Page 27 of The Jack*ss in Class

The way she kept searching my eyes said that she was legitimately worried I was going to rat her out on whatever was in that notebook. Or question her about it, and she wanted to hide something. Something important to her.

She actually looked like she was on the verge of a panic attack. While it was way more fun to poke at her than I wanted to admit to, seeing her meltdown was not on my fun-times-with-Flynn list.

The best thing I could do for her right now was find a way to put her at ease. Or...even better, give her something more fun to think about. I leaned forward, closing the space between us, and gave her my absolute bestcome-hither look. “That’s not the only thing I’ve got that’s steely.”

Her eyes flicked down to my lips and back up. Got her. She wasn’t worried about the notebook anymore. “You’d better mean your blue eyes, football boy.”

“There she is,” I said, and watched a reluctant smile break through her worry. “Since we’re friends?—”

“We’re not friends.”

“Study buddies, then.”

“Mandatory academic partners,” she countered.

“Whatever you want to call it.” I spread my hands. “Point is, if you need to talk, or vent, or just sit here and not study for a while... that’s cool.”

For a moment, something flickered in her dark eyes. Vulnerability, maybe, or longing. Then she squared her shoulders. “What I need is to get through Act Three, so I can finish my paper. Tell me you at least know what you’re writing yours about.”

The words were sharp, but I caught the teensy-tiny tremor beneath them. Something was definitely up with her, beyond the mysterious phone call. But pushing wouldn’t get me anywhere. I’d learned that much about Tempest Navarro in the past few weeks.

“I do. So let’s get down to Shakespeare.” I pulled out my annotated copy of the play, dog-eared and coffee stained. “But whatever it is that’s got you stressed, I’m sure you’ve got this. And if you don’t, I know people. Say the word, and we’ll be there with shovels, and tarps, and pickup trucks, and picnic baskets.”

Her hands relaxed on the actual Shakespeare notebook she’d pulled out and she took a normal breath instead ofthe rapid ones she was taking up until now. “Picnic baskets?”

Small victories. I’d take them where I could get them. “If we’re digging holes for...whatever we might need six-foot-deep holes for, then we need snacks. Growing boys and all that.”

“You’re...a lot.”

She had no idea.

“Now,” I said, flipping to the right page, “let’s talk about why Iago’s such a dick.”

That startled a laugh out of her, a real one, rich and warm, and something in my chest expanded. Making Tempest laugh felt like winning the game. Better, maybe.

Which was exactly the kind of thought that should have sent me running for the hills. Instead, I found myself hoping I could make her laugh again before the hour was up.

I was so screwed.

Two hours later, right when we were in the middle of battling over whether the feminist leanings in Shakespeare’s works meant the writer behind the plays was actually a woman or not, Tempest’s alarm on her phone went off.

She sighed and turned the alarm off. “I have somewhere else I need to be.”

Did she look disappointed?

Maybe that was just me projecting. How was it that the only dates we’d been on were the legit studying kind, and I was more into Tempest than any two-week girl I’d ever taken out a dozen times on all kinds of fun and creative dates.

No. Ridiculous. I could think of a lot more fun things I’d like to do with Ms. Navarro. Under Ms. Navarro, between Ms. Navarro’s thick, thick thighs.

Yeah. That was more like it.

“Okay, I’ll walk you home.” I swept my books into my bag and slung it over my shoulder.

Tempest was slower to pack up. “Who said I was going home?”

I grabbed the door and held it open for her. “Ah, trying to make me jealous with your hot date?”

“If you count a date with a baby donkey, hot, then sure. I can see how you might find yourself competing against farm animals for dates.”

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