Page 52

CRASHING

FLYNN

I took Tempest back to my place after game night. No way I could handle even a moment of her out of my sight. I would use every highly honed defensive tackle skill I had to smash anyone who even thought about approaching her or looking at her funny.

But sitting on my bed in my room, she was getting all up in her head without the distraction of my family chaos machine.

I couldn’t let that happen. So I used the skills the universe had bestowed upon me and what had been playful and new in LA was deepening into something profound here, in the face of her fears.

I’d tried to be gentle, slowly undressing her, peppering her skin with soft kisses. But she’d wanted so much more from me.

“I need to feel something real,” she’d whispered. “Something that’s just mine.”

So I gave her what she needed, losing myself in her until all the worry that shadowed her eyes was replaced with pleasure and connection .

Afterward, she fell asleep with her head on my chest, my arm around her, protecting her from whatever I could.

I put on a pot of coffee, leaning against the counter as I waited for it to brew. Last night she’d curled into me on my bed, vulnerable in a way I’d never seen her before.

The coffee maker beeped, pulling me from my thoughts. I filled two mugs. Mine with milk, hers with the cinnamon oat milk creamer I’d picked up just for her, and headed back to my room.

She was sitting up when I returned, her hair a wild tangle around her shoulders, wearing one of my t-shirts. The sight of her there, in my bed, in my clothes, hit me like a linebacker at full speed.

“Morning,” I said, offering her the mug. “Thought you could use this.”

“My hero,” she murmured, accepting it gratefully. She took a sip, eyes closing in appreciation. “You remembered the oat milk creamer.”

“I pay attention.” I sat on the edge of the bed, giving her space even though every instinct wanted me to pull her close again. “How are you feeling?”

She sighed, cradling the mug in both hands. “Like I’m about to face a firing squad.”

“Your parents can’t actually execute you,” I pointed out. “Pretty sure that’s illegal in all fifty states.”

That earned me a small smile. “You haven’t met my mother. She is... intense, and she’s going to hate you on principle for being a dumb jock who’s corrupted her daughter into writing smut. ”

“First of all,” I raised an eyebrow, “I’m pretty sure you were writing smut before I came along.”

That got me a proper laugh. “True.”

“Second,” I continued, taking her hand, “I don’t need your mother to like me. I just need to be there for you.”

She gave me a wan smile. “That’s the only reason I’m not having a full-blown panic attack right now.”

The drive from my house to hers was only maybe twenty minutes, but because Tempest didn’t say a single word the whole way, it felt like twenty-hundred hours.

Before we could get out of the car, the front door opened. AbuelaNovela stood there, resplendent in a deep purple pantsuit that somehow managed to look both elegant and slightly theatrical. She waved to us, gesturing for us to hurry inside.

“Mi amor,” she greeted Tempest with a fierce hug. “Shoulders back. Remember who you are.” Then she turned to me, reaching up to pat my cheek. “And you, handsome boy. Be ready to pull out those muscles.”

With that cryptic warning, she ushered us inside.

Unlike when I was here for Abuela and Burrito’s party, we were directed into a formal living room where the entire family had assembled.

Catalina, sat beside a slender, elegant woman who could only be Dr. Luz Navarro.

The family resemblance was striking, though where Catalina was all cool polish, her mother had a sharpness to her features, accentuated by her impeccably tailored suit and the severe twist of her dark hair.

Beside her sat Professor Diego Navarro, ever the very academic-looking distinguished, yet nerdy gentleman with salt-and-pepper hair and reading glasses perched on his nose.

Rosalind, who had this disdainful shrewd look on her face, sat on her mother’s other side. Ophelia occupied an armchair near the window, while Freddie leaned against the fireplace mantel.

“Tempest,” Dr. Navarro’s voice cut through the silence. “I see you’ve brought your... friend.”

“This is Flynn Kingman,” Tempest said, her voice impressively steady. “My boyfriend.”

Fuck yeah, I was. I stepped forward, extending my hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Navarro.”

She regarded my hand with the enthusiasm of someone being offered a dead fish before briefly shaking it. “Indeed.”

The professor rose, offering a firmer handshake. “Flynn. I’ve seen you play. You’ve made DSU proud out on the field.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Let’s skip the pleasantries,” Catalina interjected. “We’re here to figure out Tempest’s... situation.”

Tempest stiffened beside me. I placed my hand at the small of her back, a silent reminder that I was there.

