Page 58 of The Jack*ss in Class

“Hey.” I caught her hand before she could leave. “See you at nine-ish tomorrow, my queen?”

Her smile was worth every second of chaos we’d endured. “Don’t be late, Kingman.”

I watched her disappear inside, already counting the hours until morning. Because for the first time since I made my two-week rule, I wasn’t looking for an exit strategy.

I was looking for a reason to stay.

MUD WRESTLING CHAMPIONS

TEMPEST

Ididn’t register the cold until I was halfway to the Kingman house. February in Colorado wasn’t known for its mercy, and I’d rushed out after my morning class without bothering to check the weather. Now, power-walking from my car past frost-kissed lawns in Thornminster’s nicest neighborhood, I pulled my jacket tighter and wished I’d remembered gloves.

The Kingman house looked different in daylight, less imposing, more lived-in. A forgotten football rested by the front steps. Wind chimes tinkled from the porch. It looked like a home, not just a house, and something in my chest tightened at the thought.

Before I could knock, the front door swung open. Coach Kingman stood there in running clothes and a Denver Mustangs cap, a travel mug in his hand.

“Miss Navarro.” He checked his watch. “Nine o’clock exactly. Punctual.”

“Good morning, sir.” I tried not to shiver. “I hope the donkey didn’t cause too much trouble overnight.”

A noise that might have been a laugh escaped him. “Less than any one of my children on a good day. Flynn’s out back already. Coffee?”

I blinked. “Yes, please. Thank you.”

He gestured me inside, and I followed him through a house that was simultaneously exactly what I’d expected and nothing like I’d imagined. Sports trophies competed for space with framed family photos. A massive bookshelf held everything from playbooks to Shakespeare to romance novels, the latter probably Flynn’s little sister’s influence. The kitchen was enormous, clearly designed to feed a small army of athletic men.

Coach handed me a mug featuring a cartoon dragon wearing a football helmet. “Milk’s in the fridge if you need it. Flynn takes his mostly milk, two sugars.”

“I—” I started, but he was already heading toward the door.

“Early meeting at the university. Back by noon. Tell Flynn I expect those combine drills completed by three.”

And then he was gone, leaving me holding two mugs of coffee in a stranger’s kitchen, wondering how exactly my life had led to this moment.

I found my way to the back deck, where I discovered exactly why Flynn hadn’t answered the door. He stood shirtless in the middle of the yard, attempting to coax our donkey away from what appeared to be a freshly planted section of garden. Morning sunlight glinted off his shoulders, highlighting muscles that belonged on a Greek statue, not a college senior.

I nearly dropped both coffee mugs.

“Come on, buddy,” Flynn was saying, “those are not foryou to eat. Dad will actually murder me if you eat his herbs.”

The donkey looked thoroughly unimpressed by this logic and continued munching on whatever poor plant had caught his interest.

I set the mugs down on the deck railing and cleared my throat. “Need some help?”

Flynn spun around, and the smile that spread across his face did dangerous things to my heart rate. “My queen arrives.” He gestured dramatically to the donkey. “Your subject is misbehaving.”

“And you’re...” I gestured vaguely at his lack of shirt, hoping the morning chill explained my flushed cheeks. “...cold?”

“Hay emergency.” He grabbed a towel draped over a nearby chair and wiped his hands. “Little guy knocked over his feeder and somehow managed to get hay everywhere. Including down my shirt.” His eyes sparkled with mischief. “But if the view’s distracting you, I can put it back on.”

“I’m not distracted,” I lied, sounding unconvincing even to myself. I held out his coffee like a shield. “Your dad made this for you.”

“Ah, the Coach Kingman seal of approval—coffee delivery service.” He bounded up the steps to the deck, taking the mug with a grateful sigh. “You’re already doing better than most of my teammates. He usually makes them fetch their own.”

We stood side by side at the railing, watching the donkey happily destroy what I now recognized as a winter herb garden. Up close, I could smell Flynn’s soapand something warmer beneath it. It was unfairly distracting.

“Should we rescue those plants?” I asked, desperate for something to focus on besides the completely unnecessary dimple in his right cheek when he smiled.

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