Page 5

four

. . .

Avery

I wake up to the sound of someone singing.

Correction: screaming.

My eyes snap open, and for a moment, I’m disoriented. The unfamiliar queen sized bed, the pale stucco walls, the faint scent of sunscreen and disinfectant—oh, right. I’m not in at my university today. I’m in Mexico.

I bury my face in the pillow. The singing—if you can call it that—continues, muffled slightly by the sound of running water.

Griffin. Of course. My roommate for this lovely, lovely spring break trip for my university.

I throw back the covers and glance at the clock on the bedside table. It’s barely 7 a.m., and our group isn’t meeting until nine. I was hoping for a quiet morning to ease into the day, maybe even get in a few pages of reading before breakfast.

Instead, I’m greeted with the dulcet tones of Griffin Knox absolutely butchering Livin’ on a Prayer .

I march over to the bathroom door, banging on it with the side of my fist. “Griffin! What are you doing in there?”

The singing cuts off, and a second later, his muffled voice replies, “Showering, obviously! I went for an early morning run so I had to rinse off. So I’m showering, unless you count rubbing one out, which I did a little earlier. Good morning!”

I freeze, my hand still mid-air, the heat crawling up my neck now reaching full inferno levels. Did he just say ? —?

“You’ve been in there forever!” I stammer, doing my best to recover, even though my brain is screaming. “And have you ever heard of this concept of being considerate for your roommate when they’re sleeping ? At seven a.m., no less?”

There’s a pause, followed by a low chuckle that somehow feels like a slow stroke against my fraying nerves.

“Well, I’m very sorry, roommate ,” he calls back, his tone smug and infuriating. “But these pipes don’t clean themselves. I’m just over here, making sure I stay nice and fresh—for all the people who actually appreciate me.”

“Oh, please,” I snap, trying not to think about anything related to him being “fresh.” Or “rubbing one out.” Nope. Not going there. Not today. “Just hurry up! Some of us have actual things to do.”

“Don’t worry, Sinclair. I’m almost done,” he replies, his voice laced with amusement. “Unless you need to use the shower to...you know, clear your mind ?”

My jaw drops, my face now so hot I’m positive it could melt steel. “You’re the worst ! I cannot believe you just said that!”

His laughter echoes, annoyingly rich and warm. “What can I say? I live to brighten your mornings.”

I roll my eyes so hard they practically spin. “If I survive this trip without throttling you, it’ll be a miracle.”

Through the door, I hear the water turn off, and a beat later, his voice, low and teasing: “Oh, I think you like having me around too much to throttle me.”

I storm back to the bed, yanking the covers over my head with a huff. Two weeks. Just two weeks.

Yet I hate to admit that the heat I felt last night when I came back from the bathroom and saw my journal in his hands.

I shake my head, shoving the thought away. No . My journal has hundreds of pages. The chances that he’d opened up to that page are slim. One-in two-hundred.

But still. There was a chance.

He’d looked amused. Smug, even. But also a little different. Like something had shifted just slightly behind his eyes.

I mean, it’s not like I’d detailed anything too scandalous in there. Just…thoughts. Fantasies. Stuff I’d written down ages ago and forgot about until I’d seen the look on his face and remembered that page.

Stuff that—if Griffin did see—would make me want to dig a hole in these ruins and stay there forever.

I shake it off. I’m being ridiculous.

There’s no way.

Absolutely no way.

The Universe wouldn’t be that mean to me.

I hear Griffin moving around, and clearing his throat, probably flexing at his reflection like an idiot.

The door cracks open just enough for his face to appear, his wet hair plastered to his forehead and an infuriating grin spread across his lips.

“Relax, Princess. You’ll get your turn.”

I narrow my eyes. “Don’t call me that. And hurry up!”

“So first I’m waking up too early to shower, now I need to hurry up? Which is it? I’m just trying to be a considerate roommate. And it’s not my fault if showers are my therapy.” He winks and shuts the door again, the sound of the shower roaring back to life.

I mutter a string of curses under my breath and stomp back to my bed. By the time the water shuts off, I’ve already thrown on some clothes and am halfway through brushing my hair.

The door swings open, and Griffin strolls out, whistling, shirtless and dripping water everywhere, a towel slung low around his hips.

And, okay, fine. Objectively speaking, he’s handsome. Infuriatingly tall, annoyingly broad shoulders, abs carved like someone actually cared during creation. And that towel—why is it hanging just there, barely staying on, drawing my eyes to the outline of something I definitely should not be noticing?

It’s stupid. No one should look like that in real life.

He’s grinning, of course, like he knows exactly what kind of distraction he is.

“Oh, and you might want to give it a minute,” he adds, leaning casually against the doorframe. “The hot water’s kind of temperamental.”

I spin around, glaring at him. “Can you please not strut around shirtless?”

