Page 14

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.

She busies herself with the little breakfast menu, not even glancing my way, which gives me a moment to try and collect myself. But my brain is running circles around one thought:

What is she doing?

This is Avery. Avery, who spent most of high school and college in oversized hoodies and yoga pants. Avery, who practically bristles at attention. And now she’s sitting across from me, completely unfazed, while looking...like that.

The only answer is that she knows exactly what she’s doing.

“Knox,” Jake says, snapping me out of my thoughts. “You good, man? You’ve been staring at that coffee like it insulted your mom.”

“Oh uh,” I say quickly, clearing my throat and setting the cup down.

The group conversation picks up as more people join the table, but I can barely follow it. Every time I glance across the table, Avery is either leaning forward to pour herself some juice or casually brushing her hair back, and it’s driving me insane.

“Knox,” Jake says again, this time with a sly grin. “What’d you think of the dance-off last night? I think Sinclair took you to school.”

I smirk, grateful for the distraction. “That’s one interpretation. I’d call it a tie.”

“Oh, please,” Avery says, looking up from her plate. “I had you beat from the first spin.”

The challenge in her voice is so subtle it’s almost easy to miss. Almost.

“Confident today, are we?” I reply, raising an eyebrow.

“Always,” she says with a small smile, taking a bite of her toast.

Jake leans closer to me, whispering, “Dude, what did you do to her? She’s glowing or something. Did you guys make out?”

“Nah,” I mutter, grabbing my coffee again.

“Sure,” Jake says, laughing. “Whatever you say. So you just stopped at ‘grind all over each other?’”

I try to focus on the conversation, but every time Avery shifts in her seat or leans forward, my attention is pulled right back to her. It’s maddening.

And she knows it.

At one point, she catches my eye, her lips curving into the faintest smirk.

By the time we get to the Spanish Language Institute, I’ve convinced myself that breakfast was just a fluke. Maybe Avery threw on that top and those shorts without realizing what she was doing. Maybe she didn’t mean to look like that.

But when she slides into the seat next to me, still wearing that pink halter and white linen shorts, pen already tapping against her bottom lip, I know I’m in trouble.

“You ready for this?” she asks, flashing me an innocent smile that I absolutely do not trust.

“Always,” I mutter, trying not to look directly at her.

The instructor—who I liked a lot more yesterday—starts explaining that today’s lesson is advanced conversational scenarios. We’re talking about plans, wishes, hypothetical situations—stuff that requires the subjunctive.

“Vamos a trabajar en parejas,” the instructor says cheerfully. “Practiquen como si fueran en una cita romántica, haciendo preguntas sobre sus vidas y sus futuros.”

My brain stutters. Romantic scenarios? Great. Perfect. Just what I need.

And of course, my partner is Avery Sinclair.

“Looks like we’re stuck together,” she says, her eyes sparkling as she flips to a fresh page in her notebook.

“Terrific,” I mutter, dragging my notebook closer and willing myself to get it together.

Avery smirks, as if she can hear the silent pep talk I’m giving myself.

The exercise is simple enough on paper—practice using verbs like gustar, querer, and pensar to talk about things you like, want, or hope for. Except every question feels like a goddamn trap when Avery’s sitting there looking like she stepped out of my daydreams.

“Empiezo,” Avery says sweetly, her pen tapping rhythmically against her lips. “Griffin, si tuvieras un día libre, ?qué harías?”

( If you had a free day, what would you do? )

I stare at her for a moment, the pen still lingering at her mouth, before I remember how words work.

“Um… dormir,” I say flatly. ( Sleep. )

She laughs softly, leaning back in her chair. “Qué emocionante,” she teases. “?No tienes más ambición?”

( How exciting. Don’t you have more ambition? )

Oh, two can play this game. I raise an eyebrow. “?Y tú? Si pudieras vivir en cualquier parte del mundo, ?dónde vivirías?”

( And you? If you could live anywhere in the world, where would you live? )

Her gaze flickers with something I can’t place, but she doesn’t falter. “Espana,” she replies smoothly. “En una casa con vistas al mar.”

( Spain. In a house overlooking the sea. )

She looks so pleased with herself that I can’t resist pushing her buttons. I lean closer, keeping my voice low. “?Sola?”

( Alone? )

Avery’s smile falters for just a second, but she recovers fast. “Por supuesto,” she says, her tone breezy. “La independencia es importante.”

( Of course. Independence is important. )

The instructor walks by, nodding approvingly as she overhears us. “?Excelente trabajo! Muy fluido.”

Avery beams at the praise, while I try not to dwell on the way the sunlight catches the gold necklace she’s wearing.

“Your turn,” she says, sitting up straighter and leaning slightly forward. “What’s something you want in the future? Use the subjunctive.”

Her voice is all teacherly, but I catch the faint hint of a smile as she watches me struggle.

Don’t mess this up, Knox.

“Quiero…” I start slowly, chewing the words. I glance at her, sitting there with her stupidly perfect posture and her pink top that’s way too distracting. “…que ciertas personas me dejen concentrarme.”

( I want… certain people to let me concentrate. )

She bites back a laugh, shaking her head. “Not bad, Mr. Football Player. Almost sounded natural.”

“You’re distracting,” I grumble under my breath, just loud enough for her to hear.

“Excuse me?” she says, mock offense written all over her face.

“Nothing.” I clear my throat, pretending to write something in my notebook as the heat creeps up my neck.

Avery, of course, doesn’t let it drop. “If I’m distracting, that sounds like a you problem.”

I glance up, and she’s looking at me like she’s got this whole thing figured out. Her confidence is infuriating.

“Careful, Sinclair,” I mutter, trying to focus on the lesson as the instructor starts calling on pairs to present. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

She smirks, her pen tapping against her lips again as she leans back in her seat. “Oh, I’m already there.”

By the time the class wraps up, I’ve said muy bien more times than I’d like to admit, and my brain feels like it’s short-circuited. As we pack up, Avery gives me one last smile—sweet, innocent, and completely calculated.

“Great job today, Griffin,” she says, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “You really stuck with it.”

I don’t respond, because if I say anything, I’ll probably embarrass myself further.

As she walks out, her head held high, I finally let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

I’m in serious trouble.