Page 113 of The Jack*ss in Class

I sent off a quick text and then we stepped outside for air during a break between games. The night was cool, stars visible despite the city lights. I wrapped my arm around her shoulders, drawing her close.

“Better?” I asked.

“Your family is...” she began, then shook her head. “I don’t even have words.”

“A lot?”

“Amazing,” she corrected. “You’re lucky to have them.”

“I know.” I thought about what Dad had said, about not fighting her battles for her. “About tomorrow?—”

“I’m terrified,” she admitted, her voice small. “My mother has had my life planned since I was five years old. Academic success, prestigious career, everything proper and respectable. Romance novels are...” She trailed off.

“Beneath you?” I guessed.

She nodded. “In her eyes. She thinks they’re unworthytrash. And now everyone will know her daughter writes them.”

“I’d like to be there,” I said carefully. “When you talk to them. If you want.”

She looked up at me, surprise clear on her face. “You would?”

“Of course.” I brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. “You’re not alone in this, Tempest. Not anymore.”

She studied my face for a long moment, then nodded. “I’d like that.” Then, more softly, “I need that.”

The admission cost her, I could tell. She’d been independent for so long, shoulders bearing the weight of her secrets alone. Letting someone help wasn’t easy for her.

“That’s settled then.” I pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Whatever happens, we face it together.”

My phone buzzed with a return text from the message I sent a few minutes ago. The Kingman women were a force to be reckoned with, and I had a feeling Tempest’s grandmother was the perfect addition to this night.

I showed Tempest the message, watching as surprise, then tentative hope crossed her features. “You invited Abuela to this craziness? She’s going to love it. Abuela and the Kingman women together?” She laughed softly. “The universe doesn’t stand a chance.”

“No,” I agreed, pulling her closer. “It really doesn’t.”

QUEENCON

TEMPEST

The door to Cool Beans swung open with dramatic flair. Every head turned as my grandmother made her entrance, resplendent in a flowing emerald kaftan with an honest-to-god feather-trimmed wrap draped around her shoulders. Behind her, Tío Pedro grinned, carrying what appeared to be several shopping bags.

AbuelaNovela never just arrived anywhere. She made anentrance.

“Mi Tempestina!” She threw her arms wide, her array of gold bangles jingling like wind chimes.

“Abuela,” I whispered, relief washing over me as I crossed the room into her embrace. The familiar scent of her perfume enveloped me, a comfort I hadn’t known I desperately needed until this moment.

“Shh, mi amor,” she murmured against my hair, somehow knowing exactly what I needed to hear. “This is not the end. It is merely the beginning of a new chapter, yes? And who knows better how to write those than you?”

I choked on a laugh that was half sob. Trust Abuela to make a writing pun at a time like this.

When she released me, her eyes, the same deep brown as my own, scanned the room with the appraising gaze that had intimidated telenovela directors for decades. Her attention settled on Bridger Kingman, who had risen from his seat as she entered.

“Ah,” she said, her voice carrying in that perfectly modulated way actresses of her generation had mastered. “You must be the father of these magnificent boys I’ve heard so much about.”

Something passed between them, a recognition, perhaps, of two people who had shouldered the weight of raising families through both joy and tragedy. He gave her a slight nod, the barest hint of respect in the gesture, but I didn’t miss it.

“Welcome to our impromptu family gathering, Mrs. Ramirez,” he said, extending his hand.

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