Page 1 of The Rival Kiss

Chapter One

TwohundredpoundsofTongan-Australian ex-rugby player stands between me and the chance to undo the biggest mistake of my career.

Or perhaps more accurately,dozesbetween me and said chance.

I stand undetected at the door of my English classroom in Amity Creek Independent School and glare at the man reclining in my executive-style chair before a glowing laptop screen.Myglowing laptop screen. Does Harry Latu have nothing better to do on a chilly Saturday night than bother me? He certainly doesn’t seem to work with the diligence I do during the week, and I can’t fathom why that would change on the weekend. The one part that’s no mystery is why he’s chosenmylaptop—his school-provided machine runs slower than most, and he’s made a game this semester out of pinching mine. But what for?

Irrelevant. Harry or no Harry, I have to get to that laptop.

I creep past school desks on light toes, aided by the fact that my fluffy taco-shaped slippers are almost soundless. It’s the one and only benefit of my current outfit, which is rounded out by a battered Seahawks hoodie and baggy sweatpants. Ugh. I pull my hood up and stuff handfuls of sandy-blonde hair inside, still wet from the shower. When I’d decided to make this late-night run to school, I hadn’t counted on running into anyone—especially not my high-school-nemesis-turned-teaching-colleague. I suck in a deep breath, inhaling my classroom’s weirdly comforting smell of disinfectant, school lunches, and teenage funk. If Harry wakes up and sees my outfit—or worse, asks why I’m here, I might just evaporate on the spot.

I reach my desk without Harry so much as twitching, his head lying back against the high-backed leather chair Mom gifted me when I graduated from college. The bold boss-lady chair is a daily reminder that keeps me on track for my bold boss-lady goal: youngest principal ever. Not only in Amity Creek, but Washington State.

But even seated and asleep, Harry makes my chair—heck, my classroom—a whole lot smaller. Not hard with his 6’3” of height and broad shoulders. Paired with that short beard, a thick flannel shirt and old jeans, it’s like the man is trying to disguise his sharp mind and sharper tongue by masquerading as an old school lumberjack. Debate is split amongst my friends as to whether the effect is attractive or not—and despite our bickering, I’m firmly in theyescamp.

But I’m not here to dwell on the fashion choices of Harry Latu. My fingers close around the lid of the open laptop, and I lift it soundlessly from the desk. I’m here to try and recall the email I sent earlier today (Microsoft's recall feature has saved by bacon once or twice before) and prevent the potential mess created by too many espressos, indignant rage, and overconfid—

What the heck?

The screen still glows with life, which means I have a clear view of the wordsSteps to Become a Licensed School.

What?

I click on the next tab. A PDF map of one of his step-grandfather’s old farms—the one on the edge of town, which the Amity Creek grapevine says Harry inherited last year. Next tab, building cost estimates—and not for a barn. Those specs are for classrooms.

My mind whirs. Harry hasn’t said anything about this, and he usually shouts his opinions from the rooftops. So this is a secret. Secret plans for a new school—arivalschool—in Amity Creek.

A headache forms behind my left temple. Harry is starting a rival school? How can he even do that? Our principal will have a fit. Heck, it could putthisschool at risk. If this is discovered, Harry could lose his job, he could—

Bang!

I jump and squeal.

“Gotcha.”

Chapter Two

Ipressahandto my pounding heart and glare at Harry. His flat palm rests on the desk.

Still lounging back in my chair, he seems unperturbed by the glare—but heat blasts through my own veins in waves. That rat. He knows I hate jump scares. “What are you doing on my laptop?”

Harry straightens and pulls said laptop from my hands. “Mine’s installing update six of 6,000.” After fifteen years, that deep voice still carries a thick Australian accent, the auditory equivalent of triple chocolate cheesecake. Though I’ll go to my grave before telling Harry the effect it has on me.

Oblivious to my conflicted thoughts, he places the laptop on the desk and flicks though the tabs I’ve been snooping through, still talking. “And you drop yours here every Saturday afternoon because it’s the only way you can stop your workaholic self from touching it on Sunday. And if your worship leader mother catches you working on a Sunday…” he lifts his head and holds my gaze, his expression mock-serious. “She’ll pull her disappointed face.”

Jerk. I fold my arms. “I’m the workaholic? You’re the one here on a Saturday night.”

He shrugs, eyes on the screen, then starts typing. Oh, wow. So that’s how he’s playing it? He knows what I’ve seen, and he isn’t going to offer one fraction of an explanation?

I place my hands on the desk and lean forward. “Though I don’t know if ‘workaholic’ is the right term when you’re working for the enemy.”

That earns me a scornful ‘ha!’ His dark brown eyes lock with mine. Finally. The way he talks without bothering to make eye contact drives me insane, but now I’ve given him an opening for one of his indignant speeches. Harry can never resist an opportunity for an indignant speech.

He stands and matches my pose, hands on the desk, putting his face level with mine. I swallow. “Setting up another school makes me the enemy? This place has warped you more than I thought, Maiz.”

I gave up telling him that I’m not a cereal grain back in high school. It never stopped him using the nickname.

I stand up straight and brush back my hood. No point hiding now, and the dampness is soaking through the flannel pajama top I’m wearing beneath. “You know what I mean. This town can’t sustain two private schools on top of the public school. At best, you distract the town from supporting the schools it’s got. At worst, you spell the end of this school.”

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