“Shit, Jessa. You’re not what I expected.” His gravelly admission brought a wicked smile to my parted lips.

“Good,” I breathed, snaking my leg around his waist. Tighter. Higher. Closer.

His lips traveled from my sweat-dampened neck back up to my mouth, where his tongue took no prisoners and mirrored the unwavering drives of his insanely satisfying cock.

With one more mind-blowing, scream-inducing thrust, my body could take no more, unraveling, falling, blissfully crying out, “Oh. My. God. Yes! Yes! Yessss!”

“Mom? Why are your cheeks so red? Why are you smiling like that? What the hell are you writing about?”

I slapped the laptop shut and averted the wandering gaze of my ten-year-old daughter, Julie. “Language!” I scolded, pushing my Mac out of reach and taking a deep breath to clear my mind of my most current work in progress: My Step Brother’s Pick-up Truck.

“Seriously, though. You said you were making dinner an hour ago. I’m starved!”

And so am I, I thought. For alone time to write. For not-so-alone time to get in on some action like my based-on-me character, Jessa.

Lately, adulting was not my forte. Especially since I was adulting solo because till death do us part became till I find myself someone younger, thinner, and blonder. Huffing as I slid off the stool at the kitchen island, I ignored all bitter thoughts about her father and reached out to finger the long waves of Julie’s golden hair. “What are you in the mood for? And don’t say sushi because you know your sister hates it.”

Shooing my hand away, she rolled her eyes—probably for the nine hundredth time that day—and her shoulders slumped. She hates me. She totally hates me. Before she could turn away and bury her head in her phone to continue her Snapchat streak with her “squad,” I had an idea that would please even my picky children. “Breakfast for dinner?”

You’d think I’d invented Instagram by the way she beamed. She loves me. She totally loves me. “Oh, yeah! Great idea, Mom. You have chocolate chips?”

“And whipped cream!” I grabbed the pancake batter from the pantry, rummaging for the promised chocolate chips. “Go help your sister with the rest of her reading and dinner will be ready in a jiffy.”

“A jiffy?” she snapped with a smirk. “Really, Mom? Who are you, Danny Tanner?”

“What? What should I have said? What’s the proper lingo, oh sweet child o’ mine?” I couldn’t keep up, even though I liked to think I tried. And I wasn’t nearly as out of the loop as some of the other moms at school. But for some reason, nothing I said to Julie these days was up to par.

“Just forget it,” she muttered, walking away with her face in her phone and her thumbs texting at lightning speed.

I didn’t even bother to reprimand her for the over usage of the devil’s device because I knew—as most moms knew—that it would keep her occupied and allow me a peaceful twenty minutes to prepare our dinner. It would also allow me some quiet time to plot out the continuation of my first steamy sex scene in My Stepbrother’s Pick-up Truck.

“Don’t forget to ask your sister if she needs help,” I called behind me as I heated a pan on the stove. My request would most likely fall on deaf ears, but it was worth a shot. Homework was a teacher’s way of punishing a parent for dealing with their unruly offspring all day. If I could get Julie to help Lila with her reading—my day would be made. And there would be more time for Jessa and her stepbrother to get down and dirty—after dinner, showers, and bedtime stories.

* * *

The alarm buzzed, jolting me out of a dream where Julie was robotically texting her friends about what to wear to school while Lila dangled helplessly from the mouth of a hideous, toothy beast, begging for her sister’s mercy.

“Holy shit!” I clutched my chest and wiped the sweat from my brow. I needed more sleep and fewer late night snacks. I’d been up until three o’clock chowing down on Girl Scout cookies with Jessa and Braxton. They managed to do it—while moving the story along purposefully and without unnecessary adverbs—a good three times before I crawled into the cold sheets of my lonely king-sized bed.

For some reason, my traitorous brain chose that moment to travel back to the day we—my ex, David, and I—purchased this bed. It was a happy memory. I was newly pregnant with Julie and the full-sized bed with a bevel-mirrored headboard from when David first moved out of his parents’ house was no longer cutting it. We were on to bigger and better things. We broke it in and christened it as soon as it was delivered and made love in that bed more times than I could count. Bliss. Faithful, marital bliss. Until, of course, he tainted the mattress and our marriage by fucking her in our bed.

