Page 43 of The Rookie

When I come back into the room, towel-drying my hair, I find it empty. Griffin’s gone, his phone and keys missing from the nightstand. Probably off charming someone else, I think with a roll of my eyes.

I glance at the time—still an hour before we have to meet the group for breakfast. That’s when the thought hits me.

If he thinks he’s the king of this little game, maybe it’s time I raised the stakes.

I dig through my suitcase, pushing aside my usual comfy T-shirts and flowy dresses, until I spot it.

Every girl hasThe Shirt.

I don’t even remember packing it, but there it is: my pink halter deep V-neck crop top. Soft, fitted, and undeniably attention-grabbing. For whatever reason, it fits my body to absolute perfection. I’ve worn it exactly once before, to a party where it turned heads like I was some kind of celebrity.

Perfect.

I pull it on, adjusting the halter straps so they sit just right, the neckline dipping low enough to emphasize my cleavage without looking desperate. Then I pair it with my white linen shorts, the ones that sit high on my waist and make my legs look about a mile long.

Turning to the mirror, I smooth my hair back, letting it fall in loose waves around my shoulders.

“You’re playing with fire,” I mutter to my reflection, but there’s a flicker of satisfaction in my smile. May as well have some fun in this life. And, honestly? Something about Griffin makes torturing him fun.

I grab a small gold necklace, clasping it around my neck for an extra touch of "effortless." Then I step back and give myself a once-over in the mirror.

The outfit is bold, sure, but it’s not like I’m trying to seduce him.

Not really.

I’m just leveling the playing field.

Satisfied, I grab my bag and head out the door, a little spring in my step.

Let’s see how the king of cocky handles this.

thirteen

. . .

Griffin

I’m downstairs,halfway through my first cup of coffee when Avery walks in, and for a second, I think I might still be asleep.

Because there’s no way that’s her.

Avery Sinclair doesn’t wear clothes like that.

But there she is, striding into the dining area in a pink halter top that dips low enough to make my mouth go dry and a pair of white shorts that show off legs I’m trying very hard not to stare at.

I take a slow sip of my coffee, pretending to be engrossed in the news on my phone as she moves closer.

Don’t look. Don’t look.

Damn it, I’m looking.

I’m so fucked, because she is chipping away at the already low level of self-control I have when it comes to Avery Sinclair.

She spots me at the table and heads straight for the empty chair across from mine. Of course, she does.

“Morning,” she says brightly, pulling out the chair and sitting down.

“Morning,” I reply, my voice coming out a little hoarser than I’d like.

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