Page 60 of The Rookie

“Excuse me?”

He grabs a shirt from his suitcase and heads for the bathroom, grinning as he throws the words over his shoulder. “Can’t have you showing me up tonight,Princesa.”

I blink at the closed bathroom door, my heart pounding a little harder than it has any right to.

What’sthatsupposed to mean?

I try to shake it off, flopping onto my bed and scrolling through my phone as I wait. But then—oh no.

The bathroom door isn’t fully closed.

It’s cracked just enough that I can see him—his broad back turned toward me, shoulders tense as he pulls his T-shirt over his head in one smooth motion.

I freeze, my phone forgotten in my hand.

Because, if I’ve forgotten, Griffin Knox has muscles on muscles.

The kind of sculpted back you’d only see on someone who trains for a living.

And then—of course—the sleeves on the shirt are just short enough to show his tattoo.

It’s small, subtle, and inked on his upper right bicep, just where his deltoid meets the curve of his shoulder. I can’t make out the exact design, but it’s peeking out of the sleeve of the shirt he’s slipping into—a black V-neck that somehow manages to look casual andridiculouslygood on him at the same time.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I jerk my gaze away, cheeks burning, heart pounding like I just ran a marathon. I didnotjust stare at Griffin Knox getting dressed like some hormonal teenager. Nope. That didn’t happen.

The door opens fully, and Griffin steps out, looking impossibly smug in his black shirt and dark jeans, a silver chain glinting faintly at his collarbone.

“What?” he asks, catching my expression.

“Nothing,” I snap, grabbing my bag and standing up quickly.

He raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. “You’re blushing, Sinclair. Don’t tell me you were peeking.”

My jaw drops. “I wasnotpeeking!”

He grins, slowly, like he knows exactly what just happened. “If you say so.”

“I wasn’t,” I insist, but my face feels like it’s on fire.

“Sure, sure.” He grabs his keys and tosses them in the air, catching them with an easy flick of his wrist. “Ready to go, Roomie? Or do you need another minute to compose yourself?”

I glare at him, shoving past him toward the door. “You are so full of yourself.”

“And yet, here you are—still thinking about me.”

I stop dead in my tracks and spin around. “I am not thinking about you.”

But before I can fully process what’s happening, Griffin moves at the same time.

And suddenly—he’s right there.

Too close.

My back hits the wall, his hand presses against the space beside my head, and just like that—I’m caged in.

I can smell sandalwood and pine and everything masculine, and I have to actively hide the fact that blood is pooling in my lower stomach.

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