Eventually, he sighed. “Alright, so here’s the real question.” He grabbed his water bottle, spinning the cap loose with onehand. “You gonna drive around with a broken front wing all season, or are you gonna box and fix the damn thing?”
A sharp ache settled somewhere behind my ribs.
I shot him a sharp look. “It’s not that simple.”
“Nothing ever is.” He drained half the bottle before wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “But that doesn’t mean you do nothing. You always fight for what you want,” Liam said, voice quieter now. “Why aren’t you fighting for her?”
I swallowed, my throat dry. I didn’t know how to fight for her.
What the fuck was I meant to do? Sit her down and ask nicely for her to admit to feelings she wasn’t willing to face? Pretend like words would fix something that only ever made sense when she wasn’t speaking at all?
Because that was the thing, wasn’t it?
She always resisted me… until she didn’t.
I just needed to remind her that when it was just us, no overthinking, no second-guessing, no fear, we worked.
She didn’t have to say it. She didn’t have to admit a damn thing.
I’d take her breath before she had the chance.
“Just think about it,” he said. “And in the meantime, get your shit together before you ruin Austin for yourself.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
VIOLET
Istabbed the wooden spoon into the risotto, gleefully stirring extra butter into the pot. I’d lasted six days on Griffin’s meals before the craving for actual carbs became unbearable. Turns out there’s only so much lean protein and steamed vegetables a person can eat before they need pasta drowning in butter and cheese.
As much as I hated cooking, this was the most relaxed I’d been in days. Wine glass balanced on the counter, kitchen to myself, no sound but the satisfying sizzle of the pan. The baby monitor sat silent in the corner, its soft green glow the only indication that Hazel had finally surrendered to sleep after fighting it for an hour.
I took a long sip of wine, savoring the moment of peace.
If the universe had any mercy at all, Griffin wouldn’t be home for at least another hour. Just enough time to finish cooking, eat, and retreat to my room.
Not that hiding helped. Every night my subconscious betrayed me, replaying his hands, his mouth, the weight of him against me. I didn’t need to see him in person when my dreams were already doing such a thorough job of reminding me.
If it were just about wanting him, I’d have walked into his room six days ago and never left.
But wanting wasn’t enough. Not when my father would use me to destroy him.
“Something smells good.”
I nearly dropped my wine glass. Between the extractor fan and my own thoughts, I hadn’t heard Griffin come in.
Universe: one. Violet: screwed.
My spine stiffened as I turned, wooden spoon still in hand. “You’re home early.”
“Training finished early.” Griffin crossed the kitchen, plucked the wine bottle from beside the stove, and poured himself a glass.
“Great,” I said, my tone far too bright and forced. “Hazel’s finally asleep and I need that bottle for my dinner so if you wouldn’t mind?—”
The wooden spoon froze mid-stir as his hand closed over mine. His chest pressed against my back, heat radiating through the thin cotton of my shirt.
“Sorry,” he murmured, his voice low against my ear. “I have other plans for you.”
He reached past me and turned the heat off. He spun me around and held me against his chest. His eyes caught mine, and the air vanished from my lungs. I recognized that look. It was the one he wore before a race, when nothing existed but the track ahead.
