And just like that, the breath I just took freezes in my lungs.
Because Olivia Walker is… not what I expected.
She’s gorgeous in a no-nonsense, buttoned-up kind of way.Dark hair pulled into a sleek ponytail, a fitted sweater that does things to my concentration, and eyes that look like they could cut through steel.
“Good luck,” Jada mumbles before she heads out.
I nod distractedly, staring at her boss like an idiot.
When Olivia looks up at me, I’m struck by a thought.
Maybe this punishment isn’t going to be as easy as I thought, but damn if it isn’t about to get interesting.
TWO
Olivia
There’s a trick to keeping a place like the Maple Creek Youth Center running when the roof leaks, the budget is a perpetual dare, and the county accountant keeps reminding you that “passion is not a funding source.”
It’s not magic.It’s triage.
You learn to spot the bleeding and stop it quickly, even if the bandage is duct tape and a prayer.You learn what can wait and what can’t.You learn that smiling at donors requires the same muscles as gritting your teeth at a city council meeting.
And you definitely learn not to get distracted by athletes with movie-star smiles and a talent for trouble.
“Olivia?”Jada sticks her head into my office and lifts her eyebrows toward the lobby.“He’s here.And he’s hot,” she whispers conspiratorially.
Of course he is.
I close the spreadsheet I’ve been wrestling with for an hour—the one that somehow insists our utilities bill is a hydra that grows two new line items every time I cut one—and take a breath.I remind myself that this is temporary.A week, maybe two, and the Thunder Team will remember they’re a professional team, not a frat house, and they’ll stop sending me assignments disguised as men.
“Send him in,” I say.
He doesn’t wait to be sent.CJ Morgan saunters into my office like he owns it, grin turned up to eleven, Thunder hoodie unzipped over a T-shirt that reads I STOP PUCKS (AND HEARTS).The backward cap is navy, the jawline is annoyingly symmetrical, and the eyes are the reckless blue of a summer storm.He is every warning label I’ve learned to heed since I was nineteen and thought potential could pay rent.
And yet I’m instantly drawn to him.
I clear my throat, shaking my head slightly at the wayward thought.
“Afternoon, Director Walker,” he says, bracing a forearm on my doorframe.
“It’s morning,” I tell him drily.
“Right.”He flops into the chair across from my desk and grins like he’s immune to consequence.It’s an expression I recognize from some of the teenagers who show up here for the first time, all swagger and jokes, because it’s easier than admitting you’re scared.
What does he have to be scared about?
No!Don’t show interest in him.He’s here to volunteer, and we need to stay focused on the center.
“First things first,” I say, sliding a clipboard across to him.“We’re a mandatory reporter site.You’ll read and sign our policies.Phones stay away when you’re working with the kids.No posting, no filming, no going live.If you see something unsafe, tell a staff member before you try to fix it yourself.We do not need a lawsuit because you decided to be Spider-Man.”
“That’s slander, I’m clearly more of a Deadpool,” he says, picking up the pen.Then, at my expression, he sobers.“Understood.”
“Three days a week, after school until close.You’ll assist wherever we need.And you’ll be on time.”
“I’m very punctual,” he says, signing.
“Your coach disagreed.”
