3. Mary
Three
Mary
Kai Montego is a terrible idea.
An absolutely awful, no good can come from this, disaster waiting to happen idea.
Which is precisely why I can't stop thinking about him.
Three days after the Valentine’s Day dance disaster, I'm sitting at my desk in my first-grade classroom at Our Lady of Grace Academy staring at a stack of spreadsheets, permit applications, contractor estimates, and fundraising projections while trying very hard not to think about broad shoulders, dark eyes, and a grin that should honestly be illegal.
And it's not working.
Neither is the gym project.
I let my forehead thunk against my desk.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
The stack of papers doesn't magically fix itself.
Rude.
“Ms. Donahue? Are you alright? Oh my, are you crying?”
I lift my head.
Sister Agnes stands in the doorway, holding a folder and looking concerned.
Oh good.
Witnesses.
“No, Sister, I'm not crying.”
“You sounded like you were crying.”
“I was negotiating with a spreadsheet.”
“Ah.”
The older nun nods solemnly.
“Those can be difficult.”
At least someone understands.
She steps into the room and settles into one of the tiny student chairs.
The sight of a grown woman squeezed into first-grade furniture should be funny.
I'm too stressed to appreciate it.
“How are things progressing?” she asks.
I make a face.
She makes the same face back.
Not encouraging.
“We've raised a little over twelve thousand.”
“That's wonderful.”
“It would be if we needed twelve thousand.”
Sister Agnes sighs.
I sigh.
The classroom itself sighs.
It’s contagious.
The new gym has been years in the making.
Years.
The current one is too small.
Too old.
Half the equipment belongs in a museum.
When it rains, there are buckets.
Actual buckets.
These children deserve better.
And for one glorious moment, it looked like we were finally getting it.
Then the permits disappeared.
And after looking into it, I’m flummoxed.
See, they haven’t been denied.
Not approved.
Not rejected.
Just revoked.
Stalled.
Lost in bureaucratic limbo.
Meanwhile, donations started drying up to the point where it’s starting to look like the Savannah.
Pledges vanished.
People stopped returning calls.
And nobody can prove anything.
I can’t prove that ridiculous Joel Jonas, aka Mr. Grabby-hands, had anything to do with it.
But considering he left the Valentine's fundraiser with a busted nose and a grudge?
The timing feels suspicious.
Very suspicious.
“Perhaps we need a fresh perspective,” Sister Agnes says carefully.
My stomach drops.
Because I know exactly where this conversation is headed.
“Oh, no. He got to you too?”
The nun blinks.
“I didn't say anything.”
“You were about to.”
Her lips twitch.
Which means I'm right.
“Sister Agnes, with all due respect, no.”
“Mary—”
“No.”
“His idea wasn't entirely unreasonable.”
I stare at her.
Betrayed.
Absolutely betrayed.
“Sister Agnes.”
“Yes?”
“You cannot honestly be suggesting I pretend to date that bodyguard.”
“I'm suggesting that fake dating the bodyguard and putting a spin on that unfortunate incident would be good publicity.”
“Seriously? Are nuns supposed to advocate pretend-dating a bodyguard?”
“People enjoy romance, dear. And alumni and church members would understand it a little better—maybe even forgive such a brash, jealous reaction from such a handsome young lover.”
Sister Agnes places her hand over her mouth and giggles.
The woman is old enough to be my grandmother, and she’s a nun—but apparently, she is still a woman.
And Kai Montego is truly something to behold. Even I can’t deny the man’s physical attributes.
Muscles for days.
Tattoos swirling across his six foot four frame.
That devilish grin.
I close my eyes.
This cannot be my life.
When I became a teacher, I had certain expectations.
Lesson plans.
Parent conferences.
Book fairs.
Field trips.
Nowhere in my education courses did anyone mention fake relationships with absurdly attractive security professionals.
It's irresponsible.
That's what it is.
Irresponsible.
“He's not even my type.”
The second the words leave my mouth I know I've made a mistake.
Sister Agnes smiles.
The shark has scented blood.
“Oh?”
“Not that he's attractive.”
“Mm hm.”
“I mean obviously he's attractive.”
“Obviously, dear.”
“That's not the point.”
The smile widens.
I hate everything.
Because the truth?
The truth is Kai Montego is offensively attractive.
The kind of attractive that sneaks up on you.
The kind that gets worse the longer you look.
Tall.
Dark.
Broad enough to block a doorway.
Built like he spends weekends wrestling grizzly bears.
And somehow completely unaware of the effect he has on people.
Or maybe he knows exactly what he's doing.
That crooked grin certainly suggests it.
The one that appears whenever he's teasing me.
Or irritating me.
Or breathing.
Mostly breathing.
It's infuriating.
Because men like Kai Montego don't notice women like me.
Not really.
I know his type.
Everyone knows his type.
Beautiful women.
Exciting women.
Women who belong in Manhattan penthouses and rooftop bars.
Not chubby first-grade teachers with unruly red hair, who spend their afternoons tying shoelaces and cleaning glue off tiny fingers.
Not women with my kind of curves.
Not women who own more cardigans than cocktail dresses.
Not women who consider buying stickers an exciting shopping trip.
And yet, he just keeps popping up.
Which makes absolutely no sense.
A knock interrupts my spiral.
The classroom door opens.
And speak of the devil.