“Hmm.”A smile creeps in, unstoppable.“You’re terrible at backpedaling.”
She groans softly.“Hazard of corralling kids at the library.I’m a part-time librarian, among other things.”
“That explains the diplomacy.”
She snorts.“You’ll need it around here.Small town, big hearts, lots of opinions.”She pauses for a beat.“Show up at the high school around two, two fifteen at the latest.”
I nod, pretending I’m not secretly looking forward to the way The Mad One’s face will redden, perhaps even explode, when I join the caravan.
“Thanks for the intel.”
“Anytime.”Wren rises.“He’ll probably act like it’s the end of the world.But deep down…” Her smile widens.“He’ll appreciate it.It’ll be a chance to start over on his turf.”
I watch her retreat down the steps, my stomach churning because part of me—hopeful and curious—wants to believe she’s right.
“Sure, he will.”My voice is dry enough to sand wood.“Right after he finishes plotting my murder.”
Her laughter drifts down the steps as she heads toward her car.“Good luck,” she calls over her shoulder.“You’ll need it.”
I believe her.
By the next afternoon, I’ve almost convinced myself this is a terrible idea.Almost.But curiosity—and yes, spite—team up and shove me out of the rental car before my common sense can lock the doors.
A yellow bus idles behind the school, engine rumbling like a sleepy beast, and clusters of boys in matching uniforms toss basketballs, some showing off for their friends.Then there’s Hartley.
He stands near the bus door, clipboard in hand, navy hoodie stretching across shoulders that have no business looking that good even covered up.His head is bowed, talking to one of the kids, voice low and steady, expression calm in a way that makes me wonder what he looks like when he’s not pretending I don’t exist.
God help me—the man looks good doing absolutely nothing.
And why the hell am I drooling over this man?My interview subject, no less?He’s untouchable, my thoughts completely inappropriate.Besides, there are plenty of hot men in LA.
Ugh, maybe I need to get laid.It’s been a while.
I straighten my blazer, square my shoulders, and head toward him.A few of the boys eye me, whispering behind their hands like they’ve spotted a celebrity or a rare animal.
Hartley glances up at the commotion, gaze landing on me.Everything in him freezes in confusion, then realization, which is followed by exasperation so pure it could be bottled.
This is going to be delightful.
“Good afternoon, Coach.”I flash my brightest, most innocent smile.“Heard you might need a hand.”
His brows slam together.“Inkslinger.”
My body locks, and I force levity into my bones.I will not take the bait.I lift a shoulder, all faux innocence, and force a smile.“You skipped our first meeting, so I thought I’d save you the trouble of skipping our second.”
A muscle jumps along his jaw, and he looks like he’s weighing the pros and cons of spontaneous combustion.
“I said Monday.”His arms fold across that ridiculous chest, hoodie pulling tight.
“Relax.”I lower my voice for only him to hear.“I’m observing.I’ll be quiet as a mouse, maybe ask a few harmless questions on the ride.”
“From the little I’ve seen, there’s nothing harmless about you.”
A couple of the players snicker behind him, and he shoots them a look that could curdle milk.I step closer, not touching distance, but enough that I know he can feel it.The challenge.The promise.The inevitability of it.
“Well.”I steady my gaze on his.“Then you’d better behave, Coach.”
Something flickers in his eyes—heat, humor—before he buries it beneath a scowl.