Page 39 of The Rookie

But then he exhales sharply, lets out a low, humorless laugh.

And his eyes—God, his eyes—lock onto mine with something unreadable.

“You are going to be the death of me, Avery Sinclair. And you know what? I don’t particularly care. I’m welcoming it, actually.”

I force out a shaky breath, my hands still resting on his chest.

Because for some reason, when he says that, it doesn’t feel like a warning.

It feels like a promise.

I clear my throat, breaking the spell. “I-I think we should head back.”

Griffin’s grip loosens, and he steps back, his expression shuttered.

“I’ll get us a taxi,” he says, his voice low and steady.

eleven

. . .

Avery

We arrive backat the hotel and change into our pajamas, and I make it clear to Griffin thatwhat happened at the club, stays at the club.

The tiny hotel bathroom is barely big enough for two people, but here we are, brushing our teeth side by side like we’re filming some ridiculous sitcom.

Griffin, of course, is making the most of the situation. He’s leaning casually over the sink, his toothbrush hanging from his mouth, his T-shirt snug across his shoulders, his pajama pants sitting just low enough to be unfairly distracting.

Not that I’m looking.

I’m not.

I shove toothpaste onto my brush and focus aggressively on the mirror, determined to ignore him, when I catch the tell-tale glint of mischief in his reflection.

“What?” I ask, my words garbled by the toothbrush.

“Nothing,” he says, his grin widening as he keeps brushing. And trying to make eye contact with me.

Liar.

I sigh, spitting into the sink. “You’re literally the worst.”

“You love it,” he replies, completely unfazed.

I glare at him as I rinse. “Please. Can you stop hitting on me. For two seconds.”

Griffin tilts his head, pretending to think, toothpaste still foaming at the corner of his mouth. “It’s just so hard, though.”

I snort, grabbing a towel to wipe my face. “Yeah, I could tell.”

Griffin chokes on his toothpaste.

Victory.

I smirk as he coughs dramatically, spitting into the sink. “Jesus, Sinclair.”

“What?” I blink innocently. “Just making an observation.”