Chapter 2
two
. . .
Avery
This day is testing me.
The plane ride was bad enough—turbulence, cramped seats, and Griffin Knox being, well, Griffin Knox. And now? Now I’m standing in the lobby of this quaint little hotel, staring at Dr. Peterson like she’s just told me I’m being sentenced to two weeks of torture in Dante’s seventh circle of hell.
“You’re kidding,” I say, my voice calm but edged with panic. “No. I mean, this can’t be legal?”
Dr. Peterson looks up from her clipboard, giving me that overly bright teacher smile. “I’m afraid I’m not kidding, and yes it is quite legal. We had to double up on rooms, and?—”
“With him ?” I cut her off, jabbing a finger in Griffin’s direction. He’s leaning against the front desk, flashing a grin at one of the staff like he’s auditioning for Charming Tourist of the Year.
“Yes,” she says, completely unfazed. “Avery, look. It’s just for two weeks. There are no more roommate pairs left, and the program doesn’t do singles. I had to beg the dean just to keep it running as it is.” She leans in, lowering her voice. “And besides? You’re the only one I trust to keep him in check.”
“Keep him in check??” I scoff. “I don’t want to keep him in check. That’s not my job. I don’t even want to breathe the same air as him. Can I sleep, like, in a tent outside or something?”
Dr. Peterson leans in, dropping her voice like she’s about to share a state secret. “You have a boyfriend, right?”
“Yes,” I reply tightly.
“Exactly. So there’ll be no funny business. And honestly, you’re the only girl I know who can handle him.”
Handle him? Handle him?
I shoot another glare in Griffin’s direction. He’s gesturing wildly now, doing some sort of dance, and flashing that grin that probably works on 90% of the population but does absolutely nothing for me.
Yes. A dance.
“This is a nightmare,” I mutter.
“You’ll be fine,” Dr. Peterson says with the kind of optimism only people not sharing a room with Griffin Knox can have. She presses the keycard into my hand and moves on to the next group.
I stalk toward the elevator, keycard clutched like a weapon. Behind me, Griffin’s voice rings out, bright and obnoxious.
“Hey, roomie! Wait up!”
I don’t slow down.
He catches up in two strides, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder and his grin annoyingly intact.
“This is going to be so much fun,” he says, falling into step beside me.
I whirl on him, stabbing a finger into his chest. “Listen, Knox. I don’t know what strings you pulled to make this happen, but just so we’re clear: I don’t like you. I don’t want to room with you. And if you so much as breathe in my direction, I’m filing a formal complaint.”
He looks down at my finger and then back up at me, his grin widening. “You sound so serious. It’s kind of adorable.”
I clench my jaw so hard my teeth ache.
When we reach the room, I fling the door open and march inside, tossing my bag onto the nearest bed without even glancing around. Behind me, Griffin strolls in like he owns the place, drops his bag on the other bed, and flops down onto it—arms behind his head, legs sprawled—like he’s just claimed a throne.
“This’ll work,” he says, stretching out with a satisfied sigh.
It’s two queen sized beds. Right next to each other. I exhale sharply, feeling like the universe is having a good laugh at my expense.
“No,” I snap, spinning to face him. “This will not work. We need rules.”
He raises an eyebrow, clearly enjoying this. “Okay, sure. Lay ’em on me, Princess.”
“Rule one,” I start, holding up a finger. “No talking to me unless absolutely necessary.”
His grin grows. “Define ‘necessary.’”
“You’ll know it when you see it,” I snap. “Rule two: no touching my stuff. No ‘accidentally’ borrowing anything, no messing with my side of the room—nothing.”
“Got it. Hands off the princess’s stuff.”
“Rule three,” I continue, grabbing the hotel’s notepad from the desk. I drag a jagged line down the center of the page and hold it up. “This is your side. That’s mine. Cross the line, and you’re dead.”
He laughs, sitting up on his elbows. “This is amazing. How do I get the the bathroom we share, though? It’s on your side. I’ll have to cross the line. What’s next, a chore wheel?”
“Rule four,” I say, ignoring him. “No existing near me.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “No existing? ”
“You heard me.”
He stands and walks over to the desk, leaning on it with infuriating casualness. “Okay, so just to recap: no talking, no touching, no crossing imaginary lines, and no existing. Got it. Anything else, Your Highness? Will I be giving you a nightly foot rub?”
“Yes.” I meet his gaze, my voice sharp. “Stay out of my way. Two weeks. That’s all I have to survive.”
“Sounds easy enough,” he says, smirking. “For me, anyway.”
I groan, turning away to unpack my bag. But I can feel him watching me, his eyes practically burning holes in my back.
“You know,” he says after a beat, “for someone so uptight, you’re pretty entertaining.”
“And for someone so full of himself, you’re pretty exhausting,” I fire back.
“You’re right. I guess I have more stamina than you.”
I whirl around, ready to snap back at Griffin for whatever smug comment he’s brewing, and immediately regret it.
He’s standing there, all six foot five of him, with a towel slung low on his hips. His chest is broad, his abs carved like a damn statue, and his brown hair is messily strewn like he just rolled out of a GQ spread. His skin carries a faint golden glow, like he’s been kissed by the sun itself, and those piercing green eyes? Yeah, they’re locked right on me.
He smirks, holding up a hand in mock chivalry. “May I please cross to your side? To enter the shower. Please. Muh lady.” He even bows a little, like the world’s cockiest knight.
I take a deep breath, trying—and failing—not to let my gaze linger. “Sure. Go ahead. Just don’t drip on my stuff.”
“Noted.” He winks, and my heart does an annoying little flip as he steps past me, his shoulder brushing mine.
I refuse to look. Refuse. But then, against my better judgment, my eyes betray me as he heads toward the bathroom.
It’s purely accidental. A stolen glance. A moment of weakness.
And Griffin Knox has a nice butt, which is peaking out of the towel.
Not that it does anything for me. Nope. Not one bit.
Still, for a split second—barely a heartbeat—a memory flickers to life. Back in college, after one too many margaritas, Cassie had joked that her brothers were “too hot for their own good,” and I’d stupidly let my brain wander to what Griffin might look like under all that cocky swagger. Just once.
And here he is, proving my imagination had been wildly unprepared.
But no. No. Nope. This is Cassie’s brother. My best friend’s infuriating brother. I shake the thought loose before it can grow any legs.
I yank my gaze back to my bag, clenching my teeth as the bathroom door shuts behind him. The sound of the shower starting fills the room, and I let out a long, defeated sigh.
If I survive this week without strangling him—or throwing myself at him—it’ll be a miracle.