Page 12 of The Rookie

I flip the page of the journal so fast it’s a miracle I don’t rip it, my heart hammering in my chest.

Avery steps back into the room, her hair damp at the edges from where she splashed water on her face, her oversized sleep shirt slipping off one shoulder. She looks softer like this—barefoot, makeup smudged away, her guard not entirely up yet.

I clear my throat and hold up the journal like it’s a completely normal thing to be holding. “You, uh… you dropped this on my bed. On my side.”

Her steps falter. Her eyes flick to the journal in my hands. Then back to me.

A second passes. Then another.

Something shifts in her expression—just a flicker of hesitation, like she’s suddenly replaying what she last wrote in there.

Her face turns the faintest shade of pink.

“Oh,” she says, voice careful, neutral. She strides forward, plucks it from my fingers, and hugs it to her chest like I’ve committed some grievous offense against her personal privacy. “Thanks.”

I smirk, keeping my expression as unreadable as possible. “No problem.”

Her eyes narrow slightly, scanning my face like she’s trying to decipher if I saw anything. I school my expression into total innocence, but she doesn’t look convinced.

“Did you…?” she starts, then shakes her head, like she’s deciding shedefinitelydoesn’t want to finish that sentence.

I lean back against my pillow, stretching my arms behind my head. “Did I what?”

“Nothing,” she says quickly, gripping the journal tighter. She turns on her heel and heads straight for her bed, moving with more purpose than necessary.

I bite back a grin as she yanks her blankets up, practically burying herself under them.

I give it a beat. Just enough time for the tension to settle in the air before I push it one step further.

“You know,” I say casually, my voice laced with amusement. “For someone who tellsmeto keep my hands to myself, you sure left that lying awfully close.”

Avery groans, face planting into her pillow. “Go. To. Sleep.”

I chuckle, my smirk growing. “Sweet dreams, Princess.”

Her muffled response is something I can’t quite make out, but I’m pretty sure it’s a string of creative insults.

I stare at the ceiling, my smirk fading just slightly.

Because no matter how much I mess with her, no matter how hard I try to shove it aside, I know one thing for sure.

I’m never going to forget what I read in that journal.

No matter how hard I try, it’s burned into my brain, looping in a way that makes it impossible to ignore.

I have a hard time sleeping that night.

I roll onto my side. Then my back. Then my stomach. But no position is comfortable because my mind won’t shut the hell up.

It keeps circling back toherlist.Her fantasies.

At first, it was just amusement, a stupid, cocky part of me that wanted to tease her for it. But now? Now, I can’t stop thinking about them in ways I definitely shouldn’t be.

Because all I can see isher.

I picture a scenario where I’m just a stranger to Avery Sinclair. Where we don’t have history, don’t have years of snarky comments and stubborn rivalry between us.

Just two people. A single glance across a dimly lit, thumping club.

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