I didn’t expect.”
“What did you expect?”
“I don’t know. Academic journals? Political manifestos?” He grinned. “Guides on dismantling the patriarchy?”
I rolled my eyes. “You have a very strange image of me in your head.”
“I’m revising it as we speak. Any other secrets I should know about my temporary housemate?”
He topped up my glass without asking, his fingers brushing mine briefly. I pulled back.
The warmth of the wine spread through me, loosening my usual reserve. “I can’t whistle. I’m allergic to cats. And I once got thrown out of a museum in Paris for arguing with a tour guide about a painting’s attribution.”
Griffin laughed, the sound rich and genuine. “Of course you did.”
“He was wrong. It wasn’t a Monet. The brushwork was all wrong.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” He shook his head, still smiling. “Art critic, child psychologist, and now nanny to the most unprepared father in motorsport. You’re full of surprises, Carter.”
Something in his tone made me glance up. He studied me like he was trying to figure me out.
I didn’t want to be figured out. Not by him.
I glanced away.
Griffin cleared his throat. “Anyway, I called a lawyer.” He set his glass down. “The one your father recommended.”
My stomach dropped. “Cormac Steele?”
“Yeah. We’re meeting tomorrow to discuss paternity testing and custody arrangements.” He frowned at my expression. “What? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I swallowed. “Be careful with him.”
Griffin frowned. “Why?”
I hesitated, old wounds aching beneath the surface. “He’s ruthless. Brilliant, but ruthless. And he works for my father, not for you.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means...” I took a deep breath, steadying myself. “It means he’ll do whatever it takes to please Julian, regardless of who gets hurt in the process.”
“You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”
I stared at the countertop, tracing a water ring with my fingertip. “He handled my parents’ divorce. It wasn’t pretty.”
That was the polite version.
I was fourteen when the fighting started in earnest, though in hindsight, it had probably been brewing long before I ever noticed.
“Steele made sure everyone saw my mother as unstable,” I said, voice even.
Detached. “By the time it was over, Steele had secured full custody for my father, and my mother was lucky to get visitation rights. The public saw exactly what he wanted them to see: a stable, devoted father stepping in to save his daughter from a mother who couldn’t cope.
” I released a humorless laugh. “Steele even arranged for me to live with my aunt for a while. He called it ‘shielding me from the stress.’ In reality, he was just clearing the board so he could win the game.”
For the first time since I’d arrived, he looked like he might actually be afraid.
“I just want to do right by Hazel. Make sure she’s taken care of.”
“Then don’t sign anything Steele puts in front of you without a second opinion.”
He nodded slowly. “I won’t. Thanks for the warning.” Griffin tipped his glass back, swallowing what was left of his wine. “The whole thing is a mess. Isolde’s gonna—”
His whole body stilled. The kind of stillness that wasn’t natural for him, like the moment before a crash when everything suspends in midair. His gaze snapped to mine, sharp, assessing.
I blinked. “Isolde. Isolde Callaghan?”
Jesse Callaghan’s sister.
Shit. The gossip brigades would happily eat up that drama if it ever got out.
His grip tightened around his glass. “Fuck.”
“I won’t say anything.”
He studied me for a long moment, clearly trying to decide if I was lying.
“I’m here for Hazel. Not to gossip about your personal life. Whatever happened with Isolde Callaghan isn’t my business.”
“If this gets out—”
“I know.”
Griffin huffed out a tired laugh. “Well, that’s one way to ruin a perfectly good bottle of Barolo.”
I picked up my glass, swirling the last sip. “And here I thought the company was the problem.”
That startled another soft, almost genuine laugh from him.
I shouldn’t have liked the sound of it. Shouldn’t have noticed the way his eyes crinkled at the corners.
I drained my glass and stood. “I’ll check on Hazel.”