Chapter 37
thirty-seven
. . .
Avery
The Lyft hums softly as it cruises through the warm Dallas night, the city lights flashing past the windows like tiny, electric stars.
Cassie sits beside me, scrolling through her phone, her manicured nails clicking against the screen. She suddenly glances up, her eyes narrowing slightly as she takes me in. "Damn."
I blink, startled. "What?"
"You. In that dress." She gestures dramatically at me, her grin widening. "That is really something. Are you trying to impress someone tonight?"
My stomach twists as I glance down at the blush pink wrap dress, smoothing the fabric nervously. It’s the same dress I wore that night in Mexico—the night everything with Griffin shifted. I hadn’t thought about that until Cassie pointed it out, but now it feels like my skin is on fire.
"Thanks," I mumble, heat creeping up my neck. “Impress? Me? No.” I laugh awkwardly, the sound too high-pitched to be convincing.
Cassie leans closer, inspecting me like a detective who knows I’ve stolen something. "You seem weird tonight. Are you okay? Like… really okay?"
I swallow hard, my mind flickering back to the last time I wore this dress. The way Griffin’s eyes had roamed over me, dark and heated, like he couldn’t help himself. The way his fingers brushed my waist as he whispered something teasing in my ear, his voice dripping with amusement and something else.
I shake the memory away, forcing a smile. "I’m fine. Totally fine."
Cassie narrows her eyes. "If you say so. But you’ve been acting off lately. Just… know you can talk to me, okay?"
I nod quickly, my pulse hammering as I glance out the window, pretending to admire the skyline.
Because the truth?
I’d worn this dress tonight for one reason, and one reason only.
The possibility of running into Griffin Knox.
And if I’m not careful, I’m going to give myself away.
I’ll never forget Mexico.
The way his hands slid over the fabric, slow and deliberate, like it was a gift he couldn’t wait to unwrap. The way his breath hitched when he saw me—like I was something more than just a fling.
I shove the memory down, locking it away where it belongs.
It was two weeks. Two fleeting, perfect, and entirely complicated weeks. And it happened over a year ago.
Griffin has probably moved on.
He’s probably dating about eight girls by now.
I’m sure of it.
He never tried to contact me after Mexico. Not a text. Not a call. Not even a damn ‘like’ on social media.
He probably doesn’t even think of me.
I clear my throat, forcing a smile as I glance back at Cassie. "Yeah. Totally fine."
Cassie raises an eyebrow, the wheels turning in her head, but for now, she lets it go.
Instead, she smirks, scrolling on her phone again. "You know, Griffin has some seriously hot teammates."
I laugh softly, shaking my head. "I bet."
She eyes me suspiciously, her grin turning mischievous. "You don’t seem enthused at the prospect."
"No, I am," I lie, trying to sound convincing.
Cassie narrows her eyes, her tone teasing. "Mmmhmm. Sure you are."
I lean back against the seat, my fingers toying with the edge of the dress.
Because the truth is, I couldn’t care less about Griffin’s teammates.
There’s only person I’m thinking about tonight is the one person I shouldn’t be thinking about at all.
The Lyft rolls to a stop in front of the Cantina, its glowing rooftop lights strung like fairy dust across the Dallas skyline. The faint hum of live music drifts through the warm air, and my chest tightens as I step out of the car.
Cassie bounces beside me, linking her arm with mine. "Isn’t this place gorgeous? Griffin said it’s one of his favorites."
Griffin.
The name lands in my stomach like a weight.
We step inside, the warm glow of string lights and flickering candles bathing the room in gold. The music is louder here, a jazzy guitar mingling with the soft hum of conversation.
And then—I see him.
He’s at a table near the far end of the rooftop, his back to the skyline, casually leaning back in his chair like he owns the damn place.
But it’s not just the casual confidence that sends my pulse racing.
It’s him.
Griffin Knox.
Hotter than I’ve ever seen him.
He’s wearing a tailored navy suit coat, no tie, the crisp white shirt underneath unbuttoned just enough to tease the hollow of his throat. The jacket hugs his shoulders and chest perfectly, the fabric catching the light with every slight movement. His hair is shorter than it was in Mexico, styled just enough to make it look effortless, and his jawline—dear God, that jawline—looks sharper, more defined, more man. The last year and a half has been kind to him, and that’s no surprise.
