Page 103 of Love Felt Like This

I look across from me to see Griffin pinching his eyes closed as he takes slow, steady breaths.

“Are you scared of heights, Griffin Harvey?” I tease.

“No,” he snaps. But his eyes do not open.

“Oh my God. You are. Don’t you perform on stages all the time?”

“Yeah, but I don’t go near the ledge.”

“No stage dives?” I joke.

He squints open one eye, giving me a half smile. The one hidden in his beard that feels like a secret just between us.

“Very funny.”

We’re picked up by a darkened SUV and are driven through too much LA traffic until we’re eventually snaking up a hilly neighborhood. The sidewalks have dog walkers with fistfulls of leashes and marathon-fit runners I vaguely recognize as that one guy in that one movie. Fancy cars park beyond iron gates, and when we finally pull into Griffin’s driveway—behind his own squeaking automatic iron gate—my jaw drops.

“This is your home,” I say. It’s not a question.

Griffin crawls out of the limo and unbuckles Ava, then places her on his hip. “It’s a place where we live, yes.”

This house is not a normal place to live. It’s a mansion.

We walk past the small fountain in the circular driveway and past the columns on his front porch—notably not adorned with rocking chairs or dust or a reclusive cat. Clean and marble and perfect.

I cross through the front door and peer at every passing room, all baked in white with untouched furniture. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the hilly neighborhood, and I gaze down at the busy streets with cars the size of ants. We’re not in a house—we’re like gods in the clouds.

“Amazing.”

“It’s all right,” he says with a shrug.

“Don’t be modest.”

“It’s big.”

“It’s stunning.”

Griffin sets Ava down near her toys in the living room, then leads me to a guest room nestled at the end of the hallway. The room is nearly empty, save for a bed with pristine black sheets and remote-controlled blinds. A simple side table rests on top of a simple rug. It’s all so minimalist.

“Do you not decorate?” I tease.

“The house is too big, and I’m too busy.”

“Hire someone.”

“Waste of money.”

I snort, thinking of my vintage dress that he threw cash at without even considering an alternative. “And here I thought money wasn’t an object.”

“Not for people I care about.”

I shift my eyes to him. He’s leaning on the doorway, watching me take in the room. I must look like a gawking tourist.

“We’ve got to leave in a bit,” he says. “I think Greta is on her way with her team.”

“Greta?”

“My stylist.”