“I need to get a new mattress. STAT,” I announced to myself, dragging my tired body out of bed to start my day and wake the girls for school. But when I rounded the corner to the bathroom, I nearly fainted.

“What?” Julie glared back at me, French-braiding her own hair.

“You got up before me? You’re dressed? And your clothes actually . . . match?”

With a roll of her eyes, she continued the intricate work of crisscrossing her mane. “Yeah. So. What’s the big deal?”

What’s the big deal? I almost choked, but bit my tongue, finding a remnant of one of last night’s Thin Mints in the process. “Lila still asleep?” I asked, reaching for my toothbrush.

“Nope! I’m all ready, too!” My tiny terror jumped into the doorway of the bathroom, beaming with pride.

“Girls, what gives?” I mumbled through a mouthful of foaming toothpaste. Spitting into the sink, I wiped my mouth with a towel and scanned my daughters. “It’s not my birthday, it’s not Mother’s Day . . . I don’t get it.”

“What’s to get, Mom? We’re growing up. We don’t need you for every little thing anymore.” It was wrong to want to throat punch your own child for making you feel unwanted, right? Sassy little shit. Two could play at this game.

“Guess so, Julie. Maybe I’ll just go back to bed. You can handle packing lunches and making breakfast, right?” I yawned for effect and started to shuffle back to my bedroom, my fuzzy slippers scuffling along the hardwood floor.

“But who will write us those smiley-face napkin notes? Or cut the crust off our sandwiches? Julie can’t use a knife yet. And you know I don’t like the crust!” Poor Lila—the one who still needed me and wasn’t afraid to show it—looked like a kid who’d lost her balloon. I bent down to her level and gave her a loving squeeze.

Julie on the other hand, was watching my reaction with the curiosity of a peeping Tom. I couldn’t help but notice the way her eyes narrowed as they spied my hands caressing Lila’s sweet, little face. Disgust? Jealousy? Gas? Who knew? She had this thing where she insisted Lila was my favorite child. I didn’t have a favorite. Swear on God. But Lila was easier to get along with and I only had a few precious years before she started hating me, too. Maybe I did coddle, hug up on, and steal more snuggle time with Lila. Who could blame me? She never objected. Julie usually cringed simply from hearing my voice speak her name.

Regardless of my presumed favoritism, I didn’t want to send Julie off to school in a sour mood, or fuel her I-think-my-mom-hates-me fire. I winked at her and my heart about stopped beating when she actually winked back. Hold it together. Don’t engage. It’s sure to backfire. Smiling through my smugness I said, “Let me tame your sister’s Medusa-head and then I’ll be down to get everything ready. Thanks for helping Lila get dressed this morning. You both look like. . . like that vlogger girl you guys watch all the time. Those jeans are on fleek, Jules.”

Annnndddd . . . she’s rolling her eyes again. I. Cannot. Win.

Turning on her heels, she headed for the stairs. “Yeah, Mom. No problem. Should I feed Rosco?”

“Sure! That would be dope!”

“There is seriously something wrong with you.”

And she was gone.

“You try too hard,” Lila said, taking my face in her petite seven-year-old hands and kissing the tip of my nose.

I had to laugh at my old soul of a daughter. I tapped her tush as I stood from my crouched position in front of her. Opening my palm to receive hers, I admitted, “And I’ll never stop. I love you girls to the moon and back.”

“We know. We love you, too, Mom.”

This kid got me. Reassurance in the form of a messy-haired, pint-sized mama’s girl. I had to be doing something right.

* * *

“You can’t do anything right! I told you last week we needed a flash drive for technology class! Why don’t you remember anything I ever say to you? It’s like I’m invisible.”

“Hey, Pot. I’m Kettle. Nice to meet you,” I wise-cracked as I spread a heap of peanut butter onto a slice of crustless bread.