And his eyes—those piercing green eyes—lock onto mine like a magnet.
For a second, I forget how to breathe.
The world blurs around him, the noise of the bar fading into a distant hum.
Because it’s just him.
Just Griffin.
Looking at me like I’m the only person in the room.
The corner of his mouth quirks up into a slow, devastatingly sexy smirk, and I feel it all the way to my toes.
Damn. You’d think he was in a GQ ad or something.
I swallow hard, forcing myself to blink, to breathe, to move.
Cassie tugs me toward the table, chattering on about how excited she is, but her words barely register.
Because Griffin doesn’t look away.
Not once.
And by the time we reach the table, my knees feel like jelly, my heart pounding so hard I swear it’s echoing in my ears.
"There’s the big man," Cassie says brightly, sliding into a seat. "We’ve arrived."
"Ladies," he says, his voice low and rich, his eyes never leaving mine. “Cass.” He steps forward, wrapping Cassie in an easy hug, his hand lingering on her shoulder like the protective big brother he’s always been.
Then he turns to me. “Hey. Good to see you.”
I freeze as he steps closer, his arms opening just enough. And before I can fully process it, he pulls me in for a hug too.
It’s brief—barely more than a brush of his chest against mine—but it’s enough to short-circuit my brain. His scent—clean, warm, and unmistakably Griffin—wraps around me, and for a split second, the world tilts.
When he steps back, his eyes catch mine, and I swear I see it—the same heat, the same hunger, the same Griffin I remember from Mexico.
The one who ruined me for anyone else.
But just as quickly, the moment shatters.
Because then, I see her.
The girl hanging off his arm, all glossy hair, perfect curves, and legs for days. She’s exactly the type of woman you’d expect to see on the arm of a star player, and it’s like a bucket of ice water dumped over my head.
Griffin turns slightly, his smirk deepening as she leans closer, staking her claim with a hand on his arm.
And me?
I’m already regretting ever putting on this dress.
She’s wearing a tight red dress that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination, her toned shoulders glinting under the string lights. Her sleek, dark hair is parted perfectly down the middle, cascading over one shoulder like she just stepped out of a high-end shampoo commercial.
Her nails—long, polished, and sharp—trail down Griffin’s forearm as she leans into him, smiling like she owns him.
“This is, ah,” Griffin starts to say.
"Brielle," she says sweetly, holding out a manicured hand to Cassie and me. Her voice is as smooth and practiced as the rest of her.
Cassie shakes her hand without hesitation. "Nice to meet you. I’m Cassie."
When Brielle turns to me, her gaze sharpens slightly, her perfect smile not quite reaching her eyes.
"And you are?"
"Avery," I say, forcing a polite smile and taking her hand briefly.
Griffin doesn’t miss a beat. "Cassie’s best friend," he says smoothly, his tone neutral.
But the way his eyes flicker—just for a second—tells me otherwise.
Brielle tilts her head, glancing between me and Griffin like she’s trying to piece something together. "Oh," she says lightly. "That’s nice."
She shifts closer to him, her body language possessive, her hand still on his arm.
And as I sit down across from them, my stomach tightens, the heat from Griffin’s gaze still lingering on me.
Because for all her perfection, all her smooth edges and polished charm—she’s not me.
And Griffin?
He knows it, too.
The table is a flurry of motion and conversation—Cassie laughing at something one of the guys said, Brielle leaning too close to Griffin, her manicured fingers lightly brushing his arm.
I try to focus on anything else, sipping my drink, but my eyes keep darting back to Griffin.
It’s ridiculous how different he looks now—more composed, more refined, more…man.
And it’s infuriating how my chest tightens every time I catch him looking at me.
"You know, you’d fit in great with the team," one of his teammates says, flashing me a grin as he leans in, his voice low. "Smart, funny, gorgeous. You’ve got the whole package. And you look great in that dress.”
I laugh lightly, keeping it friendly. "Careful. My best friend might have some thoughts about you hitting on me."
Cassie raises an eyebrow at me from across the table but doesn’t comment, too engrossed in her conversation with another guy.
Meanwhile, Brielle shifts closer to Griffin, her voice dropping into something syrupy sweet. "So, Griffin, do you bring your whole team out every weekend? Or is this a special occasion?"
"Special occasion," he mutters, his gaze flickering to me. “Home game victory today.”
