Page 67 of The Jack*ss in Class

“Right. The low-cut sweater that shows off the girls at their best is essential for optimal donkey care.” She rolled her eyes. “Just admit you like him.”

“I’m late,” I said, brushing past her.

Her laughter followed me down the hallway. “You can run from me, but you can’t hide from your feelings.”

I arrived at Shakespeare class five minutes early, sliding into my usual seat and pulling out my color-coded notes. I was outlining my thesis for our midterm paper when the room’s energy shifted, that subtle change in atmosphere that always accompanied the Kingman twins’ entrance.

“Morning, my queen.” Flynn’s voice was low as he slid into the seat behind me, the faint scent of his cologne making my pulse jump. “Sleep well?”

I turned slightly, keeping my expression neutral. “Well enough. You?”

“Dreamed about a stubborn English major and her escape artist donkey.” His blue eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled. “So, better than usual.”

Before I could respond, his twin dropped into the chair beside him, looking between us with obvious amusement.

“Don’t mind me,” Gryff said. “Just pretend I’m not witnessing this flirtation attempt disaster.”

Flynn kicked his brother’s chair. “Don’t you have someone else to annoy?”

“And miss this entertainment? Not a chance.” Gryff leaned forward, and flicked his eyes between us, like he was expectantly waiting for us to perform for him. He grinned, the expression so similar to Flynn’s yet, somehow totally different. I would always be able to tell the difference between them.

Flynn cleared his throat and scowled at his brother. “Don’t you have notes to review or something?”

“Nope.” Gryff settled back in his chair. “All caught up. Free to observe your painfully obvious crush in action.”

Flynn’s default mode was flirt. Didn’t mean he had a crush on me. No one ever did. I wasn’t the type of girl guys crushed on. And I needed to remember that. Especially around someone like Flynn. Or actually, just around him.

Heat crept up my neck and I busied myself with my notes, but not before catching Flynn’s glare and was...was that a pink slash of a blush across his cheeks? It was. There was something oddly comforting about seeing the golden boy of DSU as flustered as I felt.

Dr. Whitmore swept into the room, saving us from further awkwardness. “Today we’re continuing our discussion on disguises and mistaken identity. Shakespeare was fascinated by the concept of hidden selves and the gap between who we present ourselves as and who we truly are.”

I sank lower in my seat, hyperaware of the notebook with my notes on the first draft of the new book.

No one seemed to notice, which was exactly how I liked it. The professor continued. “I want you to discuss with your neighbor, what disguises do we wear in our daily lives in the twenty-first century and which characters from Shakespeare have similarities to your discoveries?”

Flynn leaned forward, his breath warm against my ear. “I know what disguise you wear.”

My heart stopped. “What are you talking about?”

“This serious academic facade,” he murmured, his voice low enough that only I could hear. “But I’ve seen you laugh in the mud with a donkey. I know there’s more to Tempest Navarro than perfect notes and color-coded pens.”

Relief flooded through me. “That’s not a disguise. That’s just... a different side of me.”

“A side I’d like to see more of.” His fingers brushed my shoulder briefly, the touch sending sparks down my spine. “Your move...” he winked at me, “I mean turn.”

See? Flirt mode on twenty-four-seven. His brother was wrong.

For once, I was grateful when Dr. Whitmore called the class back to attention, because I had no idea how to respond to the raw honesty in Flynn’s voice.

“I think there’re a lot of people in our modern day that hide behind a mask. Most people don’t want their true, authentic selves to be seen. Because then they’d also see our flaws and fears.”

“I’m an open book, sweetheart.”

“No you aren’t. You wear cocky like it’s armor.” I motioned to his chest as if he was actually wearing a chest plate. “Flirting is your shield and sword.”

I expected him to retort with some kind of sexual innuendo about his sword. But he looked right into my eyes and said, “And what if I’m not flirting with you? What if every single thing I say and do, is because I genuinely like you and want to get to know you?”

Holy patron saint of women losing their hearts to sexy, sincere football players. Whoever that saint may be, protect me and my heart from this onslaught.

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