“What are you even talking about?” Julie mumbled. “Never mind, point is I need it today or I’ll get an Incomplete.”

This was no time for preaching about responsibility because, now that she brought it up, I did remember her asking me for the drive last week. I mean, she should have reminded me, but this was partly my fault. I didn’t want her grades to suffer or the PTA wenches to have something to talk about.

My hands ceased spreading the nutty cream as I considered the probability of having an available flash drive handy. When David moved out six months ago, lots of things went missing or wound up in places other than where they actually belonged. My gaze darted to the digital clock on the microwave. We were running late. There was no time for a Target run so I said a silent prayer to the flash drive gods and took a deep breath. “Let me finish up here. There’s one place I can look. In the meantime, please finish your cereal.”

“But I’m not hungry anymore,” they both whined.

“Finish the damn cereal! You need to eat! Sheesh, there’re starving kids in, in . . . Cambodia. They’d give anything for a sip of your Rice Crispy soaked milk!”

“God, she’s so dramatic. Right, Jule?”

“Mmm hmm. Just eat the damn cereal so we don’t have to hear her.”

“Language!” I screamed over my shoulder as I headed down to the basement where I’d thrown a few boxes of David’s stuff. Please, God. Have mercy on my failing-mom soul.

* * *

“Off you go. Don’t let the door hit your bratty asses on the—” The back door was flung open by one of the school drop-off ladies. Gulping down my brash farewell, I cooed, “Have a wonderful day, baby girlies. I love you so much. Be smart. Be brave. Have fun. Don’t forget to bring your flash drive to technology, Jules.”

Shaking their heads as I blew them each a good-bye kiss, Julie and Lila got out of the car and walked up the stairs to their elementary school. I coldly saluted the mother who’d kindly volunteered her mornings to assist the children out of their cars and see that they made it into the building without issue. If it weren’t for the fact this particular woman was a PTA President kiss ass, I’d wish her a pleasant day and a genuine smile. But being as she was of the suck-up, stick-to-my-clique variety, I waved her off flippantly and went on my merry way.

It was time for a coffee run. I had work to do. A deadline. A chapter or two more of Jessa and Braxton and I could send this baby off to the beta readers for their approval. I couldn’t wait to hear what they thought. This was my steamiest novel to date. I wasn’t too proud to admit that writing smut was not my forte, but after the online workshops I’d taken on Sex and Intimacy for the Romance Writer I was ready to blow the panties off my readers with this new, erotic side to J.L. Green.

With my coffee and muffin in tow, I headed back home, walked into the quiet house, patted my pooch on his shaggy head, and sat down for some writing time. Since the divorce, I’d made a promise to myself to write on a full time basis. After Julie, David insisted I stay home to raise her. Then came Lila. I’d become dependent on my husband in many ways, until I started writing romance. There were times I missed my steady career in journalism and having adult conversations that didn’t involve cupcake duty or the latest sale at the grocery store, but I would never trade being home with my girls and being a part of their daily lives for anything. No matter how crazy they drove me, I loved them so much I’d give my left tit for either one of them. And considering that I breast fed both of them until they were two years old and chomping at my raw nipples with their razor sharp teeth—I’d say I’d totally given my left and right tits for my babies. But I digressed. The point was . . . when it came down to it, that’s why I lived off caffeine and four hours of sleep. Writing. I didn’t want to go back to a nine to five out of the house. I had a career right in the comfort of my home. One that allowed me to follow a dream and feed my family—minus the dependence on David the cheater.

I pushed all thoughts of my ex far from my mind as I cracked my knuckles and set out to complete this chapter. Jessa would discover she was pregnant even though she’d been on birth control since she was seventeen (because of bad periods) and missed a few pills (because she was too preoccupied falling for her stepbrother, Braxton) and worried how to break the news to him (because he would surely think she was trying to trap him).

By the time I looked up from my laptop to see who was calling and interrupting my mojo, it was already after one o’clock. It could only be a telemarketer. No one else called the landline anymore. I ignored three mojo-stealing rings, blocked out the high-pitched but adorable answering machine greeting Julie and Lila had created on their own, and got back to the task at hand.

