It wasn't a realization he was happy to make.
And his hand f**king hurt. He shook it, trying to jiggle away the pain. "I'm a Verdi. We don't know how to apologize."
Maylee's mouth quirked, as if she was hiding a laugh. "I noticed you're not very good with humility. Do you need help?"
"No," he said, but it sounded sulky even to his own ears. "I'm tired of needing everyone's help. I drove around for two goddamn hours this morning and couldn't find my own arse if it bit me. I messed up my tie, my hand, and I think I locked myself out of my bank account."
A small giggle escaped her.
He turned to glare at her. She should have been cautious of his feelings, damn it. He was having an uncomfortable moment.
But she was smiling, that round, pretty face lit up with humor, and her fascinating eyes were sparkling.
Griffin relaxed a little. He supposed it was a little funny. Here he was, a member of the royal family of Bellissime, a billionaire, and an important man . . . and he was completely useless.
"May I see your hand?" She stepped toward him, her own outstretched.
He extended it toward her, annoyed with himself. "I tried to beat a steering wheel into submission," he said grumpily. "The steering wheel won."
She giggled again, and Griffin's mouth twitched as if it wanted to smile at her in return.
Her hands touched his aching one, and cool fingers brushed over his skin. "Tell me about where it hurts," she murmured, her gaze fixed on his swollen knuckles.
"It hurts bloody everywhere," he muttered. But her fingers felt surprisingly good on his hand. Soft, strong, and soothing.
"Of course it does," she told him. Her face was one of concentration, and he watched as she gently rubbed the skin between his knuckles and felt the bones of his hand with her fingers. "Hands aren't meant to be punching cars."
"Not the entire car," he admitted. "Just the steering wheel."
"Of course. Did you teach it a lesson?"
"More like it taught me."
She chuckled again. "I don't think there's anything broken here." Her rubbing fingers were relaxing him. When her hand smoothed over the back of his, he felt an uncomfortable awareness in his groin.
Now is not the time, he sternly reminded his cock. I'm busy apologizing to my assistant.
"I can see that it hurts," Maylee told him. "Did you want to give me the pain?"
"What?" He tried to jerk his hand out of hers, but her grip was astonishingly tight.
"You're supposed to say yes, Mr. Griffin. That's how this works." Her hands kept rubbing his, working over his knuckles. She moved a little closer, and his hand was practically pressed against her br**sts. He wondered if she even realized what she was doing. She seemed to be utterly focused on his hand.
"Are you trying to do that folk-healing business on me?"
Her hands rubbed on his again, and damn it all if his c**k didn't respond once more.
"Tell me you want to give me the pain," she told him, but her voice was so husky it made him think about giving her . . . other things.
"I'd give it to you," he told her, fascinated. And because that sounded sick and dirty, his c**k got even harder. He'd give it to her, all right. His mind was full of images of him giving it to her. On the bed, on the floor, with her pressed onto a table-
"Thank you," she said, and gave his knuckles one last rub, then released his hand. "Should be right as rain tomorrow."
Oddly enough, the ache in his hand was nearly gone. Strange. He shook it out once more, frowning. "How did you do that?"
She shrugged. "I'm a burn talker. You rub the pain out. It's not a burn, but the concept is the same."
"Thank-"
She put her hand to his lips, stopping him before he could get the words out. "If you thank me, Mr. Griffin, you'll ruin it and the pain will come back."
He nodded, spellbound by those small fingers on his lips. He wanted to kiss them . . . kiss her. She was all soft yet authoritative today, and he found it an arousing combination. Competence and confidence. He liked that in her.
She pulled away and gave him a smile. "You still haven't apologized."
"I told you I'm quite bad at it," he said, fascinated by her. By that springy, white-blonde hair that was even now escaping her bun. By those dark green-brown eyes that watched him. That light sprinkle of freckles on her nose and cheeks.
"It's easy enough. Just repeat after me. 'I am.'"
"I am."
"Sorry."
"Very sorry," he whispered. "I'm a prat."
"Whatever that is, yes, you are." Maylee smiled again, and it was like the sun bursting from the clouds. "My mama would say you're a nasty varmint when you're cornered."