Page 44 of The Rookie

She busies herself with the little breakfast menu, not even glancing my way, which gives me a moment to try and collect myself. But my brain is running circles around one thought:

What is she doing?

This is Avery. Avery, who spent most of high school and college in oversized hoodies and yoga pants. Avery, who practically bristles at attention. And now she’s sitting across from me, completely unfazed, while looking...like that.

The only answer is that she knowsexactlywhat she’s doing.

“Knox,” Jake says, snapping me out of my thoughts. “You good, man? You’ve been staring at that coffee like it insulted your mom.”

“Oh uh,” I say quickly, clearing my throat and setting the cup down.

The group conversation picks up as more people join the table, but I can barely follow it. Every time I glance across the table, Avery is either leaning forward to pour herself some juice or casually brushing her hair back, and it’s driving me insane.

“Knox,” Jake says again, this time with a sly grin. “What’d you think of the dance-off last night? I think Sinclair took you to school.”

I smirk, grateful for the distraction. “That’s one interpretation. I’d call it a tie.”

“Oh, please,” Avery says, looking up from her plate. “I had you beat from the first spin.”

The challenge in her voice is so subtle it’s almost easy to miss. Almost.

“Confident today, are we?” I reply, raising an eyebrow.

“Always,” she says with a small smile, taking a bite of her toast.

Jake leans closer to me, whispering, “Dude, what did you do to her? She’s glowing or something. Did you guys make out?”

“Nah,” I mutter, grabbing my coffee again.

“Sure,” Jake says, laughing. “Whatever you say. So you just stopped at ‘grind all over each other?’”

I try to focus on the conversation, but every time Avery shifts in her seat or leans forward, my attention is pulled right back to her. It’s maddening.

And she knows it.

At one point, she catches my eye, her lips curving into the faintest smirk.

By the time we get to the Spanish Language Institute, I’ve convinced myself that breakfast was just a fluke. Maybe Avery threw on that top and those shorts without realizing what she was doing. Maybe she didn’t mean to look likethat.

But when she slides into the seat next to me, still wearing that pink halter and white linen shorts, pen already tapping against her bottom lip, I know I’m in trouble.

“You ready for this?” she asks, flashing me an innocent smile that I absolutely do not trust.

“Always,” I mutter, trying not to look directly at her.

The instructor—who I liked a lot more yesterday—starts explaining that today’s lesson isadvanced conversational scenarios.We’re talking about plans, wishes, hypothetical situations—stuff that requires the subjunctive.

“Vamos a trabajar en parejas,” the instructor says cheerfully. “Practiquen como si fueran en una cita romántica, haciendo preguntas sobre sus vidas y sus futuros.”

My brain stutters. Romantic scenarios? Great. Perfect. Just what I need.

And of course, my partner is Avery Sinclair.

“Looks like we’re stuck together,” she says, her eyes sparkling as she flips to a fresh page in her notebook.

“Terrific,” I mutter, dragging my notebook closer and willing myself to get it together.

Avery smirks, as if she can hear the silent pep talk I’m giving myself.

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