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Griffin

I wake up to the sound of someone singing.

Correction: screaming.

My eyes snap open, and for a moment, I’m disoriented. The unfamiliar twin 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 groan, burying 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 with school.

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!”

“You’ve been in there forever! And have you ever heard of this concept of being considerate for your roommate when they are sleeping? At seven a.m., no less?”

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!”

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, 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.

“All yours,” he says, gesturing grandly toward the bathroom like he’s doing me a favor.

“Finally,” I snap, brushing past him, determined not to give him the satisfaction of a second glance.

“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 not strut around shirtless?”

As I say it, his grin widens, and he shifts slightly, the towel slipping 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. All I can do is stare.

Because holy— what in the actual hell?

If his abs were carved by the gods, then that was apparently their passion project. It’s…impressive. Intimidating. Thick and hung low. Completely and utterly unfair.

Griffin doesn’t even flinch. He just stands there, one eyebrow quirking up in amusement. “You okay there, Princess?” he drawls, making no move to cover himself.

I force my gaze upward, cheeks burning, but it’s too late. My reaction has already betrayed me. “For the love of—put some clothes on!” I sputter, spinning around so fast I nearly trip over my own feet.

He chuckles, the sound deep and infuriatingly smug. “What’s the matter? You looked like you were enjoying the view.”

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.”

“Griffin!” I practically screech, diving into the bathroom and slamming the door shut behind me.

From the other side of the door, I hear his laughter echoing through the room, his voice full of amusement. “Admit it, Princess. You’re impressed.”

I groan, pressing my forehead against the cool surface of the door. This trip is going to kill me.

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

“All yours,” he says, gesturing grandly toward the bathroom like he’s doing me a favor.

“Finally,” I snap, shoving past him.

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

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

He smirks, crossing his arms over his ridiculously perfect chest. “Fat chance of that. You don’t make the rules.”

“I do make the rules, actually,” I shoot back, jabbing a finger at him. “And that’s a new one. Rule five: wear a shirt. ”

He laughs, shaking his head. “Not happening, Princess. You can’t handle this,” he says, gesturing to himself.

“Handle what? Your overconfidence? Trust me, I’ve had enough practice.”

He grins, leaning just slightly into my space. “You sure? You look a little flustered.”

“I’m not flustered,” I snap, turning on my heel and stomping into the bathroom.

“And yet you’re still thinking about it,” he calls after me.

I slam the door shut, 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 can’t stop letting him get under my skin.

The shower is 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 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.”

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.

Two weeks. Just two weeks.

And if Griffin Knox doesn’t kill me by then, it’ll be a miracle.

“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.

“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.”

“Fate has terrible taste,” I mutter, snatching the sheet from his hand.

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. “No aquí.”

“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?”

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.

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.

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.

So the fact that we’re sharing a room for this Mexico trip? A recipe for disaster.

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, I couldn’t help but remember the sight of him this morning—the towel slipping to the floor, leaving everything on display. It wasn’t intentional—I mean, who stares at something like that? But it was impossible to ignore, and the visual of him sent a wave of heat through me so fast I had to practically dive into my suitcase to avoid gawking.

The way the towel hung low on his hips, the hint of a cocky smirk on his face, like he knew what I’d seen, made it all worse. He’s trouble, wrapped in a way-too-perfect package, and I don’t 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.