His fingers traced a figure eight along my bare belly as his heated stare hypnotized me into submission. I arched my body into his touch, enjoying the way his rough, manly hands tickled my . . .

“Hello, Mrs. Green. This is Principal Lopez calling from P.S. 28. There’s been a slight—”

Shit! Shit! Shit! I jumped up to grab the phone, knocking over my mug and spilling the last mouthful of ice cold coffee onto my hand written notes. “Shit!”

“Excuse me?”

Of course I’d answer the phone just as I’m cursing to myself. “Oh, my goodness. I’m so sorry. I’m in the middle of . . . washing some dishes and I nearly dropped the phone into the suds. I apologize. This is Jessa Green. Is everything okay, Mr. Lopez?” Wait till the PTA gets wind of this.

The middle-aged, kind-hearted man, known for wearing silly neck ties and Converse sneakers with his suits cleared his throat. “That’s quite all right, Mrs. Green. I’m sorry to bother you, but . . .” He paused. The pause made me worry. Was one of my kids hurt? Did one of my kids hurt someone else? Had I flaked out on another PTA event and let everyone down? What was it this time? Why the pause? Speak, damn it, speak. “Well, I think it would be best if you came down to the school so we could chat in person.”

This can’t be good. What did those little fuckers do? “Mr. Lopez, you’re kind of scaring me.” I half-laughed, half-cried. “Is everything okay? Are Julie or Lila in any kind of trouble?”

“Oh, no, no, no. I should have said that from the start. Your children are perfectly fine, Jessa. Lila is—second grade, right?—she’s in recess at the moment. And Julie was just dismissed from technology with Mr. Jackson. He’s actually the reason I’m calling.”

I let out a sigh of relief. So that’s what this was about. “Did my daughter forget to hand in her flash drive? I assure you I gave it to her this morning. She can be so—”

“Actually, that’s what I was hoping to talk to you about at our meeting. Do you think you can come see me directly after dismissal? I can arrange the after school program to take Lila and Julie for a few minutes. They can get a start on their homework. Is that okay with you?”

“Yes, sure, but . . . I’d really like to know what’s going on. I’m a little confused.”

“I’d rather we speak in person, Mrs. Green. There is nothing to worry about. This is only a matter of clearing up a few concerns with Mr. Jackson. He will be present for our meeting, as well.”

Who’s this Mr. Jackson, dude? And what the hell did Julie do to piss him off? I’d been a very involved P.S. 28 parent for seven years now. I’d never heard of a Mr. Jackson but I knew Mr. Lopez very well, and even though I was being summoned to the principal’s office, his tone assured me I had nothing to worry about. “Well, Mr. Lopez, I guess I’ll see you at three o’clock, then. Would you like me to bring you a coffee or something?”

“No, thank you very much, Jessa. That won’t be necessary. I’ll see you at three.”

“Okay. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

“You, too.”

Easy for him to say. How was I going to concentrate on anything else for the next few hours?

* * *

I was a last minute Molly, in every sense of the word. I lived less than a mile from school—five short blocks to be exact—but I never walked. On the rare occasion we did hoof it, the kids made me haul their hefty backpacks, and we had to stop to pet every neighborhood dog and sniff every growing flower and/or weed along the entire ten-minute walk. Plus, every second of my time was valuable. I usually left the house and hopped in my car at ten to three, making a brisk I’m-totally-not-late-I-just-lost-track-of-time-folding-laundry dash into the schoolyard just as the kids were being dismissed by their teachers.

Not today.

Today I was early. I scored a parking spot right across the street from the front entrance of the school and brought my notebook to jot down some final ideas for the stepbrother story while I waited. The alarm on my phone broke me out of a scribbling trance just as the front doors opened and the first class came pouring out into the fresh October air.

Stepping out of the car and locking it with a beep-beep-beep of the key fob, I crossed the street to greet my girls after their school day. First came Lila with a big, toothless grin and a handmade art project, still dripping with undried glue. “I made it for you, Mom! Isn’t it awesome?”

