I felt like I’d downed four espressos in quick succession. I was wired, jittery, my pulse ticking too fast. Fully rested, there was nothing to distract me from the way Griffin’s thigh pressed against mine in the cramped space of the car. From the way the scent of his cologne made it impossible to ignore how close we were.
All because of an almost-kiss that shouldn’t have happened.
I should have been relieved that Hazel interrupted. Grateful, even.
So why did disappointment curl low in my stomach every time I thought about it?
Griffin shifted beside me, drumming his fingers lazily against his thigh. A slow, calculated rhythm daring me to react. “You’ve got that look again.”
“Which one?”
“The one where you’re trying to logic your way out of something you don’t want to admit.”
“Maybe I just like thinking,” I said, keeping my gaze locked on the blur of city lights outside.
Griffin laughed, low and knowing. “You like control. Thinking just happens to be part of the process.”
I turned my head, narrowing my eyes. “And you like pretending you don’t think at all.”
His grin was slow, effortless. “Because it winds you up.”
He wasn’t wrong.
Which was exactly why I refused to give him the satisfaction of reacting. I crossed my legs, my knee brushing his, and turned back toward the window.
“Whatever it is, Vi.” Griffin leaned in, voice dropping just enough to make my pulse tick out of rhythm. “Let it go. You’re not gonna fix it by overanalyzing it to death.”
My jaw clenched, but before I could argue, the car pulled up to a sleek and gleaming hotel. It had barely rolled to a stop before the doorman pulled the handle, letting in another rush of humid air.
I slid out, more than happy to escape Griffin. I took Hazel’s travel carrier with me and rushed toward the hotel doors without waiting for him, desperate to escape the humidity. The hotel doors parted smoothly, spilling cool, perfumed air over us. The lobby was grand with vaulted ceilings, marble floors polished to a mirror finish. Everything designed to be impressive without trying too hard.
Griffin strolled in behind me, unfazed, and made a beeline for the front desk. I followed, ignoring the burn of awareness still crawling up my spine.
The receptionist greeted us with a professional smile. “Welcome to Singapore, Mr Michaels.” Her fingers skimmed over the keyboard. “We have everything prepared for you.”
“Great. Two keys?”
The receptionist nodded, sliding them onto the marble counter. “Of course. Your bags will be brought up shortly.”
Griffin took one without hesitation, flipping it between his fingers. “Cheers.”
I grabbed the other and turned for the lifts. The place smelled expensive, all fresh orchids and something faintly citrus in the air. I’d grown up in places like this.
So why did I feel so off-balance?
Griffin stepped in beside me and pressed the button for the twenty-second floor. The doors closed, trapping me in the confined space with the last man I should be anywhere near.
The lift hummed upward, too slow. I curled my fingers around the keycard in my palm, already imagining swiping it through the lock, stepping inside, and closing the door on him.
Because whatever had made me reckless enough to almost kiss him, it ended the second I got inside my room.
Griffin leaned back against the lift rail, rolling his keycard between his fingers like he had all the time in the world. “You’re tense.”
I didn’t look at him. “I’m awake.”
Not just awake. I was aware.
Too aware that I knew exactly how he got at this hour: too chatty, too at ease, too open and willing to share, like the late-night quiet made him shrug off his mask and let glimpses of something real slip through.
