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A PRAYER TO SAINT WHOSIEWHATSIE

TEMPEST

I spent 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.”

“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.

“Donkey duty calls,” Flynn said as we filed out of the classroom. “My car or yours?”

“Mine,” I said automatically. I needed home turf, and to be in control here. Because everything about Flynn was making me feel so chaotic. “I have some treats for him.”

Gryff snorted. “Treats for a donkey. You two are something else.”

“Everyone needs a treat sometimes,” Flynn replied to Gryff, but he was looking at me. Where was Saint Whosiewhatsie when you needed her?

I gulped and managed to squeak out, “Especially poor homeless donkeys with no one to love them.”

“Uh-huh. Keep telling yourself this is all about the donkey.” Gryff clapped his brother on the shoulder. “Have fun, kids. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“That leaves everything on the table,” Flynn called after him, then turned back to me with a grin. “Shall we?”

Everything? Eek.

Twenty minutes later, we pulled into the Kingmans’ driveway .

“Dad’s at the university until this afternoon and Jules is at school,” Flynn said as he unlocked the front door. “We’ve got the place to ourselves.”

The words hung in the air between us, loaded with possibility. Like... everything.

“Great,” I managed, adjusting my backpack. “More quality donkey time.”

He led me through the house toward the back deck. Without the chaos of yesterday, I could appreciate details I’d missed. Family photos lining the hallway, a wall of achievement certificates, a bookshelf stuffed with an eclectic mix of titles.

“Wait.” I stopped short, examining the bookshelf more closely. “Is that?—”

Flynn followed my gaze and grinned. “Yeah, Jules has been collecting them since she was, like, twelve. Dad says we’ve spent enough on romance novels to fund a small country.”

My heart stuttered as I spotted several familiar spines. Like three of my own books. I forced myself to keep moving, throat suddenly dry.

“Your sister has a lot of books,” I said, hoping my voice sounded normal.

Flynn shrugged. “She claims they’re feminist literature disguised as smut. Her words, not mine.”

“She’s not wrong.” The words slipped out before I could stop them.

He raised an eyebrow and there was an all too knowing gleam in his eye. “Read a few yourself?”

“I’m a literature major, so it’s mandatory that I’m well read,” I hedged, grateful when we reached the back door and the conversation naturally shifted.

The donkey greeted us with an enthusiastic bray, trotting to the fence when he spotted me. His little wings from the viral video days were long gone, but someone, Jules, probably, had tied a jaunty bandanna around his neck.

“See?” Flynn crossed his arms, watching the donkey prance around. “Total favoritism. I spend all morning before class mucking out his pen, and he acts like I don’t exist the moment you show up.”

“He just knows who provides the best treats.” I pulled a carrot from my bag, breaking it into bite-sized chunks.

“So that’s your secret.” Flynn’s shoulder brushed against mine as he leaned closer, the contact sending warmth through my body despite the February chill. “Here I’ve been trying to win him over with my charm, and all I needed was produce.”

“Charm only gets you so far, Kingman.” I fed a chunk to the eager donkey, acutely aware of Flynn watching me instead of the animal. “Sometimes substance matters more.”

His eyes met mine, suddenly serious. “Substance is my middle name.”

We worked side by side, refilling the buckets with water and snacks for later.

The donkey followed us like an oversized puppy, occasionally bumping against my leg for attention.

Flynn’s proximity, the way his hand would brush mine when passing tools, how his eyes lingered when he thought I wasn’t looking, had my skin tingling.

“Have you talked to your grandmother about taking him?” Flynn asked, changing the subject as he latched the pen gate.