Page 41 of The Rookie

He catches it easily, laughing. “What? I’m just stating facts.”

“Out. Of. Control,” I mutter, flopping back onto my bed and pulling the blanket over me. “And how many times do I have to tell you there’s a better chance of me dropping out of school?”

Griffin hums thoughtfully. “Mmm, well, that’s a shame. Because it would be nice to make out with you. Again.”

My breath catches.

My body—traitorous and unfairly responsive—tightens at the memory.

The way he pressed me against that wall, the way his hands gripped my thighs like he didn’t want to let go.

The way his mouth devoured mine, deep and sure and consuming, making my knees actually give out like I was some lovesick idiot in a romance novel.

And the worst part?

I liked it.

No—I loved it.

I shove the feeling down, burying myself deeper into the blankets, because if I think about it too much—about how I can still feel the warmth of his body, still taste him, still hear the way his breath caught when I kissed him back—I’m screwed.

“You need to shut up,” I mutter, my voice not nearly as sharp as I want it to be.

I hear his smirk before I see it.

“Goodnight, Sinclair,” he says, his voice dripping with amusement. “Sweet dreams.”

I don’t respond, rolling onto my side and pretending to ignore him.

But as the room falls silent, and I stare at the dim ceiling, one thought creeps in.

This will never happen.

I tell myself that.

Over and over.

Until I almost believe it.

This will never happen,I tell myself.

Not in a million years.

But for the first time that night, I find myself wondering... if my best friend’s brother is as good in bed as he was a make out on the dance floor.

twelve

. . .

Avery

The faint soundof the shower running drifts through the room as I tie my hair back and try to focus on the Spanish vocab sheet in front of me. It’s not working.

Griffin’s been in there for fifteen minutes, and I already know he’s going to come out doing something infuriating. It’s like his life’s mission to find new ways to get under my skin.

Sure enough, the bathroom door creaks open, and steam billows out like some dramatic stage entrance.

Griffin steps into the room, a towel slung low on his hips, water still dripping from his hair onto his stupidly defined chest. Really? He couldn’t be one of those guys that just skips a shower every once in a while?

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