I glanced away, unable to hold his gaze. The intensity, the quiet certainty, made me want things I wasn’t sure I could have. It threatened to make me forget why this had to be temporary.
“I’ll make coffee,” I said, slipping out of bed before he could stop me.
I grabbed his shirt from the floor, the one with MICHAELS 7 sprawled across the back and front. I pulled it on as I padded to the kitchenette, smirking at how much things had changed in so little time.
The coffee maker hummed to life, and I leaned against the counter, watching the dark liquid drip into the pot. Through thefloor-to-ceiling windows, Austin stretched out below us, all glass and steel glittering under the late morning sun.
For the first time, maybe ever, I let myself feel a full-blown, reckless wave of hope. Last night had been... everything. Raw and tender and completely consuming. The way Griffin had touched me, looked at me, like I was something precious he was afraid might disappear.
Last night, I let my imagination run wild. No guardrails. No breaks when my mind wandered to places it had no business being. What would it be like if this wasn’t temporary? What if I could keep waking up in his arms, keep watching him with Hazel, keep pretending we were a real family instead of an elaborate charade?
The thought terrified me. But also stoked that wave of hope higher.
The suite was quiet, Hazel was safe with my friends, and the man humming off-key in the shower had spent the night showing me in every way a person could that this wasn’t just a fling.
This felt real. It felt like the start of something I’d been too afraid to even want.
I poured myself a cup, inhaling the rich scent, and leaned against the counter and tried not to let worries take me over. Later today, we’d get on yet another plane and head to Mexico City. I just had to keep putting one foot in front of the other until the end of the season and then we’d see?—
A sharp knock at the door made me jump, coffee sloshing over my hand.
“Bloody hell.” I set the mug down, wiping my hand on the t-shirt as I crossed to the door.
I checked the peephole.
My father.
Every muscle in my body locked. Griffin was in the shower. I was wearing nothing but a t-shirt. This was?—
Another knock, harder this time.
I yanked the door open before he could wake the entire floor.
“Dad.” My voice came out steadier than I felt. “What are you doing here?”
His gaze swept over me, taking in Griffin’s shirt hanging to mid-thigh, my bare legs, my thoroughly fucked hair, and that smile spread across his face. The one that had made me want to break things since I was old enough to recognize cruelty.
“Good morning to you too, Violet. May I come in?”
“This isn’t a good time.”
“I’ll only be a moment.” He stepped past me before I could protest, his gaze sweeping the suite with the same eagle eye he used in the garage.
I closed the door, acutely aware of Griffin’s shirt barely covering my bare ass. “Is something wrong?”
“Wrong? No.” He turned to face me, hands in his pockets.
“I wanted to congratulate you. On Griffin’s win.”
My brow furrowed. He didn’t do congratulations. He pointed out where a driver could have shaved off another tenth, where a strategy could have been more aggressive. The last time he’d used that word with me was at my graduation, and he’d followed it up by asking when I planned to get a “real job” now that I’d gotten the psychology nonsense out of my system.
And in any case, he’d had hours of team debrief time with Griffin to congratulate him. Why did he say it like I was responsible?
“You already spoke to him yesterday.”
“I did.” His gaze drifted to the rumpled sheets visible through the bedroom doorway, then back to me. “You’ve done well.”
The praise felt like a trap so I kept my mouth shut.