“You mean my career?” Tempest asked, her voice taking on an edge I’d rarely heard from her.

Go on with your bad self, my queen. I wanted to fist pump, high-five, and cheer that she hadn’t let their first play take her down. She was going to be a tough defender and I was here for it.

“Career?” Dr. Navarro scoffed. “Writing that kind of... book is hardly a career. ”

“Those books are bestsellers, Mamá,” Tempest said. “They’ve been translated into fourteen languages.”

“And yet you kept them a secret,” Rosalind pointed out, her tone making it clear she thought this proved their shameful nature. “If you were so proud of this career, why hide it? This could cause those of us who want actual respectable careers a lot of trouble in the future.”

“Because I knew this is exactly how you would react,” Tempest shot back.

She needed a second to regain her composure, so I guided her to the empty loveseat, sitting close enough that our thighs touched. She was trembling slightly, but her jaw was set in determination.

“Do you have any idea,” Dr. Navarro began, her voice dangerously soft, “what this has done to our family’s reputation?

Your father is a respected Shakespeare scholar.

I am on the board of the Medical Association, your sister plans to be a lawyer.

And now everyone knows our daughter writes—” She seemed unable to even finish the sentence.

“Romance novels,” Tempest supplied. “I write romance novels, Mamá. With sex scenes. Between consenting adults. Who enjoy themselves.”

I bit back a smile at her bluntness. It took everything I had in me not to proudly declare that I helped with the research for said sex scenes. Across the room, I noticed Freddie covering her mouth, eyes wide with what looked like delighted shock.

“This is precisely why I wanted you to pursue business,” Dr. Navarro continued as if Tempest hadn’t spoken. “ Or at the very least, if you insisted on literature, to focus on classics, on works of substance.”

“My books have substance,” Tempest insisted.

Catalina let out a derisive laugh. “Please. They’re glorified bodice-rippers.”

“Have you read them?” The question came not from Tempest, but from Ophelia, surprising everyone.

Catalina blinked. “Of course not.”

“Then how would you know what they are?” Ophelia challenged.

“We don’t need to eat garbage to know it’s garbage,” Rosalind snapped back on behalf of them both.

“Maybe you should read one before judging,” Freddie suggested, straightening from her casual lean.

“They’re actually really good. The Shakespeare adaptations are super smart, and the hockey one made me cry.

And you in particular, Cat, would identify with the heroine in book one. She’s exactly like you. But happier.”

The room went silent as everyone stared at Freddie.

“You’ve read them?” Tempest asked, looking genuinely shocked.

Freddie shrugged. “Yeah, all of them. I’m a huge Miranda Milan fan. I didn’t know it was you until yesterday when the campus news broke, and then I was like, oh my god, my sister is my favorite author. That’s so cool.”

“Imogen,” Dr. Navarro gasped. “You will not speak of this... embarrassment as if it’s something to celebrate.”

Who the fuck was Imogen?

“Mamá.” Freddie’s demeanor went from fun and casual to decidedly dark. “You will call me Freddie, or if you cannot, you may call me Fidele. But do not dead name me again.”

Professor Navarro took his wife’s hand. “You know better, Luz.”

“Fine. I am trying. But I don’t understand why you are supporting your sister’s frivolity. You’ve worked extremely hard and have Olympic prospects. This isn’t going to help.”

“That’s just dumb, Mamá,” Freddie challenged. “Tempest is amazing at what she does. Her books mean something to people.”

“They’re smut,” Rosalind interjected primly.

“They’re romance,” Ophelia corrected. “With some ridiculously hot sex scenes, yes. But they’re also about women who look like us finding love and happiness. Do you know how rare that is? To see a heroine with brown skin, who isn’t a size two, blonde, and bubbly?”

I felt Tempest inhale sharply beside me. I squeezed her hand, proud of the impact her work had clearly had, even on her own sisters without her knowing.

“I expect this kind of defense from Fidele,” their mother said dismissively. “She’s always been... rebellious. But Tempest, you were raised to aspire to more. I cannot understand how you could squander your education, your potential, on such frivolous content.”

“It’s not frivolous,” Tempest said, her voice strengthening. “Romance is the top-selling genre in publishing. It’s mostly for women, by women, about women. The stories are feminist, they battle against patriarchy, and misogyny. They help women feel seen and valued.”

“And they’re making her rich,” Abuela added with a not-so-subtle wink. “Very, very rich.”

It wasn’t like I was a millionaire or something. But it was enough to make writing a full-time career after college.