I took it from her, careful to only hold it by the index finger and thumb. “Beautiful, baby. How was your—”

“By the way,” she started, hopping from one foot to the other, then twirling around, then handing me her backpack. “Jack told me that Joseph likes me. Why do I have to be so pretty, Mommy? All the boys like me and I think they’re gross and Mrs. Clarke thinks I should be nice to them even though I think they smell and I just want to sit next to Olivia without Jack and Joseph making kissy faces at me. It’s so gross. Can I just stay home tomorrow? Please, Mom, please?”

“Come up for air, Lila. You’re making my brain dizzy.” I leaned down to kiss the top of her head, where her braids had come loose and started to frizz. My kids never came out the way I sent them in—runway models at seven in the morning, escaped convicts by three.

“Can I have a playdate with Olivia today, Mom? We want to—”

There was that word. That word created by Satan himself. Playdate. My entire body tensed at the mere sound of the two syllables. I could barely tolerate my own children, let alone someone else’s. I was a crafty mom, a baking mom, a volunteer mom, but a playdate mom I was not. Besides, I had a meeting with the principal today. Lila was beat. “Sorry, babe. We can’t today. After your sister comes out, you’re going down to afterschool for a few minutes. I have to meet with Mr. Lopez.”

Lila’s eyes went wide and her mouth dropped open. “What did she do?” she sang, curiously.

Shaking my head, I laughed and tipped her chin up to me. “Nothing. No one did anything. Mr. Lopez wants to meet with me about the new technology teacher.”

“Oh, Mr. Hottie?”

“What did you just say?”

“Mr. Hottie.”

“No, his name is Mr. Jackson.”

“I know what his name is, Mom, but that’s what all the older girls are calling him. And some of the teachers, too.” She giggled, covering her mouth.

I arched a discerning brow and gave Lila a playful pat on her freckled cheek. “None of that, silly girl. Women be nuts around good-looking dudes. Now, where the he—heck is your sister? I’ve got a meeting.”

And there she was. In tears. Heading toward me like a bull charging a matador.

“What’s the matter, baby gi—”

“I hate you! You ruined my life! I hate you so much. I want to move in with Dad. Change my school, right now! This is all your fault!”

“Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. What’s going on?” Thankfully, Julie’s class was almost always the last one out of the building. Most of the mom crowd had dissipated, but I pulled Julie off to the side and out of earshot. Lila shuffled along, following us, her arms immediately flying around her sister’s neck.

“What’s the matter, Jules?” Lila asked, wiping Julie’s tears away with the sleeve of her shirt.

“She’s what’s the matter!” Julie barked, not even bothering to look my way.

“Me? What did I do? I haven’t seen you since this morning. Does this have anything to do with Mr. Hot—I mean, Mr. Jackson?”

Julie snapped her head up from out of Lila’s embrace and her narrowed eyes seared right through me. This is what they mean by “if looks could kill.” I should be dead. Stone cold dead, right here on the pavement. “What, Jules. Talk to me. What did I do?”

“Come on, Lila. Let’s go to afterschool. Mom has to meet with Mr. Lopez, as if this isn’t embarrassing enough.”

Before I could intervene or get a word in edgewise, Julie was ushering Lila back into the building. Lila simply shrugged as she looked over her shoulder. She mouthed, “Don’t worry. I love you,” as she was carted off, leaving me completely speechless, motionless, and spineless. Who’s the mom, here? How did I let that happen without an explanation?

Regaining the pair of steel balls I grew after the divorce, I straightened my posture and marched after my kids. Their little feet were a lot faster than mine, though, and they knew the building much better than I did. Once inside, I looked left and then right to see what direction the girls disappeared to but was stopped short by the loud bellow of the security officer at the entrance. “Sign in, Green. He’s waiting for you.”

