Finally, she let out a triumphant sound and returned, holding up two plastic clips from an opened bag of coffee. “This will have to do.”
She made quick work of fastening the makeshift nappy. “It’s not ideal, but it works.”
“I suppose I should thank you,” I muttered.
“Don’t bother. I’m only doing this for my father.”
I’d never understand that. I played along with Julian’s demands to keep the team happy, keep my seat, and keep winning.
I didn’t do it out of devotion.
And yet his daughter was here for him.
Hazel settled against her chest, content for now. Violet stood, rocking her gently. “I should get her to bed. We’ll make do with the car seat for tonight.”
I nodded. “Whatever you need.”
Violet carried Hazel to the guest room, and I followed, hovering in the doorway as she settled the car seat on the floor beside the bed. She positioned it carefully, checking the angle before straightening.
“She’ll be okay for tonight,” she said, more to herself than to me.
I lingered as she checked on Hazel one more time. There was a tenderness in her movements that seemed at odds with the sharp edges she’d shown me. I closed the door softly behind me, leaving her with Hazel. In my own room, I sat on the edge of the bed, head in my hands.
Hours ago, I’d been celebrating a podium finish in Zandvoort. Now Julian’s daughter was across the hall, probably texting him an update right now.
Fuck my life.
CHAPTER FOUR
VIOLET
My eyes snapped open, heart slamming into my ribs. For half a second, I forgot where I was. The unfamiliar ceiling, the too-soft sheets, and the faint smell of detergent reminded me.
Griffin’s guest room. His house.
His daughter wailed beside my bed.
I groaned, pressing my fingers against my temples before pushing myself upright. The digital clock on the nightstand glowed an accusatory 2:17 AM. Hazel had lasted a whole three hours.
Kicking off the sheet, I stumbled over a stupid decorative pillow I’d shoved onto the floor earlier. My balance wobbled, and I caught myself against the nightstand, cursing under my breath. Hazel’s cries rose in pitch, escalating from annoyed to outright furious.
“Shh, it’s okay,” I whispered, hurrying to the car seat. “What’s wrong, sweet girl?”
The dim glow of the nightlight cast a soft haze over her scrunched-up face, tiny fists flailing. I lifted her carefully, cradling her against my shoulder. She was warm, squirming, utterly furious. Her tiny body trembled with the force of her cries, her mouth open wide, gulping frantic breaths between each wail.
Nappy dry. No fever that I could detect. No obvious distress beyond the crying itself. Probably hungry.
“Alright, alright.” I rocked her as I padded toward the door. “We’re handling it.”
She did not care.
Her screams drilled into my skull as I stepped into the hall, bare feet quiet against the wooden floor. The house felt cavernous at this hour, all shadowed corners and too much space.
I’d barely made it halfway down the stairs before Griffin’s door opened and he stalked out, blinking, scrubbing a hand over his face. His hair was a mess, sticking up on one side, flattened on the other. Pajama bottoms hung low on his hips.
Hazel unleashed another furious wail.
“Is she hurt? Sick?”
