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eleven

. . .

Avery

We arrive back at the hotel and change into our pajamas, and I make it clear to Griffin that what happened at the club, stays at the club.

The tiny hotel bathroom is barely big enough for two people, but here we are, brushing our teeth side by side like we’re filming some ridiculous sitcom.

Griffin, of course, is making the most of the situation. He’s leaning casually over the sink, his toothbrush hanging from his mouth, his T-shirt snug across his shoulders, his pajama pants sitting just low enough to be unfairly distracting.

Not that I’m looking.

I’m not.

I shove toothpaste onto my brush and focus aggressively on the mirror, determined to ignore him, when I catch the tell-tale glint of mischief in his reflection.

“What?” I ask, my words garbled by the toothbrush.

“Nothing,” he says, his grin widening as he keeps brushing. And trying to make eye contact with me.

Liar.

I sigh, spitting into the sink. “You’re literally the worst.”

“You love it,” he replies, completely unfazed.

I glare at him as I rinse. “Please. Can you stop hitting on me. For two seconds.”

Griffin tilts his head, pretending to think, toothpaste still foaming at the corner of his mouth. “It’s just so hard, though.”

I snort, grabbing a towel to wipe my face. “Yeah, I could tell.”

Griffin chokes on his toothpaste.

Victory.

I smirk as he coughs dramatically, spitting into the sink. “Jesus, Sinclair.”

“What?” I blink innocently. “Just making an observation.”

He wipes his mouth, then turns to me, too close, too warm, too much like the guy who had me pinned against a brick wall at the club tonight.

The air shifts, just slightly.

His gaze flicks to my mouth.

I pretend I’m checking my face in the mirror for pimples, like that’ll somehow restore balance to the universe.

“One time, huh?” he murmurs, voice low, teasing, dangerous.

My breath catches, but I recover quickly, lifting my chin. “That’s right. One time.”

Griffin exhales, shaking his head as he leans back against the counter.

I roll my eyes and finish up, wiping my mouth on a towel. He waits until I’m mid-rinse before dropping his next line.

“This is serious married couple energy right now,” he says, waving his toothbrush at me. “Arguing while brushing our teeth? I think we’re halfway there.”

I choke on the water, grabbing the edge of the sink for support. “You’re out of control. Reel it in.”

He shrugs, spitting his toothpaste out. “Just saying.”

I shake my head and move back toward the beds, where I sit down on the edge of mine and run my hands through my hair. “For the record, I’m not having a relationship for a long time. Not going to be relationship jumping.”

Griffin leans against the bathroom doorway, crossing his arms. “Who said anything about a relationship?”

I freeze, staring at him as he steps back into the room. “You’re the one talking about the married couple energy.”

“Not sure if you’ve ever heard of one of these, there’s this new thing. It’s called a joke.”

I roll my eyes.

“We could just have a no-strings-attached thing,” he says, like it’s the most obvious solution in the world. “If I’m just a rebound, then why not embrace it? I’ll get you over your ex in no time. Gauran-fucking-teed , or your money back.”

I laugh, though it comes out more like a scoff. “No way. I don’t do those. Thank you very much.”

“Why not?” he asks, sitting down on the edge of his bed, which is entirely too close to mine. “It was your idea that sparked it. Remember? You were talking about friends with benefits last night. Since you just got out of a long relationship. A no-strings-attached fling—with open communication, of course—is exactly what you should be looking for. And I’m obviously a great selection for that.”

I glare at him, my mouth opening to argue, but the worst part is, I can’t deny he has a point.

“That was just cloud talk. The answer is no way,” I say again, more firmly this time. “You’re the king of casual. All those...hookups on campus. It’s just not my thing to get with a guy like you. Sorry. No offense. You’re just…you know. You. People talk.”

His eyebrows lift, a smirk tugging at his lips. “All those hookups on campus, ey? Like who?”

I falter. Dammit. I press my mind for actual data—not the rumor mill—and I come up empty. Either Griffin keeps his hookups ultra down low, or he’s actually not the manwhore I thought he was.

“You know who,” I say weakly, hoping he’ll bite and confess. I’ve always been curious what kind of woman he actually goes for, anyway.

“Well, there was that one girl,” he says, his smirk widening.

“Exactly,” I say, pointing at him. “That one girl.”

“Who?”

He leans back on his elbows, pretending to think. “Let’s see... she’s about this tall,” he says, holding his hand just above my head. “Has this incredible smile, great legs. Kind of crazy. Which I like. Great at twerking. She looked super hot playing volleyball the other day in a polka-dot bikini—oh wait.”

I gape at him, my brain short-circuiting.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say, shaking my head as I grab my pillow and launch it at him. I actually face palm. I can’t believe I just fell for that again . Am I the most gullible person in the world? I use the fact that I’m still a little drunk as my excuse.

He catches it easily, laughing. “What? I’m just stating facts.”

“Out. Of. Control,” I mutter, flopping back onto my bed and pulling the blanket over me. “And how many times do I have to tell you there’s a better chance of me dropping out of school?”

Griffin hums thoughtfully. “Mmm, well, that’s a shame. Because it would be nice to make out with you. Again.”

My breath catches.

My body—traitorous and unfairly responsive—tightens at the memory.

The way he pressed me against that wall, the way his hands gripped my thighs like he didn’t want to let go.

The way his mouth devoured mine, deep and sure and consuming, making my knees actually give out like I was some lovesick idiot in a romance novel.

And the worst part?

I liked it.

No—I loved it.

I shove the feeling down, burying myself deeper into the blankets, because if I think about it too much—about how I can still feel the warmth of his body, still taste him, still hear the way his breath caught when I kissed him back—I’m screwed.

“You need to shut up,” I mutter, my voice not nearly as sharp as I want it to be.

I hear his smirk before I see it.

“Goodnight, Sinclair,” he says, his voice dripping with amusement. “Sweet dreams.”

I don’t respond, rolling onto my side and pretending to ignore him.

But as the room falls silent, and I stare at the dim ceiling, one thought creeps in.

This will never happen.

I tell myself that.

Over and over.

Until I almost believe it.

This will never happen, I tell myself.

Not in a million years.

But for the first time that night, I find myself wondering... if my best friend’s brother is as good in bed as he was a make out on the dance floor.