As I say it, his grin widens, and he shifts slightly as he grabs for something. Meanwhile the towel slips just an inch—then another—before it hits the floor entirely.

My brain short-circuits.

For a solid three seconds, I can’t move. Can’t think. Can’t do anything except stare.

Because holy—what in the actual hell?

It’s…a lot. And not just in the oh wow, that’s nice kind of way. No, this is life-altering, world-tilting, need-to-sit-down-before-I-pass-out levels of a lot.

If his abs were carved by the gods, then that was apparently their passion project. But what’s below that?

Oh.

Oh.

It’s impressive. Intimidating. Thick and hung low like it has no right to be.

Completely and utterly unfair.

The sneaking suspicion I’ve always had that my best friend’s brother is outrageously well-endowed?

Confirmed.

I blink. Open my mouth. Close it. Try again.

Nothing.

Griffin doesn’t even flinch. He just stands there, all lazy confidence and bare, unapologetic arrogance, one eyebrow quirking up in amusement.

“You okay there, Princess?” he drawls, making zero attempt to cover himself.

Cocky bastard.

My throat is so dry I might actually choke. Get it together, Avery.

I force my gaze anywhere but there—which is a struggle—and spin on my heel so fast I nearly wipe out.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter under my breath, stalking toward the door before my brain fully processes what just happened.

I hear him chuckle behind me, low and smug. “Didn’t mean to shock you.”

I grip the doorframe so hard my knuckles go white. “Shock is not the word I’d use,” I grumble.

Liar.

Oh, I’m never recovering from this.

“Oh?” His voice is pure amusement, rich and teasing. “So what is the word you’d use?”

I squeeze my eyes shut. Don’t answer. Don’t answer. Do not?—

“Illegal.”

…What the hell?

Griffin barks out a laugh. “Illegal?”

Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no.

That is not the word I meant to say. I don’t even know what word I meant to say, but that sure as hell wasn’t it.

Because what I’m actually thinking is:

This should be illegal. The sheer unfairness of it. That body? Illegal.

The way he knows exactly what he’s doing to me? Illegal.

The way he’s standing there like he owns the air I’m breathing? Felony-level.

I meant sexy—or maybe overwhelming, or possibly mind-breaking, but somehow, my brain glitched and went with illegal.

Griffin crosses his arms, his smirk deepening. “Interesting choice of words.”

“I meant—immoral.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And unnecessary.”

His smirk deepens. “Unnecessary? Princess, I was just drying off. It’s not my fault you decided to turn this into a crime scene. Have you never seen one of these before?”

“Oh my God.” I groan, gripping the bridge of my nose.

His chuckle is pure sin. “So… just to clarify, you’re saying my nudity is both illegal and immoral?”

I make the mistake of letting my eyes flick downward again—just for a split second—and immediately whip back around, horrified.

“Griffin, I swear to God, if you don’t put some damn pants on, I’m going to start throwing things.”

“Mm.” He hums like he’s actually considering it. “Sounds like you need to cool off.”

I sputter . “I—Oh my God!”

I grab the nearest object—a throw pillow—and launch it over my shoulder. It smacks him square in the chest, but he just laughs harder.

“Not a bad aim,” he says, clearly unbothered. “But next time, aim lower.”

By the time I reach the bathroom, he’s standing in front of the door—thankfully in briefs— still grinning like he knows exactly how much of a distraction he is.

I slam the bathroom door shut when I enter, leaning against it as I take a deep breath.

The nerve of him. It’s like he wakes up every day and chooses chaos—and the worst part is, I keep letting him get under my skin.

With an aggravated sigh, I turn on the shower.

It’s cold, of course.

By the time I step out— fully clothed and ready for the day because I for one am abiding by the ‘shirt and pants on’ rule —my mood has soured even further. Griffin is lounging on his bed, scrolling through a Spanish lesson like he hasn’t turned my morning into a nightmare.

“You look tense,” he says without looking up. “Want me to do some yoga with you? I’m great at downward dog.”

I glare at him. “Griffin. Can you, for one second, just let us chill? Like one. Just stopping annoying me.”

I throw my towel at him. He catches it easily, laughing as I grab my bag and storm out the door, slamming it behind me.

“Alright, everyone! Pair up!”

Our guide, a cheerful local named Fernando, claps his hands as he gestures to the bustling plaza around us. Cobblestone streets sprawl out in every direction, lined with colorful market stalls and quaint shops. The air smells like roasted corn and fresh citrus, and I should be soaking in the beauty of it all.

Instead, I’m dreading the inevitable.

Sure enough, before I can even glance around for a partner, a familiar voice pipes up behind me.

“Looks like it’s you and me, Princess.”

I turn slowly to find Griffin standing there, hands in his pockets, his grin as infuriating as ever.