I take another sip of my drink, trying to ignore the way my heart hammers in my chest.
"Wow," I say softly, finally meeting his eyes. I search for some profound thing to say to him, but I’ve got nothing. "You look so different."
He smirks faintly, leaning back in his chair. "Yeah. You too."
There’s a beat of silence, the sounds of the club fading into the background.
"We’re pretty much strangers now," he adds, his voice quieter, lower.
My stomach twists, the weight of his words settling in. "Just two strangers at the club," I say, forcing a lightness into my tone that doesn’t match the way my heart is racing.
But then, my eyes catch on a tree just beyond the balcony, its leaves swaying gently in the warm breeze.
"Leaves are, um, still green this time of year," I murmur, my voice barely audible.
I can’t look at him, can’t read the expression on his face, but I feel his gaze on me like a physical weight.
"Yeah," he says, his voice rough. "Just strangers now."
I swallow hard, my fingers tightening around the edge of my glass.
Because the truth is—I’ve never wanted anyone this much.
He’s such an asshole. I mean, not talking to me for an entire year and a half? Come on.
But the craving for his touch is overwhelming, electric, impossible to ignore.
His eyes narrow slightly, like he’s seeing straight through me, and my pulse kicks into overdrive.
Just strangers.
And yet, I’ve never felt so exposed, so alive.
I sit back down after excusing myself, deciding I need to stop letting Griffin get under my skin. If he can play this game, so can I.
One of his teammates—tall, broad, and ridiculously hot in a classic, all-American way—leans closer, his grin easy, his energy casual.
"So, Avery," he says, his voice low and warm, "what’s a girl like you doing with a crowd like us?"
I laugh softly, swirling the last bit of my drink in my glass. "A girl like me? What does that mean?"
He shrugs, his grin widening. "Smart. Sophisticated. Probably too good for a bunch of football guys."
“I’m assuming that’s your line on all the girls who aren’t cheerleaders?” I reply, letting my smile linger just a little longer than it needs to.
“Oh, uh..no, I mean...” His gaze lingers on me, and I know I’ve got his attention. But as I meet his eyes, waiting for the usual flutter of excitement or thrill of the chase—there’s nothing.
No spark. No pull.
Because no matter how hot this guy is, he’s not Griffin.
And even though I’m trying to prove a point, it feels hollow.
Still, I laugh at something he says, leaning just slightly closer.
And that’s when I feel it.
The heat of a hand sliding down my waist, firm and possessive.
"Give it a minute," Griffin murmurs, his voice low, just for me. "So it doesn’t look like you’re coming right after me. Then follow me...unless roses are red now."
My breath catches, his words twisting through my chest like a live wire, my pulse racing as his hand lingers on my waist, just long enough to set me on fire.
Unless roses are red now.
My heart’s on fire. Is he asking…what I think he’s asking?
Yes. He is. And he’s giving me an out. A choice. Do I still want this? Him? He’s asking without actually asking.
It’s the hottest thing anyone’s ever said to me.
I glance up, meeting his eyes. The intensity there is so raw, so utterly consuming, that I feel it in every inch of me.
And he knows it.
He steps back, smirking faintly as if he hasn’t just completely dismantled me in front of everyone.
I clench my hands into fists to keep myself from trembling. Because the truth is—I want him so bad it’s ridiculous. So bad I can feel it in my teeth, in my lungs, in the maddening ache low in my stomach.
"Griffin," his teammate says, glancing up with a grin. "We were just talking about you."
Griffin doesn’t miss a beat, his smirk sharpening.
"Oh, I’m sure you were," he replies smoothly, his eyes cutting back to mine for just a split second before he turns and walks away, disappearing into the crowd.
It takes everything in me not to get up and follow him immediately.
I grip the edge of the table, trying to steady myself, trying to act like he hasn’t just completely unraveled me in front of his whole team.
"Avery?" his teammate asks, leaning closer. His voice barely registers, my head spinning, my heart thundering in my chest. “You good?”
I force a smile, nodding absently as I stand, brushing off his next question.
"Be right back," I murmur, my voice unsteady.
Because no matter how much I want to pretend I’m unaffected, no matter how much I want to cling to logic and reason, my body is already moving, my heart pulling me toward him like a magnet.
I step into the crowd, weaving through the sea of people, the bass from the speakers thudding in time with my heartbeat.
