Page 55

She slid a folder across the table. “Additional creative control. Executive producer credit. An option on your next series, at your discretion. And a thirty percent increase in the overall compensation package.”

Gloria reached for the folder, but I placed my hand on it first.

“And the identity of the leakers—both of them—before I sign anything,” I added. “Or I walk away and take my books somewhere else. I hear Flamebird is very interested.”

Franklin’s face fell. “That may not be realistic?—”

“It’s nonnegotiable,” I said firmly. “I need to know who I can trust.”

Melissa studied me for a long moment, then nodded. “We’ll find them. You have my word.”

I opened the folder, scanning the revised terms. They were far better than what I’d initially been offered. The kind of deal authors dreamed about.

“I’ll review these with my attorney and get back to you,” I said, closing the folder.

“We look forward to your decision,” Melissa replied, extending her hand. “And Tempest? For what it’s worth, I’ve been a fan of your books since the first one. What you’ve created deserves to be celebrated. On your terms, of course.”

As Gloria and I left the hotel, she turned to me with undisguised admiration.

“That,” she said, “was masterful. Where has this Tempest been hiding all along?”

I smiled, thinking of Flynn, of my sorority sisters, of the Kingman Queens, and Abuela with her unflinching pride in who I was. “She was always there. She just needed to realize it.”

“Well, I’m glad she showed up today,” Gloria said. “Those updated terms are incredible. If they do identify the leakers as promised, I strongly advise accepting.”

“I know.” I glanced down at the folder in my hands. “But first I need to figure out who in my life would do this. Because that hurts more than any stranger at FlixNChill.”

“Sometimes success brings out jealousy in the most unexpected places,” Gloria said gently. “People you’d never suspect can resent what you’ve achieved.”

As my rideshare pulled up, I thought about my family, my classmates, my friends. Who among them would betray me this way? And more importantly, what would I do when I found out?

My father was waiting on a bench in the park not far from our house. He stood as I approached, his expression unreadable behind his scholarly glasses.

“Mija,” he said by way of greeting, offering a brief, awkward hug. “Thank you for meeting me.”

“Of course, Papá.” I sat beside him, suddenly nervous. Despite the support he’d shown during the confrontation, we hadn’t spoken one-on-one since everything happened.

For a moment, we simply sat in silence, watching ducks glide across the water’s surface.

“I’ve been rereading your books,” he finally said. “I enjoyed the Much Ado About Nothing adaptation.”

I tensed, waiting to hear he thought it all went downhill from there. For criticism or disappointment.

He paused. “Your adaptation of Benedick and Beatrice’s dynamic is quite inventive. Setting it in the world of college hockey has excellent parallels to the social hierarchies of Shakespeare’s era.”

I blinked, stunned by the scholarly analysis. “You’re rereading all of them?”

He adjusted his glasses, a gesture I’d mimicked my entire life. “Of course. You wrote them. Now that I know they’re yours, I can appreciate them on an entirely different level.”

“But they’re romance novels,” I said, unable to keep the disbelief from my voice. “With... you know.”

“Sex scenes?” A hint of amusement crossed his face. “I’m a Shakespeare scholar, Tempest. The bard wasn’t exactly subtle about physical desire. ‘The beast with two backs’? That’s from Othello .”

Despite myself, I laughed. “I know, Papá. I just never expected you to read my books, let alone talk about them like... like they’re real literature.”

“They are real literature,” he said firmly. “Commercial fiction has just as much cultural value as the classics. It reflects and shapes contemporary values, explores human relationships, and connects with readers on a meaningful level.”

I stared at him, this man who had shaped my literary education, who had always pushed me toward the classics, toward academic rigor. “Mamá doesn’t see it that way.”

He sighed, removing his glasses to clean them meticulously with his handkerchief. “Your mother... will need more time. She worries about appearances, about what others will think.”

“About her daughter writing sexy books?” I couldn’t keep the bitterness from my voice.

“About her daughter facing public judgment,” he corrected gently. “She’s seen how cruel the world can be, especially to women who don’t conform to expectations.”

I thought about that, about the protective fury that had colored my mother’s reaction. Maybe there was something more complex at work than simple disapproval.

