“Kai.”
“Mary.”
“That's insane.”
“People eat this stuff up. A romantic, jealous misunderstanding causes backlash no one expected, and now the kids are suffering, please help—who wouldn’t eat that up?.”
“We are not celebrities.”
“No, but you're a beloved first-grade teacher and Our Lady of Grace is important to this town.”
She points at herself.
“That’s right, you. See I'm the bodyguard who punched a councilman because he was flirting with my girl—the internet will love this.”
The smile she's trying to suppress nearly escapes.
I see it.
Victory.
“That's not a selling point.”
“It's absolutely a selling point.”
“It absolutely isn't.”
“Firecracker, half the tri-state area already knows who we are.”
Her eyes narrow.
“I hate that nickname.”
“You absolutely do not.”
She hates that I'm right.
I can tell.
And somewhere between teasing her and watching her fight a smile, I realize this isn't really about publicity anymore.
Not entirely.
Because somewhere between the Valentine's dance and today something shifted.
I don't know when.
I don't know why.
But suddenly I don't want the fast blondes.
I don't want easy hookups.
I don't want temporary.
What I want is this woman.
This particular woman.