I’m following this man—this infuriating, intoxicating man.
A man who is virtually a sexy, suited stranger to me now. A man whose touch is so familiar, yet who I haven’t touched in so many years.
Except that he’s Griffin.
The hallway is quieter than the rest of the Cantina, the bass from the speakers a faint thud behind us. I stand beside Griffin, pretending not to notice the way his shoulder brushes mine, the way his cologne lingers in the air between us—sharp, clean, maddening.
He hasn’t said a word since we left the table, but the tension between us is deafening.
I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, and he looks so damn calm—too calm—his jaw tight, his hands casually resting in his pockets like he hasn’t just pulled me out of a crowded room.
The bathroom door swings open, and a young woman steps out, smiling politely as she passes us.
And before I can even register what’s happening, Griffin’s hand wraps around my wrist.
He pulls me inside, shutting the door firmly behind us, the lock clicking into place.
"Griffin—" I barely get his name out before my back hits the door, his hands braced on either side of me, boxing me in.
The room is elegant as hell—polished marble countertops, soft lighting, the faint scent of something floral hanging in the air—but all I can focus on is him.
He’s so close, his eyes burning into mine, his chest rising and falling like he’s been holding something back for too long.
And then his gaze drops—to my lips, to the knot at my waist, to the dress that suddenly feels like it’s suffocating me.
"You’re driving me insane," he growls, his voice low, rough, as his hand skims the curve of my hip. "Do you know that? You think you can just barge back into my life after all this time?”
I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. Because his touch—firm, deliberate, and so utterly Griffin—has stolen every coherent thought from my brain.
His hands slide up my sides, over the fabric of my dress, and I shiver, my back arching slightly against the door.
"Griffin," I manage, my voice breathy, shaky. “I wasn’t. I din’t plan?—”
"Tell me to stop," he murmurs, his lips brushing against my ear, his fingers tugging lightly at the tie around my waist. "If you don’t want this—if you don’t want me—tell me to stop. You know what I want with you. And I think you want it with me.”
I don’t tell him a thing.
Because I do want him. So bad it hurts.
I reach for him, my hands finding his chest, the crisp fabric of his shirt warm under my palms.
"I’m not—" I start, but my words falter as his mouth finds the sensitive spot just below my jaw. My knees weaken. "I’m not on the pill anymore. I…I haven’t had sex in a long time."
“Oh.” He pulls back slightly, his eyes locking onto mine, a flicker of something dark and primal flashing in them.
"Is that a problem?" he asks, his voice a low growl that sends shivers down my spine. “Because I don’t have a rubber on me. Wasn’t planning on this tonight.”
My breath stutters, my body trembling under the weight of his stare.
"Not a problem,” I whisper, my hands sliding down his chest, savoring the solid warmth beneath the smooth fabric of his jacket. My fingers trace over every ridge, every line, lower, lower, until I find him—hard, hot, and ready.
His sharp intake of breath is all the confirmation I need, and it sends a thrill through me, pooling heat low in my belly.
“Better that way. With you. Only like that with you...” I murmur, barely able to form the words as the electricity between us crackles.
His green eyes darken, his jaw tightening as his hand tangles in my hair, gripping just enough to make my pulse race. "Good,” he murmurs, his voice rough, raw. He leans in, his lips brushing my ear. “Then show me. On your knees, Sinclair.”
The command rolls through me, melting every ounce of hesitation. I lower myself, my knees hitting the plush carpet as my gaze locks with his, his dominance steadying me in a way that feels far too addictive.
He watches, his chest rising and falling with every labored breath, his fingers deftly working his zipper. And when he frees himself, my breath catches.
He’s everything I remember. No—he’s more.
Thick, heavy, oversized, and already so hard, his length curves toward me like a challenge, daring me to see how far I’ll go to drive him crazy. My lips part, anticipation and desire flooding my senses as I lean in, my fingers wrapping around the base.
Griffin’s head tips back, a low growl escaping him as I press a slow, teasing kiss to the tip. His free hand braces against the desk behind him, his muscles taut, his control hanging by a thread.
“Fuck, Avery,” he groans, his voice strained, filled with an edge of desperation. “You have no idea how much I missed this. Missed you.”
Oh, but I do.
And I plan to ruin him completely.
Just like he did to me.