Sheesh. No wonder the kids felt like they were going off to prison every morning. I wasn’t about to argue with the bouncer-like man in uniform, but I was concerned with leaving my kids—especially Julie—in such a harried state. “Do you know which way they went . . . George?” I stifled a chuckle, George didn’t find it amusing, and waited for his response.

“Cafeteria. But you can’t go down there until you sign in. And even after that, they’re waiting in the office. Short for time today, so chop chop. Get your license out.”

George saw my face at school at least three times a week. He probably had my address and ID number memorized at this point, but this was his job. He kept our kids safe. I did as told and prayed Lila was comforting Julie like the little mommy she was. This wouldn’t take long. I’d get to the bottom of today’s meltdown soon enough.

By the time I scrawled my messy signature on the sign in sheet, the school secretary, Miss Nancy, was calling my name from the doorway of the general office. “Mrs. Green, Mr. Jackson is waiting for you.”

Ah. The infamous Mr. Hottie. I stood tall and unhooked my hair from behind my ears, allowing it to flow in loose waves, framing my naturally made-up face. My daughters and I had very different tastes in the opposite sex, so I had little faith in how hot Mr. Hottie actually was, but I still wanted to make a good first impression. Those things had the tendency to stick with you like an obscene childhood nickname or an STD.

“Right this way,” Miss Nancy said. “Mr. Lopez had to step out due to an unexpected budget planning meeting. Mr. Jackson will tell you everything you need to know.”

Her orthopedic shoes squeaked against the shiny commercial tile and she disappeared behind her cubicle with what I thought was a tsk tsk tsk from her Granny-mauve painted lips.

When I stepped inside Mr. Lopez’s office, my knees almost buckled and I clenched my teeth to prevent my jaw from meeting my toes. Mr. Hottie was not only hot, he was fucking drool worthy. Slim but muscular, dressed in a pair of khakis and a light blue polo shirt, he stood tall, a good foot taller than my five-foot-four. His hair was styled but shabby in that just-screwed-around-in-the-teacher’s-lounge sort of way and his eyes—caramel infused with gold flecks—sized me up from behind sexy, black-rimmed glasses. Suddenly the melody to Hot for Teacher hummed through my frazzled brain as I worked up the nerve to reach out and shake his hand in introduction.

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Green. I’m Mr. Jackson. Please have a seat.”

Anything for you, Mr. Hottie. I watched his biceps flex and his chest bulge underneath the soft cotton of his shirt as he sat behind Mr. Lopez’s desk. I had no idea why I was here, but I was awfully happy I was. I would have to nonchalantly ask Miss Nancy or the PTA if the technology department needed any extra help. Screw my deadline! I’d volunteer five full days a week just to have a peek at this guy getting his tech-geek on.

“So, Mrs. Green—”

“Please. Call me Jessa, Mr. Jackson.”

“Jessa.” He nodded, smiling. Luscious, full lips parted to make way for a straight row of perfectly white teeth. “Chris. I hate the formalities, too. I think of my dad every time a student calls me Mr. Jackson.”

I giggled empathetically. “I think of my ex-husband every time someone calls me Mrs. Green.” Did I just say that out loud?

Chris laughed through his nose, licking his lips as he pulled himself closer to the desk and focused on the flash drive sitting in the center of Mr. Lopez’s paper-lined desk. “Well, Jessa, the reason I asked to have this meeting with you today is because of what we found on the . . . um . . .” He picked up the flash drive and handed it to me with a smirk I couldn’t quite read. His fingers grazed mine and my smut-writing, sex-depraved soul wanted to wrap my palm around those deft, thick digits and . . . “Are you aware of what’s on the drive, Mrs., I mean . . . Jessa?”

Snapping out of my daydream where Mr. Hottie sweeps the papers from Mr. Lopez’s desk and takes me across the mahogany surface, Miss Nancy listening in on us doing the nasty amongst report cards and school lunch forms, I tilted my head in question. “No, I was under the impression it was blank.” It was blank. It had to be blank. Please, God, tell me David’s porn was not saved on that flash drive.