“No,” I say flatly. “Anyone but you.”

“Yes,” Fernando says brightly, handing us a laminated sheet with scavenger hunt instructions. “You two will be Team Five. ?Buena suerte!”

“Wait—can I switch?” I ask, but Fernando is already moving on to the next pair.

Griffin leans closer, holding the paper up like it’s the winning lottery ticket. “Looks like fate wants us together. Ever heard of invisible string theory? I’ve always felt like that with you.”

“Fate has terrible taste,” I mutter, snatching the sheet from his hand. “And there is no possible way our strings tie together. You are the last person on earth I would choose.”

The scavenger hunt is supposed to be a fun cultural experience—find a specific type of pottery, take a picture with a street performer, buy a local snack, etc.—but I already know it’s going to be a nightmare.

We start walking, and Griffin falls into step beside me, whistling.

“Okay,” I say, scanning the list. “The first item is a ceramic bird. Let’s check the pottery stalls.”

“Lead the way,” he says, gesturing grandly.

I ignore him and head toward a row of brightly colored stalls.

“Hola,” I say to one of the vendors, holding up the scavenger hunt sheet and pointing to the item. “?Tiene esto?”

The vendor smiles and shakes her head. “Aquí, no.”

“Gracias,” I say, turning to move on, but Griffin stops me.

“Let me try,” he says, stepping forward.

Before I can protest, he launches into a string of rapid, surprisingly fluent Spanish, his tone easy and confident. The vendor’s face lights up, and she points us in the direction of another stall down the street.

I blink at him as we start walking again.

“What?” he says, noticing my expression.

“Since when do you speak Spanish?”

“Since always,” he says, shrugging. “You think I signed up for this trip for the Instagram pics? You severely underestimate me, Sinclair.”

I roll my eyes. “I didn’t realize you could do anything useful.”

“Oh, I’m full of surprises, Princess,” he says, his grin widening. “You’ll learn that.”

We reach the next stall, where Griffin again chats easily with the vendor, who hands us the exact ceramic bird we need. He even gets her to knock a couple of pesos off the price, which earns him another glare from me.

“Are you mad because I’m good at this, or because you’re not?” he asks as we walk away.

“Neither,” I snap, clutching the ceramic bird like it’s a weapon.

The next task involves taking a picture with a street performer, and Griffin insists on hamming it up, dragging me into the frame despite my protests.

“Smile, Princess,” he says, slinging an arm around my shoulders as the performer snaps the picture.

I shove his arm off as soon as the photo is taken, but not before I catch a whiff of his stupidly good cologne.

By the time we get to the final task—finding a specific type of street food—I’m ready to strangle him. But as we approach the food stall, I trip on a loose cobblestone, stumbling forward.

Before I can hit the ground, Griffin’s hand shoots out, grabbing my arm and steadying me.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice softer than usual.

“I’m fine,” I mutter, pulling away quickly. My face feels hot, and I refuse to look at him as we finish the task.

We turn in our completed sheet to Fernando, who beams at us. “Team Five! You did great!”

Griffin leans down, grinning at me with that easy, infuriating charm. “See? We make a good team.”

I glare at him, trying to ignore the way his smile lights up his entire face. “Don’t push it.”

He just laughs, his deep, rich chuckle sending an annoying flutter through my chest, and I storm off, silently vowing to never let him catch me off guard again.

I just hate that the more time I spend with him, the more attracted to him I am, despite how hard I fight it.

This is Cassie’s brother we’re talking about. He’s supposed to be off-limits. And even if he wasn’t my best friend’s brother, I have a boyfriend.

I’m just going to have to pretend I didn’t notice how ridiculously hot he looked getting out of the shower this morning. Like, unfairly hot. His wet hair, messy and sticking to his forehead in a way that made him look both rugged and boyish. The sharp lines of his jaw and cheekbones, accentuated by the morning light. And those abs— God, those abs. I swear they’re so defined you could use them as a roadmap.

And then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, my mind betrays me.

I remember.

The towel. Slipping. Hitting the floor. Leaving everything on display.

It wasn’t intentional—I mean, who just blatantly stares at something like that? But how was I supposed to ignore it? Impossible. The visual of him destroyed me in real-time, sent a wave of heat through me so fast I had to practically dive into my suitcase just to keep myself from gawking.

And the worst part?

The way he just stood there, completely at ease, like his entire existence wasn’t illegal in fifteen states. Like he knew exactly what he was doing. Like he was enjoying my reaction—watching, waiting, teasing.

He’s trouble. Wrapped in a way-too-perfect package. A walking felony with abs. And I do not need that kind of distraction.

I groan, shaking my head. Nope. Not going there.

I need to survive this trip without doing something stupid—like letting him get under my skin.

Or worse…into my thoughts.

Or that journal page I wrote down a while back.