Page 19

eighteen

. . .

Avery

“Are you dressing for a royal wedding, or what?” Griffin drawls, his voice dripping with sarcasm as I rifle through my suitcase.

I glance at him over my shoulder where he’s lounging shirtless on his bed—again—with a smug expression and a towel hanging low on his hips. It’s like he’s allergic to wearing clothes.

“Do you ever stop talking?” I retort, turning back to the mess I’ve made in my suitcase.

The truth is, I’m stalling. I’m not usually one to stress about what I wear, but tonight feels…different. It’s just drinks and music with the group. Nothing special. And yet, for some reason, I’m nervous. Annoyingly nervous.

“Just pick something, Sinclair,” Griffin says, rolling onto his side with an exaggerated groan. “It’s not like anyone’s gonna be looking at you—” He pauses, his grin widening as I pull out the dress.

A blush pink wrap dress with short sleeves and a neckline that dips just low enough to be dangerous. I didn’t even mean to pack it. I must’ve thrown it in last minute, thinking I wouldn’t need it.

But now, I hold it up to my chest, eyeing myself in the tiny mirror hanging on the closet door.

When I finally step out of the bathroom twenty minutes later, dressed and ready, the room goes quiet.

Griffin’s halfway through pulling on a T-shirt, but he freezes, his arms stuck halfway through the sleeves.

His eyes sweep over me—slowly, from my sandals to the blush pink fabric tied snugly at my waist and the dip of the neckline—and I pretend not to notice the way his mouth drops open for half a second.

“You’re staring,” I say flatly, smoothing the fabric over my hips.

Griffin blinks, pulling the shirt the rest of the way down and clearing his throat. “No, I’m not.”

“You definitely are,” I reply, trying to keep my voice steady.

He drags a hand through his hair, his smirk reappearing. “Just surprised, that’s all. I didn’t think you owned anything…pink.”

“What are you talking about? I literally wore a pink top already.” I narrow my eyes at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” he says quickly, smirk growing. “You look fine. Totally average.”

“Right,” I deadpan, grabbing my purse. “Keep telling yourself that, Knox.”

“Fine. That’s the one,” Griffin says immediately, his tone shifting from teasing to something softer. “I admit. It.”

I glance at him sharply. “Excuse me?”

He shrugs, looking all too pleased with himself. “I mean, if you’re going for ‘I’m gonna ruin Griffin’s night,’ then yeah. That’s the dress. Congratulations.”

I roll my eyes, ignoring the way my cheeks warm as I turn back to the mirror. “What do you like about it? Oh, let me guess. The cleavage.”

“Hmmm…didn’t even notice,” he shoots back, grinning, and scratching his head.

“The day I dress up for you, Knox, will be the day hell freezes over. This is my ‘girls wanna have fun’ dress. And yes, it has a plunging neckline.”

“Huh,” he drawls, stretching out on the bed like the human equivalent of a cat. “Well that’s, uh, interesting.”

As I turn to leave, I catch his reflection in the mirror—his gaze lingering just a little too long before he shakes himself out of it.

Serves him right.

I’m feeling pretty good in my blush pink wrap dress. The fabric is soft, the fit is perfect, and—despite myself—I know I look good. Not that it matters. Not for him.

Griffin, however, seems to have lost the ability to speak.

He’s sitting on the edge of his bed, mid-sentence, when he freezes. His eyes widen for just a second—just long enough for me to catch—and then he clears his throat, dragging a hand through his messy hair.

“You’re staring,” I say, smoothing the dress over my hips as I fight to keep my voice casual.

“I am not staring,” he shoots back, but his tone lacks conviction. He shifts on the bed, suddenly looking like he’s trying very hard to remember how words work.

“You definitely were,” I tease, enjoying this far too much.

He shakes his head, recovering with a smirk. “Fine. And if I was?”

I don’t respond. For a moment, Griffin just watches me, his smirk fading into something quieter. It makes my stomach do a stupid little flip that I immediately try to squash.

“Well,” he says, standing up suddenly and rubbing his palms on his jeans, “if you’re going to make an effort, I guess I should return the favor.”

“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’s that supposed 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 and ridiculously good 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 did not just 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 was not peeking!”

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.

I swallow hard, tilting my chin up, refusing to let him see how much he’s affecting me.

But he already knows.

Because his eyes flicker down—just for a second.

Just long enough to trace the rapid rise and fall of my chest.

Just long enough to make my stomach tighten, my thighs press together.

His breath is warm, teasing, dangerous against my cheek.

My pulse is a frenzied drumbeat, my entire body betraying me.

Because suddenly, all I can think about is his mouth.

His lips, right there, inches from mine, hovering, waiting.

I should push him away. I should say something sharp, something biting, something to break the tension before I do something stupid.

But I don’t.

Because right now, I want him to kiss me.

Badly.

So badly it’s pathetic.

His gaze flickers back up, and then—the bastard smirks.

“Careful, Sinclair,” he murmurs, his voice low, knowing, devastating.

“You look like you want me to kiss you.”

I freeze.

Heat flares in my cheeks, creeping down my neck, and my entire body reacts before my brain does.

I shove my palm against his chest, forcing him to step back, hoping he can’t feel the way my fingers trembled for just a second too long.

“I told you. It was one time. That was a drunken mistake. Obviously, since as soon as my buzz wore off I came to my senses.”

He just chuckles, running a hand through his hair, completely unaffected.

“If you say so, Sinclair. If you say so.”

And as I push past him and storm out the door, my heart slamming against my ribs, I have one single, undeniable realization.

I wanted him to.

I really, really wanted him to.