Page 66 of The Jack*ss in Class

Tempest: How can you tell?

Me: She grilled me about you after you left. That’s practically a declaration of love in Jules-speak.

Gryff hauled himself to his feet. “I’m gonna shower. Tell Tempest I said hi.”

I flipped him off without looking up from my phone, where another message hadappeared.

Tempest: Do you think your dad will be okay for a few more days? Abuela gets back this weekend, and I’m *almost* sure I can talk her into donkey duty until the sanctuary can take him back.

Me: He’s actually warming up to the little troublemaker. Found him sneaking apple slices to him earlier.

Tempest: No way.

Me: Way. But don’t tell him I told you.

I hesitated, then pulled my head out of my ass and typed back.

Me: Tomorrow after Shakespeare? For more donkey-sitting purposes, of course.

The three dots appeared, disappeared, then reappeared. My heart did something stupid while I waited.

Tempest: It’s a date.

Then immediately her next message appeared.

Tempest: I mean, not a date date. A donkey-sitting arrangement. You know what I mean.

I grinned at her flustered backtracking.

Me: I know what you mean. But just so you know, if you ever want to make it a date date, I wouldn’t object.

This time the three dots appeared and disappeared several times. Finally she replied one more time.

Tempest: See you tomorrow, Kingman.

Not quite a yes, but definitely not a no. Progress.

I headed inside to shower, unable to wipe the smile off my face. The LA Bandits, the combine, even the mud on my shoes, none of it seemed to matter as much as seeing Tempest tomorrow.

The longer I let this go on, the more screwed I was. And I didn’t even care. These past two months were way more fun than two weeks I’d ever had with any other woman.

A PRAYER TO SAINT WHOSIEWHATSIE

TEMPEST

Ispent thirty minutes that morning telling myself that my outfit choice had nothing to do with Flynn Kingman. The blue sweater that hugged my curves instead of hiding them was practical for winter in Colorado. The jeans that actually fit my ass instead of trying to disguise it were just comfortable. And if I’d spent an extra few minutes on my hair, letting it fall in soft curls instead of my usual messy bun, it was only because I was tired of Parker’s comments about me looking like “academic despair personified.”

None of it had anything to do with Flynn’s text from last night that I’d reread approximately fifty times before falling asleep.

If you ever want to make it a date date, I wouldn’t object.

“You’re staring at your phone again,” Parker observed, leaning against our doorframe. “Just text him back and put yourself out of your misery.”

“I already did,” I muttered, shoving the phone in my bag. “We have Shakespeare in twenty minutes.”

“And you just happened to dress like that for Shakespeare?” She grinned. “Not for the hot football player who sits behind you and has been flirting and trying to get your attention hard core for weeks?”

“I dress for myself,” I insisted, though my cheeks burned. “Besides, we’re going to take care of the donkey after class. These are practical clothes for donkey-sitting.”

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