Chris adjusted the top button of his polo and fidgeted uncomfortably in the swivel chair. “Well, I’m sorry to inform you that it definitely was not blank. In fact, at first we thought it was a . . . creative . . . project Julie was working on, but upon further . . . inspection . . . it’s clear the contents of this drive were not written by your daughter.”

“The contents of the drive? I’m not following.” I was suddenly agitated by this back and forth guessing game between myself and the school staff. I had rights as a parent and I wanted answers now. Standing from the chair, I leaned over the desk and slapped my palms against the wood, trying not to raise my voice. “Mr. Jackson, can you please tell me what the hell is going on and why my daughter was crying at dismissal today? I’m getting a little tired of being in the dark where my children are concerned. If this situation is not rectified within the next five seconds, I’m afraid I’ll have to notify the Board of Education on the matter.”

“I really don’t think you want to call the BOE on this. They might have to get the police involved. Social workers, therapists. The whole nine.”

“Police? What the fu—” I stopped myself from further condemnation and noticed the shit-eating grin on Mr. Jackson’s face.

“Relax, Jessa. I’m kidding. I think I have it all figured out, but I wanted to meet with you in person so you were aware of how it all went down without any hearsay from Julie or her friends. You know how ten-year-old girls can be, I’m sure, and rather than play a misconstrued game of telephone, let’s settle it adult to adult.”

“Settle away! I’m still waiting to hear what the hell is on that drive and why it landed me in the principal’s office.” I was close to panting out of frustration, good looks, nerd-swagger, and a teacher’s crush long forgotten. I dropped back into the chair with a humph and waited for his reply.

Arching a dark, bushy-but-well-groomed brow, Chris took an elongated breath and presented me with a printed copy of—Oh, no! Oh, hells, no. It couldn’t be! This wasn’t happening. This was that flash drive?

“Oh. My. God.” The words fell from my lips as the words burned my disbelieving eyes.

“Yeah,” Chris expelled, leaning back in the chair with a loud creak.

My eyes skimmed the printed words on the white paper and my cheeks flushed with red-hot heat. Words like “cock,” “pussy,” and “clit” stood out as if in bold, exaggerated lettering. My Sex and Intimacy for the Romance Writer exercises stared back at me. My deepest, darkest erotic ramblings caused my stomach to churn with embarrassment and my heart to sink into my rectum. “She’s going to hate me forever. I’ll never make this up to her. Nothing I can buy or give her will ever cure this kind of embarrassment. I totally screwed up. I am the worst mom ever!” Tears pricked my eyes and started to roll down my cheeks without avail.

Chris was up and at my side faster than I could say mom-fail. “Hey, Jessa. Calm down. It’s not the end of the world.”

“Tell my moody, sensitive, preteen daughter that. Her mother writes about sex for a living and now all her friends and teachers know about it. She’ll pack her shit and have her father making her a bed at his new place with her, by the time we pull up to our house. I cannot believe I let this happen. I’ve been so distracted. I’ve been so. . . absent.” I started to wail, my shoulders shaking with each sniffle, snot running from my nose like a river of shame.

“Here.” Chris offered me a box of tissues, kneeling beside me. “It’s not as bad as you think. You know she’ll be over it in a few days. Just let the dust settle and then—”

“And then, what? Just keep at it? Continue hiding behind a pen name and a computer screen while the entire school knows that Julie and Lila Green’s almost forty, divorced, stay-at-home mom sits home all day and misses bake sales and book fairs because she’s home writing erotic love stories to feed her family?”

“Well, when you put it that way.” He stood, towering over me, his crisp cologne mixed with the scent of Expo marker infiltrating my hopeless brain.

“You’re not helping, Mr. Jackson.”

“Chris.”

“Whatever.”

Placing a palm over my trembling hand that gripped the armrest of the chair, Chris attempted to comfort me but only awakened a sensation that was clearly inappropriate at a time like this, in a situation like this, between two people like us.

“Jessa, I think what you do is really cool and you should be proud of yourself for providing for your family while doing something you love.”

“Huh!” I scoffed. “I could have gone back to work and written for a reputable magazine, but instead, I took the easy way out.”

