“We’re idiots,” I muttered, glancing at the travel cot set up near the window where Hazel was finally asleep. “Both of us. Well, you’re not. But I am.”
I was a walking contradiction. Furious at him for not believing me. Relieved he’d finally believed in himself. Terrified of what I’d say when he walked through that door. Annoyed that I cared so much in the first place.
I pressed my hand to my chest, trying to steady myself, but my heart raced and my thoughts wouldn’t shut up. I just needed one second of quiet to think straight.
The lock clicked.
I froze.
The door swung open and Griffin stepped inside. He stopped when his eyes found me immediately. His hair stuck up at odd angles, his team kit was rumpled, and he looked like he’d gone twelve rounds with Julian and barely survived.
Every coherent thought evaporated.
“Violet.”
“Hi.”
“What are you—” He shook his head and dropped his kit bag by the door. “You’re still awake.”
“I was waiting for you.”
He took a step inside, lowering his voice instinctively as his gaze flicked to Hazel sleeping in the corner. “You said you were done.”
“I changed my mind.”
His mouth twitched. “Why?”
Because I watched you walk away from my father and it felt like watching someone cut chains I’d been wearing my entire life.
Because you chose yourself and somehow it felt like you chose me too.
“Someone needed to tell you you’re an idiot,” I said instead. “Figured it should be me.”
His mouth curved. “That’s the only reason?”
“It’s a pretty good reason.”
“Is it?”
“Yeah.”
“Then why do you look like you want to cry?”
“I don’t—” My voice cracked. Dammit.
“You didn’t wait up just to give me shit, Princess,” he whispered and took a cautious step toward me.
“How would you know?”
“Because you’re shaking.”
Of course I was shaking. I’d been pacing this room for two hours, rehearsing and discarding a hundred different versions of this conversation. Typical. Griffin Michaels, making me spell out every single feeling while he got to stand there looking exhausted and devastatingly handsome, even smelling like race fuel and sweat.
“Don’t give me that.” I crossed my arms, keeping my voice hushed so I wouldn’t wake the baby. “This is your fault. You can do the talking.”
His brows rose. “My fault? The way I remember it, you broke up with me.”
“Because you—” I stopped. Took a breath. “Don’t you dare.”