“Your abuela tells me you had a meeting in Los Angeles,” he continued, changing the subject slightly. “With the people who want to adapt your books.”

I nodded, still processing his words. “They’ve made an offer. A good one.”

“And what about your football player? Does he figure into your future plans too?”

“It’s possible,” I admitted.

My father nodded approvingly. “Good. You should go where your work takes you, where your opportunities lie. You can live anywhere in the world and write your books.”

“You think I should leave Denver?” I asked, surprised.

“I think you should spread your wings,” he said simply. “ See more of the world than just Colorado and Oaxaca. Experience different places, different people. It will only enrich your writing. Perhaps even visit the home of the bard himself.”

I considered his words, the implicit permission to go, to explore, to build a life beyond what had been planned for me.

“I’ve been spending time with your donkey,” he added, unexpectedly.

“Burrito?” I smiled, picturing my distinguished professor father with the small, mischievous donkey.

“Yes. He’s quite a good companion.” My father looked slightly embarrassed. “I’ve been reading Shakespeare to him. We started with a Midsummer Night’s Dream of course.”

The mental image was so absurd and endearing that it made me love him even more. “Papá, that’s adorable.”

“Yes, well.” He cleared his throat. “Unfortunately, I’ve discovered I’m somewhat allergic to him. Nothing severe, just some sneezing, itchy eyes.”

“Oh no.” I stifled back my giggle for my sweet papá who, despite the discomfort, was doting on my baby donkey.

“It’s manageable with medication,” he assured me. “And if you were considering taking him with you, should you decide to leave Denver, I would miss his company.”

Somehow, I didn’t think he was only talking about missing Burrito anymore.

“Thank you, Papá,” I said softly. “That means more than you know.”

That weekend I sprawled across Flynn’s bed after a marathon round of who could get who to come first. We were, of course, supposed to be studying and finishing our makeup work from time missed from classes recently.

But it had been my turn to provide him comfort, distraction, and fun. He’d been so good to me through this crisis, and I wanted to be there for him too.

Flynn smiled, but I could see the tension at the corners of his eyes.

Tomorrow was the draft, the culmination of years of work, the moment that would determine where his career would begin.

Where he would live. Whether we would be separated by half a continent or potentially living in the same city.

“You’re nervous about tomorrow,” I said, running my fingers up and down his chest, absently counting his abs. Who knew a person could have more than a six-pack?

“That obvious, huh?” He took my hand, his fingers lacing with mine. “Not about getting drafted. That part’s pretty much guaranteed. It’s more about where.”

The unspoken question hung between us. He had a lot of prospects, because he was that good. At least a half dozen teams were gunning for him. But really, the real game was going to be between Denver and LA.

“I realize you could end up anywhere,” I said carefully. “But have you decided what you want?”

Flynn sat up, his expression suddenly serious. “Honestly? I want to play pro ball. I want to go somewhere that values me, and if I get Gryff as a package deal, that would be amazing. I want to make my family proud.” He paused, his eyes holding mine. “And I want you.”

My heart stuttered. “Flynn?—”

“I know it’s complicated,” he continued. “I know your life is here, your family, your sorority, everything. But Tempest... these past few months with you have been the best of my life. Whatever happens tomorrow, I want us to figure out how to be together.”

I leaned into him, my hand finding his. “What if you get drafted to Miami? That’s on the other side of the country.”

“Then we figure it out. Long distance, you visiting, me visiting. Or...” He hesitated, then forged ahead. “Or you could come with me.”

The suggestion hung in the air between us, breathtaking in its simplicity and its complexity.

“My father thinks I should spread my wings,” I said after a moment. “See more of the world than just Colorado and Oaxaca.”

Hope flickered in Flynn’s eyes. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I took a deep breath. “But I don’t want to make any decisions based solely on where you end up. That wouldn’t be fair to either of us.”

“I get that.” He squeezed my hand. “But knowing it’s a possibility... that makes tomorrow a little more exciting. And a whole lot less scary.”

I leaned forward, pressing my forehead to his. “You, Flynn Kingman, afraid of anything? I don’t believe it.”

His smile was soft, vulnerable in a way few people ever got to see. “Only of losing the things that matter.”