Page 37

I pulled away from her house and headed up Colorado Boulevard. “Hmm. Are you sure? I’m sure that promise was in your eyes when I picked you up.”

“Flynn.” She raised an eyebrow at me. I was going to kiss that look right off her face later. “Are you trying to get me to kiss you? Because I was sort of hoping you would do that when you picked me up.”

I swerved into a parking lot and stopped short. In two point one milliseconds I had her lips on mine and I cursed the fact I had a newer car with a console between us instead of a bench seat in old classic cars.

“We don’t have to go out at all, sweet queen.” I may have put a lot of effort into this date, but I’d forgo it all if she was asking what I fucking prayed to the sex gods she wanted from me right now.

“Mmm.” Her eyes remained closed, and her thumb stroked along the edge of my beard.

Hell yeah, a few more kisses and we’d be headed right back to my place so we could?—

“But don’t think for a second you’re getting out of taking me out on a proper date in the two days we have together before spring break.” Neither of us had talked about our plans for the week.

“As you wish.” Twenty minutes later, I pulled up to the Denver Museum of Natural History. The main entrance was quiet, most of the daytime visitors long gone.

“The museum?” Tempest looked confused. “Isn’t it closed?”

“To the general public, yes.” I came around to open her door. “But not to us. The museum does these special after-hours events, and we’re here for their newest exhibit.”

A security guard was waiting at a side entrance. He nodded at us as we approached. “Mr. Kingman. Right this way.”

We followed him through hushed, dimly lit halls. The museum after hours had an almost magical quality—the exhibits cast in soft shadow, the usual crowds replaced by stillness.

The guard stopped in front of a set of double doors. “Dr. Sharma is waiting inside. Enjoy your evening.”

As the doors opened, Tempest’s grip on my arm tightened. Inside was the special exhibition room, and across its entrance was a banner that read, “First Folio: The Book That Gave Us Shakespeare.”

“Oh my god,” she breathed, stopping in her tracks. “Is that…?”

“The First Folio,” I confirmed. “On loan from the Folger Shakespeare Library. One of the original 1623 editions.”

She turned to me, astonishment written across her face. “How did you…?”

“Coach’s wife sits on the museum board. I asked for a favor.” I shrugged, trying to downplay how many strings I’d pulled to get this spot on the list before the exhibition even opened. “I may have mentioned that I know a brilliant literature scholar who would appreciate a private viewing.”

A woman approached us, extending her hand. “Ms. Navarro? I’m Dr. Sharma, the curator of this exhibition. I hear you’re quite the Shakespeare enthusiast.”

“I am,” Tempest managed, still looking stunned. “This is incredible.”

“Well, you’re in for a treat.” Dr. Sharma smiled warmly. “We’re going to do something very special tonight—something we don’t offer to the public.”

She led us through the exhibition, where glass cases displayed various historical documents and artifacts related to Shakespeare and his work. Tempest moved from display to display with reverence, occasionally glancing back at me with an expression of pure wonder.

Finally, we reached the central exhibit, a glass case containing the First Folio itself, open to Hamlet’s famous soliloquy.

“Now,” Dr. Sharma said, pulling on a pair of white cotton gloves, “how would you like to see it up close?”

Tempest’s eyes grew impossibly wider. “You mean...?”

“With proper precautions, of course.” The curator handed each of us a pair of gloves. “Flynn mentioned you’re writing about Shakespeare. I thought you might appreciate examining some of the typographical features firsthand.”

Tempest’s brow furrowed and she looked at me like she was about to say something, but she turned to Dr. Sharma instead and nodded. “I’d like that a lot. Thank you.”

Once Dr. Sharma finished letting us see as much as we wanted, Tempest turned to me, eyes shining. “Flynn, I can’t believe you did this. This is—” She shook her head, seemingly at a loss for words. “Thank you doesn’t seem adequate.”

“Your face right now is all the thanks I need.” I stepped closer, careful not to touch the precious book even with my gloved hands. “I wanted to do something that was just for you.”

“Mission accomplished.” She laughed softly, looking back at the Folio.

After the Folio was safely back in its case, I led Tempest to an elevator at the back of the exhibition hall. It took us to the museum’s upper level, where a glassed-in balcony overlooked the city and the mountains.

A small table had been set for dinner, complete with candles and a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket. The Denver skyline sparkled against the night sky, the mountains a dark silhouette in the distance.

“Flynn,” she whispered, “this is too much.”

“Not for you,” I said simply, pulling out her chair.

A waiter appeared, uncorking the champagne and presenting the first course, a selection of small plates featuring foods from Shakespeare’s era, each with a small card explaining its historical context.

Tempest ran her fingers over the menu card, which had been designed to look like a playbill. “You planned all of this. Why?” she asked, her dark eyes searching mine across the table.

“Because I wanted to show you that I see you,” I said honestly. “The real you. Not just the Tempest who aces Shakespeare classes or rescues donkeys, but the one who lights up when she talks about literature. The one who notices details others miss. The one I can’t stop thinking about.”

Her breath caught, and for a moment, I thought I’d said too much. Then she reached across the table, taking my hand in hers.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “No one’s ever done anything like this for me before.”

“You deserve to be spoiled,” I countered, enjoying the way her eyes sparkled at my response.

“Can I ask you something? ”

“Anything,” I replied, meaning it.

She hesitated, then squared her shoulders. “What’s your two-week rule about?”

I tensed, caught off guard. Of all the things I’d expected her to bring up, that wasn’t on the list.

“Everyone knows about it,” she continued when I didn’t immediately respond. “How you never date anyone longer than two weeks. How it’s... a game to you.”

“It’s not a game,” I said quietly, setting down my champagne glass.

“Then what is it?” Her voice was steady, but I could see the vulnerability behind her question. “Because I need to know if I’m just another girl you’re going to walk away from when your arbitrary deadline hits. Although, I guess I don’t know when the timer started.”

The truth hovered on the tip of my tongue, heavy and unfamiliar. I’d never explained my rule to anyone, not even my brothers. It had always been easier to let people believe I was just a player, unwilling to be tied down.

But Tempest deserved better than easy.

“After my mom died,” I began, the words coming slowly, “my dad was... destroyed. Completely shattered. He tried to hide it from us kids, but I remember waking up at night and hearing him crying in their bedroom.” I swallowed hard. “He never really recovered. Not completely.”

Tempest’s expression softened, but she remained silent, giving me space to continue.

“I was six, but I understood enough. Loving someone that much meant losing them could break you. And that scared the hell out of me.” I met her eyes. “The two-week rule started in high school. Long enough for fun, short enough that no one got attached. Especially me.”

She didn’t say anything but softly squeezed my hand.

“It was... safe.” I shrugged. “Until you.”

Her breath caught. “What do you mean?”

“I mean we’re way past two weeks, Tempest. And instead of looking for an exit, I’m sitting here trying to figure out how to convince you to give me more time.”

Something flickered in her eyes, surprise, uncertainty, hope. “But what changed?”

“I did,” I admitted. “Or maybe you changed me. I don’t know. I just know that when I was at the combine, surrounded by everything I’ve worked for my entire life, I was thinking about you. About whether you were watching. About what you’d think of LA if I got drafted there.”

I reached across the table, offering my hand palm up. After a moment’s hesitation, she placed her hand in mine.

“I’m not saying I’ve got everything figured out,” I continued. “But I’m done pretending I don’t have feelings for you. That I’m not falling for you.”