Page 139 of The Jack*ss in Class

“We did it,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “Four years of college, and we actually survived.”

“Speak for yourself,” I laughed, clinging to him. “I’m pretty sure part of my soul died during that British Modernism final.”

“Oh please,” he scoffed, setting me back on my feet. “You probably aced it while writing a steamy scene for your next book under the desk.”

I smacked his chest lightly. “It was a boring guest lecture, not a final.”

His eyes darkened with that familiar heat. “Still one of the hottest things I’ve ever seen, you writing a super filthy sex scene while looking all innocent and studious.”

“Filthy? It was a perfectly tasteful scene about?—”

“A filthy locker room shower after a game,” he finished, eyebrows raised. “I read it, remember? I had to take an actual cold shower after.”

I flushed, remembering all too well how that particular research session had ended. “Are you trying to distract me from my graduation party nerves with sex talk, Flynn Kingman?”

“Is it working?”

“Maybe.” I bit my lip, studying his face.

He caught my hand, pressing a kiss to my palm. “Now, are we ready to go face your family? Or should we make a run for LA right now, change our names, and become beach bums?”

I laughed, though a part of me was tempted. “Abuela would hunt us down. She’s been planning this party for weeks. And Ophelia has been cooking for days. Plus you’ll get to meet my Abuelo today.”

“Fair point. Never cross AbuelaNovela, especially when she’s planning a party.”

“Just be grateful she didn’t commission an ice sculpture of you in your football uniform.”

“Oh god, did she?—”

“Almost,” I confirmed. “I talked her down to a donkey ice sculpture.”

“Well, now I’m kind of sad.”

“I’m still nervous,” I admitted. “But I’m not afraid anymore.”

He lifted our joined hands to kiss my knuckles. “That’s my girl.”

Abuela had transformed the Navarro family home into something between a quinceañera and a royal coronation. Purple and gold balloons festooned every available surface. A massive banner reading “CONGRATULATIONS TEMPEST” spanned the living room wall, with “¡ORGULLO DE LA FAMILIA!” —pride of the family— emblazoned beneath it.

In the backyard, Burrito Petito held court near the ice sculpture, sporting a miniature graduation cap that kept sliding rakishly over one ear.

“¡Mi amor!” Abuela’s voice carried across the yard as she spotted me coming through the side gate. She descended upon me in a swirl of fuchsia silk and perfume, clasping my face between her jeweled hands. “¡La graduada! ¡Qué orgullosa estoy!”

“Gracias, Abuela,” I managed, before being enveloped in her embrace.

Ophelia had transformed the sprawling patio dining area into a gourmet buffet, showcasing the best offerings from her restaurant, Las Barditas. Elegant platters of empanadas, ceviches, and colorful salads were artfully arranged alongside traditional family favorites. A three-tiered cake, adorned with fondant books, a football, and a tiny donkey, commanded the center of the dessert table.

Freddie bounded over to me, grabbing me in a big hug. “Your speech rocked, T. I recorded the whole thing. Already has, like, ten thousand views.”

“What? Freddie, you didn’t?—”

“Relax. Your fans love seeing the real you, T. Miranda Milan, giving an inspirational graduation speech about authentic self-expression? It’s like catnip to them.”

“Just keep the comments turned off,” I reminded her. “I’m still not ready for that level of interaction.”

I scanned the growing crowd for the family members I was most anxious about seeing. Catalina was near the drinks table, deep in conversation with one of Papá’s colleagues. But Mamá and Rosalind were nowhere to be seen.

A familiar hand touched my elbow. “Looking for someone?” Papá asked gently. His knowing smile told me he already knew. “Your mother is inside, helping AuntLucia with something in the kitchen. She was very moved by your speech, though she’d never admit it.”

---