I closed my bedroom door and leaned against it.
Jesus. What did I think was going to happen if I opened up to Griffin Michaels? The man who thought he had my entire lifefigured out based on what? A few interactions at the track over the years? A few staged photo-ops?
I’d slipped up. Multiple times. And every single time he’d dismissed it. Why had I even tried?
Four days alone with a newborn. That was the only explanation for my momentary lapse in judgment.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
GRIFFIN
Hazel’s eyelashes fluttered against her cheeks, and I held my breath.
Don’t wake up. Please don’t wake up.
Not because I didn’t want to see her eyes open, hear her coo, hold her against my chest. But because Violet would actually kill me if I woke her, and I’d spent six hours on a plane from Baku thinking about this exact moment.
I’d dropped my bag at the door and come straight here, bypassing my own room, my own bed, everything that made sense after another four-day stretch away from home. Exhaustion pulled at every muscle, turning my brain to sludge, but none of that mattered.
I needed to see her.
She’d changed. I’d only been gone four days, but her face looked different. Fuller. Her hair had grown, dark wisps stickingup at odd angles. She slept on her back, fists tucked near her face, mouth hanging slightly open.
God, I wanted to wake her.
Wanted to scoop her up, feel that weight settle against me, hear those little sounds she made when she recognized my voice. But I couldn’t. Violet had texted me increasingly terse updates about how Hazel wouldn’t settle or eat, how she’d screamed for forty-five minutes straight.
Instead, I wrapped my fingers around the crib rail and watched my daughter sleep. Any sane person would’ve walked away and gone to bed. But four days of FaceTime screens and pixelated images hadn’t been enough. I needed to see her little face with a desperation I couldn’t understand.
The guy who’d stumbled out of Zandvoort hungover and pissed off five weeks ago? Gone. Replaced by this. A man who’d turned down team celebrations and raced to the airport instead, desperate to get home to a seven-week-old who didn’t even know he’d won.
Sixteen points clear in the championship now. Every analyst was calling this my year. But standing here, staring at sleeping form, none of that mattered.
The shower shut off down the hall and I tensed.
I should’ve moved. Violet would not be impressed to find me in her room. But my feet wouldn’t cooperate, and my hands wouldn’t release the rail, and Hazel’s tiny chest kept rising and falling in that rhythm that made everything else disappear.
The door creaked open and Violet walked in, towel wrapped around her body, wet hair dripping onto her bare shoulders. For a second, she didn’t notice me and started brushing her hair out in the mirror.
Her gaze caught mine in the reflection and she froze.
“Jesus Christ.” Her hand flew to her chest, eyes going wide.
I held up a finger, pointing at the crib. “Shh. You’ll wake her.”
“What the hell are you doing?” she whisper-shouted. “How did you—when did you?—”
“Got in about twenty minutes ago.”
“And you came straight here?”
“Where else would I go?”
“Your room. Your bed. Literally anywhere that isn’t standing in the dark in my room.”
“I just needed to see her and the door was open so I…” I rubbed my eyes. “I’m sorry.”
Violet grabbed my arm and dragged me into the hallway. I went willingly, because arguing would wake Hazel, and that would make this ten times worse.