“Easy? I read your work, Jessa. It was good. Really good. And I’m not just talking about the smutty stuff. You’re a talented writer. Your kids will understand one day.”

“My kids cannot understand any of this. Ever. I hope she didn’t read too much of it. Oh, dear God. My innocent baby’s eyes. Please tell me she didn’t read any of this?”

“Relax. She shrieked as soon as she saw the title of the folder. She didn’t see anything. I can assure you.”

“But you—you read it?” Embarrassment strangled me, making me wish I could fade into the threadbare upholstery of the chair.

Chris nodded, smiling. I had to give him credit for remaining professional, considering the nature of the contents and the secrets he’d just revealed about me. What a first impression, Jessa. Even a raging case of herpes has a chance of disappearing sooner or later.

“Listen.” Chris returned to his seat behind the desk and his eyes softened with encouragement. “You are a great mom. I’ve heard nothing but good buzz about you around the school. Your children are stellar students. Always prepared, always respectful, almost always happy.”

“Thank you,” I managed to croak, still uneasy about my major parenting mishap.

“One day, you’ll look back and laugh at this whole thing.”

“One day, but no day soon.” I rolled my eyes, unable to look Chris in the face.

“I think it’s best to give this back to you and suggest you purchase Julie a new one for class on Friday.” He offered me the contraband and stood again. “You’re free to go, Mrs. Green.”

“Jessa,” I corrected, not knowing how to wrap this up without running away, never to return again. I wanted out of here before he could make any further judgments about what an ultimate fuck up I was.

As we reached the door, Chris placed a hand on my back and turned the knob, meeting my eyes.

“Thank you so much for being so cool about this,” I said. “I wish we’d had our first meeting under less awkward circumstances, say a parent-teacher conference perhaps, but . . .” I looked down at my toes and shook my head in utter defeat.

Closing the door again, Chris cleared his throat and stole my attention. “Hey, you know what? I’m new around here. I only just moved to the neighborhood a few months ago and I’m still getting to know the ins and outs. You think you might like to show me around some time?”

I swallowed hard, unable to believe what I was hearing. “Are you seriously asking me out?”

His strong shoulders lifted in a shrug and he gazed back at me wistfully. “Um, yeah. I think I am. Yes.”

“This doesn’t have anything to do with what you read today, does it?”

“Well, it was quite . . . colorful,” he admitted with a toe-curling grin.

My hand flew to my hip and my eyes narrowed. “I’m nothing like the characters I write about, Mr. Jackson. It’s called fiction, you know?”

His lids descended over his caramel-colored eyes as he laughed. “I’m well aware, Jessa. My asking you out has nothing to do with the files on the flash drive or anything school related, for that matter. You seem like a nice person, you’re single, I’m single, and I’d love the company. I am a very private person and I promise you, how I spend my time off the clock and who with is not something I broadcast to my co-workers or students. If you’re worried about anyone finding out, they won’t. I’ve got it all covered, Mrs. Green. So, what’ll it be? Yes or no? You think you can handle some adult time with the geeky new technology teacher?”

Before I answered him, I should’ve contemplated what this would mean in the future. Did I have to tell Julie and Lila? How would the PTA feel about a parent-teacher relationship if anything came out of this awkward but unexpected meeting? Would Principal Lopez think I’d lost my mind? Would Chris lose his job?

For some reason, none of the answers to any of my unending questions came to mind before I said yes to Chris’s proposition. All I knew in that moment was, if my daughter hated me for what happened today, she’d want to kill me if she ever learned I was going on a date with Mr. Hottie. We had a long road ahead of us. My daughter and I would surely screw up along the way. And just when our love-hate relationship was creeping out of the woods, it would be Lila’s turn to test my parenting sanity.

Looking into the kind eyes of the coolest technology geek I’d ever met, I couldn’t help thinking it might be time to take Julie on that shopping spree she’d been whining about. Oh, come on! Don’t tell me you didn’t know bribery was the most effective tool in the mommy arsenal.