Page 31

thirty

. . .

Avery

The café is quiet that morning, save for the sound of waves crashing in the distance and the occasional clink of plates from the servers. The scent of salt and fresh coffee drifts through the air as I stir my cappuccino, watching the foam swirl into tiny whirlpools.

Griffin sits across from me, looking entirely too pleased with himself, his sunglasses pushed up into his messy hair, his post-sex glow still ridiculously evident.

“You’re unusually quiet this morning when I went down on you, Sinclair,” he says, his voice teasing, smug as ever. “Still recovering from last night’s festivities? Or this morning’s?”

I shoot him a look over the rim of my cup. “Festivities? You mean the part where my ex-boyfriend showed up unannounced and found my naked roommate answering the door?”

Or the part where you fucked me with your porn cock until three a.m.?

I say it like it’s a joke, and obviously, don’t say the naughty bit out loud. It was a ridiculous night we had together. But inside?

Inside, I’m still trying to process everything.

Because last night happened.

And this morning happened.

And somehow, Griffin Knox—the guy who’s always been off-limits, always been too cocky, too much, and the opposite of my type—has me tangled up in his sheets, his mouth between my legs, his hands on my skin, making me come apart in ways I never even knew were possible.

I grip my coffee cup a little tighter, trying not to let the memory of his body pinning me down, the way he took his time, the way he whispered my name like it belonged to him now flood my system all over again.

Because this is crazy.

This is completely insane.

We have one more week in Mexico.

One more week of secret glances across the table, of tangled sheets and slow kisses, of pretending like this isn’t already slipping into something more.

And then what?

We just…stop?

We just walk away like nothing happened?

I can’t think about that.

I won’t think about that.

Instead, I lift my cup again, taking a sip, swallowing down all the uncertainty, all the questions I can’t ask.

And Griffin?

Griffin just grins at me, slow and knowing, like he already knows exactly what I’m thinking.

And that’s the worst part.

Because he probably does.

“I was wearing a towel. But don’t forget the part where he tried to punch me and I gave him one more chance. That was my finest moment.” His grin is pure mischief. “I am committed to non-violence, and non toxic—yet still protective—masculinity. I really didn’t want to hurt him. Honestly? I felt sorry for the guy. He really had it bad for you. But he needs to sort himself the fuck out.”

“I still can’t believe you told him if he knew me he’d know he lost,” I mutter, though my lips twitch with the hint of a smile. “That was a dick thing to say. I’m pretty sure you destroyed him.”

“I like to think I’m charming,” he counters, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms behind his head. The position makes his T-shirt ride up just enough to show a sliver of tan, toned stomach, and I quickly look away, focusing on the foam in my cup. “Besides, what else are we going to say? He had to know, one way or another. I’d rather be direct than beat around the bush. Thankfully, he chose not getting the crap beat out of him. It wasn’t going to be a fair fight. Everyone has that girl. The one they go a little insane over.”

“Oh? And who is that girl for you?”

“I’m different. I’m Griffin Knox. It won’t be happening to me.”

I laugh. “I still can’t believe I took your freaking virginity . Like, what?!”

He shrugs. “It’s not a big deal. I mean, I’m glad I waited. That was fucking amazing. Was that…was it good? Seriously. You can be honest. How many orgasms did you fake? If so, great job. I didn’t notice, but I appreciated you stoking my ego.”

“Well,” I joke. “Guess we’ll have to practice more this week.”

Griffin’s smirk is so smug it’s practically a work of art. “I mean, seriously,” he continues, lowering his voice to a mock-conspiratorial tone. “If you faked anything, you deserve an Oscar. Best Actress in a Leading Role: Avery Sinclair.”

I’m laughing so hard at this point that I’m doubled over, clutching my stomach. “Stop! You’re ridiculous!”

That’s when Dr. Peterson walks by, her sandals crunching softly on the sand. “What’s so funny?” she asks, pausing and raising an eyebrow.

Griffin and I exchange a panicked glance before his quick grin takes over. “Oh, we were just…uh…”

I jump in, grasping at straws. “We were reminiscing about—uh—when Griffin tried to order tacos in Spanish last night.”

Dr. Peterson’s curiosity only deepens. “Really? That doesn’t sound that funny.”

“Oh, but it was ,” Griffin says, leaning in with fake seriousness. “See, I accidentally told the waiter I wanted ‘two shoes’ instead of two tacos. ‘Dos zapatos.’”

“And then,” I add, catching on to the ridiculous improv scenario we’re vibing on, “the waiter actually brought out a pair of sandals! It was so random!”

Griffin nods solemnly. “Bright pink ones, too. Looked great with my outfit, though.”

Dr. Peterson’s lips twitch, like she’s not entirely sure if we’re serious. “Well, that does sound…memorable. You two certainly seem to be having fun. Surprising, to say the least. I thought you two hated each other.”

“Oh, we had the best time,” Griffin says with a straight face. “You can’t beat tacos and accidental footwear. That’s kind of Avery and my thing now.”

She gives us one last skeptical look before continuing down the beach, shaking her head.

As soon as she’s out of earshot, I elbow him in the ribs, still giggling. “Tacos and shoes? Really?”

He grins, not remotely apologetic. “What? It worked, didn’t it? What, are we going to tell her about your fake orgasms?”

I reach my hand across the table and grip his forearm. “I wasn’t faking it. I didn’t have to.”

“Did you…with Gavin?”

“Okay you know what?” I laugh. “Let’s be done talking about Gavin. Forever. Deal?”

