Page 151 of The Rookie

I clench my hands into fists to keep myself from trembling. Because the truth is—I want him so bad it’s ridiculous. So bad I can feel it in my teeth, in my lungs, in the maddening ache low in my stomach.

"Griffin," his teammate says, glancing up with a grin. "We were just talking about you."

Griffin doesn’t miss a beat, his smirk sharpening.

"Oh, I’m sure you were," he replies smoothly, his eyes cutting back to mine for just a split second before he turns and walks away, disappearing into the crowd.

It takes everything in me not to get up and follow him immediately.

I grip the edge of the table, trying to steady myself, trying to act like he hasn’t just completely unraveled me in front of his whole team.

"Avery?" his teammate asks, leaning closer. His voice barely registers, my head spinning, my heart thundering in my chest. “You good?”

I force a smile, nodding absently as I stand, brushing off his next question.

"Be right back," I murmur, my voice unsteady.

Because no matter how much I want to pretend I’m unaffected, no matter how much I want to cling to logic and reason, my body is already moving, my heart pulling me toward him like a magnet.

I step into the crowd, weaving through the sea of people, the bass from the speakers thudding in time with my heartbeat.

I’m following this man—this infuriating, intoxicating man.

A man who is virtually a sexy, suited stranger to me now. A man whose touch is so familiar, yet who I haven’t touched in so many years.

Except that he’s Griffin.

The hallway is quieter than the rest of the Cantina, the bass from the speakers a faint thud behind us. I stand beside Griffin, pretending not to notice the way his shoulder brushes mine, the way his cologne lingers in the air between us—sharp, clean, maddening.

He hasn’t said a word since we left the table, but the tension between us is deafening.

I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, and he looks so damn calm—too calm—his jaw tight, his hands casually resting in his pockets like he hasn’t just pulled me out of a crowded room.

The bathroom door swings open, and a young woman steps out, smiling politely as she passes us.

And before I can even register what’s happening, Griffin’s hand wraps around my wrist.

He pulls me inside, shutting the door firmly behind us, the lock clicking into place.

"Griffin—" I barely get his name out before my back hits the door, his hands braced on either side of me, boxing me in.

The room is elegant as hell—polished marble countertops, soft lighting, the faint scent of something floral hanging in the air—but all I can focus on is him.

He’s so close, his eyes burning into mine, his chest rising and falling like he’s been holding something back for too long.

And then his gaze drops—to my lips, to the knot at my waist, to the dress that suddenly feels like it’s suffocating me.

"You’re driving me insane," he growls, his voice low, rough, as his hand skims the curve of my hip. "Do you know that? You think you can just barge back into my life after all this time?”

I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. Because his touch—firm, deliberate, and so utterly Griffin—has stolen every coherent thought from my brain.

His hands slide up my sides, over the fabric of my dress, and I shiver, my back arching slightly against the door.

"Griffin," I manage, my voice breathy, shaky. “I wasn’t. I din’t plan?—”

"Tell me to stop," he murmurs, his lips brushing against my ear, his fingers tugging lightly at the tie around my waist. "If you don’t want this—if you don’t want me—tell me to stop. You know what I want with you. And I think you want it with me.”

I don’t tell him a thing.

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