Page 149 of The Jack*ss in Class

“I looked up eventually,” I reminded him.

“You did.” His arms tightened around me. “And then you saw me. Really saw me. Not just the football player or the Kingman legacy, but me.”

I turned in his embrace, rising on tiptoes to kiss him. “Just like you saw me. All of me, even the parts I was hiding.”

The night air wrapped around us, warm and sweet with the scent of jasmine from our neighbor’s garden. Inside our home, signed copies of my books lined the shelves alongside Flynn’s football trophies. Pictures of our families, Navarros and Kingmans and one special donkey, documented our journey from adversaries to partners.

Different worlds that had become one shared life.

“I have something for you,” Flynn said suddenly, reaching into his pocket. “A book release gift.”

“Flynn, you already did so much?—”

He pressed a small box into my hand, and my heart stuttered. Not a ring box, but still small, still significant.

I opened it to find a key on a silver keychain shaped like a donkey.

“It’s for the guest house,” Flynn explained. “I had itconverted into a proper writing studio for you. Sound-proofed, bookshelves, one of those fancy ergonomic chairs, a day bed... for research, the works. It’ll be ready by the time Burrito arrives.”

Tears pricked at my eyes. “You did that for me?”

“I did it for us,” he corrected. “Because your writing is part of our story. And I want every chapter to be better than the last.”

I clutched the key to my chest, overwhelmed by the gesture, by the life we were building, by how far we’d come from that first meeting.

“I love you,” I whispered, the words still a wonder even after all these months. “So much.”

“Love you more, Mi Reina.” Flynn’s smile was soft in the moonlight. “Always more.”

Aww. When had he learned that endearment?

As his lips met mine, I thought of all the romance novels I’d written, all the happily-ever-afters I’d crafted for my characters. None of them compared to the story we were writing together. Messy and real and more beautiful than fiction could ever be.

The baby donkey in dragon wings had brought me more than just a man. He’d brought me to myself, to the courage to take up space, to live authentically in the full light of day rather than hiding in shadows.

Some might call it luck or coincidence. But I knew better.

It was exactly the kind of meet-cute that belonged in a romance novel.

And we were just getting to the good part.