Page 147 of The Rookie

The way his hands slid over the fabric, slow and deliberate, like it was a gift he couldn’t wait to unwrap. The way his breath hitched when he saw me—like I was something more than just a fling.

I shove the memory down, locking it away where it belongs.

It was two weeks. Two fleeting, perfect, and entirely complicated weeks. And it happened over a year ago.

Griffin has probably moved on.

He’s probably dating about eight girls by now.

I’m sure of it.

He never tried to contact me after Mexico. Not a text. Not a call. Not even a damn ‘like’ on social media.

He probably doesn’t even think of me.

I clear my throat, forcing a smile as I glance back at Cassie. "Yeah. Totally fine."

Cassie raises an eyebrow, the wheels turning in her head, but for now, she lets it go.

Instead, she smirks, scrolling on her phone again. "You know, Griffin has some seriously hot teammates."

I laugh softly, shaking my head. "I bet."

She eyes me suspiciously, her grin turning mischievous. "You don’t seem enthused at the prospect."

"No, I am," I lie, trying to sound convincing.

Cassie narrows her eyes, her tone teasing. "Mmmhmm. Sure you are."

I lean back against the seat, my fingers toying with the edge of the dress.

Because the truth is, I couldn’t care less about Griffin’s teammates.

There’s only person I’m thinking about tonight is the one person I shouldn’t be thinking about at all.

The Lyft rolls to a stop in front of the Cantina, its glowing rooftop lights strung like fairy dust across the Dallas skyline. The faint hum of live music drifts through the warm air, and my chest tightens as I step out of the car.

Cassie bounces beside me, linking her arm with mine. "Isn’t this place gorgeous? Griffin said it’s one of his favorites."

Griffin.

The name lands in my stomach like a weight.

We step inside, the warm glow of string lights and flickering candles bathing the room in gold. The music is louder here, a jazzy guitar mingling with the soft hum of conversation.

And then—I see him.

He’s at a table near the far end of the rooftop, his back to the skyline, casually leaning back in his chair like he owns the damn place.

But it’s not just the casual confidence that sends my pulse racing.

It’s him.

Griffin Knox.

Hotter than I’ve ever seen him.

He’s wearing a tailored navy suit coat, no tie, the crisp white shirt underneath unbuttoned just enough to tease the hollow of his throat. The jacket hugs his shoulders and chest perfectly, the fabric catching the light with every slight movement. His hair is shorter than it was in Mexico, styled just enough to make it look effortless, and his jawline—dear God, that jawline—looks sharper, more defined, moreman.The last year and a half has been kind to him, and that’s no surprise.

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