Page 19 of The Rookie

It wasn’t intentional—I mean, who just blatantly stares at something like that? Buthowwas I supposed to ignore it? Impossible. The visual of him destroyed me in real-time, sent a wave of heat through me so fast I had to practically dive into my suitcase just to keep myself from gawking.

And the worst part?

The way he just stood there, completely at ease, like his entire existence wasn’t illegal in fifteen states. Like he knew exactly what he was doing. Like he was enjoying my reaction—watching, waiting,teasing.

He’s trouble. Wrapped in a way-too-perfect package. A walking felony with abs. And I do not need that kind of distraction.

I groan, shaking my head. Nope. Not going there.

I need to survive this trip without doing something stupid—like letting him get under my skin.

Or worse…into my thoughts.

Or that journal page I wrote down a while back.

five

. . .

Avery

Later in the day,I’m sitting in a lounge chair under a striped umbrella, trying to read a book in Spanish while a group of my classmates whoops and hollers around a makeshift volleyball court. Griffin, of course, is leading the charge, shirtless and grinning like he owns the place.

And, okay, fine. Objectively speaking? He looks good. Annoyingly, ridiculously good.

His broad shoulders glisten in the sunlight, his shredded abs flexing with every movement as he spikes the ball into the sand. There’s a V-line carved into his torso that looks photoshopped, and when he laughs, the sound carries over the crash of the waves, deep and easy.

It’s maddening. Griffin has always been magnetic, self-assured, and infuriatingly unaware of how he affects people.

“Come on, man, you’ve gotta hit that harder!” Griffin yells, hyping up his teammates like he’s their personal coach.

I groan, lowering my book. I was planning to spend this afternoon relaxing, but the combination of noise and Griffin’s overwhelming presence is impossible to ignore.

“Avery!” someone yells.

I glance up just in time to see a volleyball hurtling straight toward me.

It smacks into my book, sending it tumbling onto the sand.

“Seriously?” I snap, grabbing the ball and standing up.

Griffin jogs over, grinning like the whole thing is hilarious. “Sorry about that, Princess. Friendly fire. You know I would never blemish that face on purpose.”

“Don’t call me that,” I mutter, brushing sand off my book.

“Maybe you should join us,” he says, holding out his hand for the ball.

“I’m good, thanks.”

“Oh, come on,” he says, stepping closer. “What’s the matter? Afraid you’ll lose?”

I narrow my eyes. “I’m afraidyou’lllose and embarrass yourself.”

His grin widens. “Prove it.”

Before I can think better of it, I peel off my T-shirt and shorts, revealing my white-and-blue polka-dot bikini. I hear a low whistle from somewhere—probably Griffin—but I ignore it, kicking off my sandals and stepping onto the court.

“Alright, folks, we’ve got a new player!” Griffin announces, clapping his hands.

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