Page 32 of The Jack*ss in Class

That was exactly the problem.

The hockey house looked exactly like every party house in every college rom-com movie or romance novel I’d ever written, or read, as far as anyone here knew. Red Solo cups, sticky floors, and enough sexual tension to fuel a trilogy.

I cataloged the classic romance novel scenarios playing out around me. By the beer pong table, a classic enemies-to-lovers was brewing between the hockey captain and the women’s soccer team goalkeeper. Near the kitchen,there was a friends-to-lovers slow burn happening with two guys who clearly hadn’t figured out they were gone for each other yet. And in the corner... oh, that was definitely the setup for a drunk-confession-of-feelings that would lead to the inevitable morning-after-regret subplot.

“Stop analyzing and start having fun,” Hannah said, pressing a cup into my hand.

“I’m not analyzing.” I was totally analyzing. But when you spent most of your time crafting meet-cutes and orchestrating perfect kisses, you could see the story beats everywhere.

Like the way Flynn Kingman had just walked in.

If this were one of my books, this would be the moment where the heroine’s breath caught, where time slowed down and the rest of the party faded away. And okay, maybe my breath did catch a little, because Flynn in fitted jeans and a vintage DSU Dragons t-shirt was the kind of visual that deserved its own chapter.

“Your writer face is showing,” Parker murmured as she passed by.

I schooled my features. I did not have a writer face. But I did have a problem, because Flynn had spotted me and was now making his way over with the kind of swagger that belonged in the climax of a romance novel, not a college party that smelled like stale beer and hockey gear.

In my books, this would be where the sexual tension finally boiled over. Where the hero and heroine would have their big moment, leading to either a passionate declaration or an epic misunderstanding that would fuel the third act conflict.

But this wasn’t one of my books. This was real life, where I had secrets to keep and a career to protect, and absolutely no business noticing how good Flynn’s shoulders looked in that shirt.

“You came.” His voice had that low, gravelly quality that I definitely hadn’t used as inspiration for my latest hero’s voice. Definitely not.

“Don’t sound so surprised.” I took a sip from my cup to hide whatever my face was doing. “Some of us can actually be spontaneous.”

“Spontaneous?” He raised an eyebrow. “You probably did a cost-benefit analysis before coming here.”

He wasn’t wrong, but I wasn’t about to admit it. “Maybe I just needed a break from farm animal movies.”

He glanced around. “How is our mutual friend? No partying for him tonight?”

“The sanctuary’s still flooded,” I said, trying to keep my voice casual. “But he’s safe and settled.”

Flynn’s eyes narrowed. “Settled where, exactly?”

Shoot. In my books, this would be the moment where the heroine accidentally reveals too much, setting up future complications. But I was smarter than that. “Somewhere safe.”

“Uh-huh.” He was giving me that look again, the one that said he was putting pieces together. “And this somewhere safe wouldn’t happen to be closer to campus than the sanctuary, would it?”

Double shoot. I took a long sip of my beer to avoid answering. If this were a romance novel, this would be the part where the mysterious secret created delicioustension. But in real life, juggling secrets just made me feel like I was one miss-step away from disaster.

A cheer went up from the beer pong table, drawing my attention. The hockey captain had just sunk a dramatic shot, and the goalkeeper was trying not to look impressed. Now that was the kind of scene that sold books.

“Earth to Tempest.” Flynn was watching me with that intense look again, the one that made me feel like he could read every thought running through my head. “Where’d you go just now?”

Nowhere safe to admit to. “Just wondering how many of these parties end up being someone’s origin story.”

His laugh was unfairly attractive. “You think too much.”

“You don’t think enough.”

“Prove it.” He nodded toward the beer pong table. “Play me.”

And there it was. The classic challenge that would drive the rest of the chapter. In my books, this would be where the heroine would say something witty and flirtatious. Where she’d rise to the challenge with perfect confidence because she didn’t have a secret identity to protect or a business meeting in L.A. to worry about.

But I wasn’t my heroine. I was just me, trying not to stare at Flynn’s mouth.

Then again... sometimes the best way to hide was in plain sight.

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