“Alright, Princess. Deal. No more referring to how you had to fake orgasms with Gavin but not with me.”

I lift my hand off his forearm and glance back at Griffin, meaning to keep things casual, but the way he’s lounging in his chair, his bright green eyes fixed lazily on the horizon, does something to me. My body lights up, a spark flickering to life low in my belly. It’s stupid, really—how one look at him can flip a switch I didn’t even know I had.

He shifts slightly, his muscles moving beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, and I press my thighs together, my breath catching. It’s insane how turned on I feel just sitting here, watching him do absolutely nothing. I’ve never felt this way before—this raw, unrelenting pull that makes my skin flush and my heart race.

He glances at me then, catching me staring, and his lips quirk into that maddeningly cocky grin. “See something you like, Sinclair?”

I snap my eyes back to my cup, my face flaming. “Don’t flatter yourself. Plus, we need to take a break.”

He chuckles, low and warm, and the sound sends another ripple of heat through me. “Too late.” He leans in, lowering his voice so only I can hear him. “I’m already thinking about the other positions we’re going to do it in on this trip.”

My head snaps up, my eyes wide. “You can’t talk like that in public.”

“Why not?” he asks, leaning back in his chair like he owns the world. His grin widens, and there’s a mischievous glint in his bright green eyes.

“Because…” I swallow hard, my voice lowering. “Because I’m getting so turned on I can barely sit here without losing my mind.”

His laugh is low and sinful, his voice dipping into a teasing growl. “Good. That’s kind of the point.”

I glare at him, though it’s half-hearted at best. My cheeks are burning, my body on fire, and he knows exactly what he’s doing to me. I take a long sip of my cappuccino, hoping to cool the heat pooling low in my stomach, but it’s a lost cause.

“You know,” Griffin says after a while, his tone softer now, “I get why he flew down here. Sorry. We said we’ll not talk abut him. My bad.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Oh, do you?”

He shrugs, leaning forward to take a sip of his coffee. “If I thought I was losing you, I’d probably do something stupid too.”

My stomach flips, but I keep my face neutral. “Well, it didn’t work. Gavin and I were done long before last night. He just couldn’t accept it.”

Griffin tilts his head, studying me. “So why’d you stay with him as long as you did?”

I hesitate, fiddling with the handle of my cup. “Because it felt safe,” I admit finally. “It wasn’t exciting or passionate, but it was familiar. Comfortable.”

“Comfortable sounds boring as hell,” Griffin says, the corners of his mouth twitching.

I glare at him, but there’s no heat behind it. “That’s not fair. Not everyone needs fireworks and drama to be happy.”

“No, but you do,” he says, his voice quiet but firm. “You’re not the kind of person who settles, Sinclair. So why’d you settle for him?”

I blink at him, his words hitting harder than I expected. “Maybe I thought that’s what love was supposed to feel like,” I say after a long pause. “Maybe I was afraid to ask for more.”

Griffin leans back, his green eyes never leaving mine. “Asking for more isn’t selfish. It’s smart.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “And you’re an expert on relationships now?”

“Hardly,” he says, smirking. “But even I know you shouldn’t waste your time on someone who doesn’t make you feel alive.”

The words hang between us, heavy with unspoken meaning. I glance out at the water, my chest tightening as I think about how easy it would be to fall into the same patterns—to accept less than what I really want because it’s easier than starting over.

“Alright,” I say. “We better get to Spanish class. We’re going to be late.”

That evening, the sun is just beginning to set, casting long golden streaks across the pavement as we step out of the university’s WiFi range.

“Drinks?” Jake asks, tossing his keys in the air before catching them smoothly. “There’s a little rooftop bar near the hotel—happy hour margaritas, live music, the works.”

“Oh, I’m in,” Kayla chimes, linking her arm through mine.

Griffin raises an eyebrow at me, smirking. “What do you say, Sinclair? Think you can keep up?”

I roll my eyes, pulling out my phone absently as we head toward the street. “I can handle a couple drinks, Knox. Don’t get cocky.”

But then—my phone buzzes.

A single notification pops up at the top of the screen.

SUBJECT: FULbrIGHT FINAL INTERVIEW – TIME SENSITIVE

My feet stop moving. My breath catches.

I tap the email open, my heart pounding in my ears as I scan the words.

Avery Sinclair,

Congratulations! You’ve been selected for the final round of the Fulbright Program.

Your in-person interview will take place in Washington, D.C., and requires immediate travel following your current location. According to your essay you are currently in Mexico.

Please confirm your availability at your earliest convenience.

I stare at my phone, blinking, barely breathing.

D.C.

Right after Mexico.

Immediately after Mexico.

My stomach tightens, excitement warring with something heavier, something more complicated.

Griffin’s voice breaks through my haze. “Everything okay?”

I glance up, my chest tightening when I see him watching me.

His eyes narrow slightly, reading my face before flicking down to my phone. And in that split second, I swear—he knows.

I swallow. “Yeah. I… passed the first level of the Fulbright Program.”

Griffin’s brows lift, then his whole face breaks into a grin. “No shit?”

I nod. “The first interview is in D.C.”

“Damn. That’s amazing! Come here.”

Before I can react, he wraps me up in a big hug, lifting me slightly off my feet like I weigh nothing.

His scent—salt, sun, him—wraps around me, his arms solid and warm, and I should be thinking about the email, about the interview, about what this means.

But all I can think about is him.

How effortlessly happy he is for me to be potentially moving to Spain next year.

It’s almost like a punch to the gut.

“Yeah…amazing,” I say. But I have to fight for the words to not feel hollow.