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“You're talking about your fake dating scheme.”
His smile widens.
Now I’ve got butterflies in my stomach—and they’re multiplying.
“I am.”
I point at him.
“No.”
“Mary.”
“No.”
“Firecracker.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Think about it.”
“I have.”
“And?”
“And it's ridiculous.”
He leans closer.
Not enough to touch.
Just enough that I catch the scent of his cologne.
Woodsy.
Warm.
Dangerous.
Just like him.
“The school's already in the news.”
I hate that he's right.
“The permits are stalled.”
Still right.
“The donors are drying up.”
Unfortunately, right again.
“We create a story people can't stop talking about.”
I groan.
“There are plenty of stories.”
