“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?”
