Page 95 of The Rookie

Sweat-damp gray T-shirt, football pads slung over his shoulder, dark blond hair a little messy from practice.

And he saw me.

He grinned, slow and lazy, and said, “Hey, Sinclair. You coming to the game this weekend?”

And I—I did something stupid.

I stammered.

I literally fumbled over my words like some blushing, starstruck idiot, mumbled something about being busy, and walked away as fast as possible.

And I never let myself think about that moment again.

Until now.

Until now, when Griffin Knox is standing in our hotel room, still wet from our shower, ordering champagne and tequila like he just won a championship, like he knew all along this was inevitable.

Until now, when he turns back to me, smirking like he’s got me figured out.

“We’re celebrating,” he says, “because that was the best sex of your life.”

I snort, trying to play it cool, trying to ignore the fact that he might actually be right. No. He’sdefinitelyright.

“And yours, too.”

He shrugs, sitting on the edge of the bed, close enough that his knee brushes against mine.

“I mean…that was my first time. So…yeah.”

I could keep playing this game we’ve played for so long. He digs me, I dig him.

Instead, I just fight back a grin, trying to ignore the fact that Griffin Knox—the one fantasy I never let myself have—is sitting right next to me, looking at me like I’ve been his fantasy all along.

“Honestly though, this is fun. Our arrangement. Our partnership. Our undeniable chemistry.” He winks. "And yes, there’s the fact that I am no longer a virgin, thanks to you."

I snort, shaking my head. “Oh yeah? And what, you think one time makes you an expert now?”

"Baby, I was an expert before I even started.”

I throw a pillow at his face just as a knock sounds at the door.

Griffin, still laughing, grabs his wallet and pads over to answer it, accepting the champagne with a quick tip and a cocky grin.

"Perfect timing," he says, carrying the bottle and two glasses onto the balcony overlooking the beach.

The air is warm, the scent of salt and sun clinging to everything as I step outside, dropping into one of the lounge chairs.

Griffin pops the cork with a practiced ease, pouring us both glasses before sinking into the chair beside me, his long legs stretching out, his towel still barely hanging on.

He laughs, clinking his glass against mine. "To a week of fun in Mexico. To…unorthodox friendship.”

“To trying not to hate each other for at least a week.”

“I’ll always hate you, Sinclair. Doesn’t mean the sex isn’t amazing.”

I take a sip, the bubbles crisp and cool against my lips, and glance out at the waves crashing onto the shore.

It’s almost too perfect—the warm night air, the view, the lingering heat of his body still fresh on my skin.

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