Page 31 of Breaking News

“Perhaps we can fabricate something,” Dr. Schwartz teased. “Well, I knew you were going to tell me ‘no,’ but I had to at least try.”

“Sorry, Dr. Schwartz. My priorities are in Woodvale.”

“I understand,” she said, standing up before pushing the chair underneath the desk. “One of these days, I’ll persuade you. But not today, huh?”

“Not today.”

She made her way to the door, but before she left, she turned around to add, “By the way, Reese Meyer has been lurking around here this afternoon looking for you.”

I nodded, not feeling the least bit surprised. After all, one of their bigger assignments of the semester was due that afternoon, and I was expecting a full barrage of questions before class.

He’d probably be taking a lot of those 200-level courses next semester. Another reason not to take that job.

With fifteen minutes before class, my mind wandered to the evening plans: poker at the Gardners’.

And Jill.

Sweet, single, submissive Jill.

No, no, no.I swallowed, opening my laptop to review my notes for that day’s lesson. I skimmed through the outline, but my mind was caught in a loop.

“Yes, sir.”

I looked at my watch. Could this day possibly go any slower? I reached for my phone to send Owen a text.

Graham:What should I bring tonight? I don’t want to show up empty-handed.

Owen:Just your money, neighbor. The plan is for you to LEAVE empty-handed.

I sent him a laughing emoji, hoping that wasn’t too “cringy millennial” of me.

There was another knock at the office door. “Mr. H?” I looked up to see Reese standing in the doorway, his thumbs tucked under the straps of the backpack weighing him down. “I have a major problem.”

I sighed. “And I’d wager that in the next ten minutes, I’ll convince you that you don’t.”

“Huh?”

“Have a seat. Let’s do this.”

chapter eleven

Jillian

The bassline of “Vigilante Shit” rattled the full-length mirror in my bedroom that afternoon, where the sun sliced through my open blinds, creating golden stripes on the floor.

I stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the fluttery cap sleeves of my blue gingham sundress—the one Meghan once said made me look like a slutty milkmaid. It was snug in all the right places, and my breasts practically spilled out of the top. I wasn’t exactly upset about it.

Tucked into the wooden frame of my mirror were pastel affirmation cards with phrases like,I choose my own path, andI radiate love and positivity. But my favorite was the one I’d written myself:I’m Jillian Fucking Taylor.

I tilted my head, smoothing my hands down my waist. The fabric hugged my curves, cinching at my narrowest point and flaring out over my hips. This dress made me feel soft and feminine, like I belonged on my parents’ sunny veranda back in Tennessee with a glass of sweet tea in one hand and a paper fan in the other. I could almost smell the honeysuckle.

It was just a dress. But it made me feel like the best version of myself.

And while I harbored no hard feelings toward Xander, this was a dress that said, “Look at what you fumbled.”There was no harm in showing him what he was missing, right?

And if it caught a certain CEO’s attention, that was just an added bonus.

Maybe it was too much?

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