This is a great lesson.” Amy’s mentor, graying fifth-grade teacher Corinne, said.

Amy sucked in a deep breath. She’d worked so hard. Thank goodness the distraction from two days ago hadn’t shown in her work. “Thank—”

“But.” Corrine’s spotted metal giraffe barrettes jangled in her ears as she shook her close-shorn head. “You can’t teach it.”

Her stomach dipped. “What?”

“Not for the observation.” Corrine spread out the pictures Amy had carefully sourced and mounted on construction paper. “Diversity is a noble teaching goal. But not when controversy-shy administrators are watching.”

Her heart started beating fast in her chest. This couldn’t be happening. “But there’s diversity here.”

Corrine smiled dryly. “Within a certain income bracket, yes.”

Excelsior Preparatory Academy was ranked second in the state for academic excellence; the first-ranked school was fifth in the nation. A high percentage of their students went on to attend Harvard, Stanford, and other Ivy League schools. For the privilege, the parents paid through the nose, and they did not offer scholarships for need.

Amy had received a personal invitation to join as a substitute assistant teacher after her final portfolio was awarded a commendation by the Board of Education. She had studied past award winners, stalked top educators, and sent Melody’s homemade cookies to anyone who reviewed her portfolio and gave advice. She’d worked very, very hard.

Innovating on real-world problems was one of the reasons her portfolio had beat out many other highly qualified candidates. It was “edgy yet full of heart,” the Board of Education had said in their award letter. Students thought and engaged deeply on a personal level that lead to real change.

“But we do have diversity,” Amy insisted. “We do have different income brackets, colors, languages, backgrounds—”

“The administration prefers our faculty to be blind to differences,” Corrine said. “Your lesson is the opposite of blindness. It’s pointing out differences, including making students aware of differences they may not be able to see.”

“To celebrate them. It’s a celebration.”

Corrine rested her hands on the rainbow-confetti Amy had cut for student reflections. “I like the lesson. You’ve chosen a heart-warming introduction story, nice videos of current celebrities who have visible and invisible differences, and a relevant reflection activity. It’s a great lead-in to more advanced topics such as Model United Nations. But you can’t do it in this school. Not if you want a permanent position.”

It felt like she was in trouble all over again.

Corrine’s classroom suddenly felt far too warm. Amy’s palms sweated. Her lavender silk shirt stuck to her lower back.

“Now, what about that lesson on colors and figurative language?” Corrine tapped her tablet to a website where another educator’s tried-and-true lesson was posted for the world to use. “You read a poem, the students comment on the metaphors, and then they write their own.”

Amy twisted her hands in her lap. “I think Bethany’s class did a similar project last week.”

“And so our students are well prepared for it.”

She twisted her hands.

Corrine smiled at her gently. “You do want a job here, don’t you? We’re only expecting one retirement this year. You have a real shot at a permanent place.”

Of course she did.

“Repeating a lesson that’s already been done well by another teacher isn’t going to set me apart from other candidates,” Amy said.

“Put your own spin on the lesson.” A note of reprove entered Corrine’s voice. “Of course it should be your own. You have the weekend to work on it. I look forward to seeing what you come up with.”

The hour changed. Amy gathered up her things, thanked her mentor for taking the time to review her lesson, and headed to the fifth-grade reading room.

The real problem was that the colors lesson didn’t feel like her. She’d studied the plan extensively. Figurative language was all fine and good, but she wouldn’t teach it using this poem. And if she started bringing in real-world examples focused on divisive issues she cared about, her lesson would slip into controversial territory again.

As a teacher, she had an important role to show all sides of a controversy fairly. Think about history and give students the tools to make decisions. Work toward positive change.

But there was no side to reading a poem about colors. It was a fine lesson. Corrine would make it interesting. But it didn’t speak to Amy. At all.

The rebel in her wanted to proceed. Screw the administration. She’d do her lesson her way.

But that wasn’t responsible. She’d lose her chance and, once the regular assistant teacher returned from maternity leave, have to go hunting for a new position next year. And she’d probably get in trouble.

Don’t you get tired of being perfect? Don’t you want to live a little?

Ha! If she lost her job, there was always Sard’s job offer. What would drawing ten million Zentangles be like? She could sit in a cubicle with the terrifying CEO breathing down her neck and churn them out.

Ugh.

Amy would do the color poem lesson. She’d go home, curl up with a plate of Melody’s crinkle cookies and a bowl of homemade fudge ice cream, and put on Rich B*tches. And then, properly sedated by the addictions that kept her numbed, she would review Corrine’s lesson.

Amy slid into her chair as her students were taking their seats and pulling out their reading books. Almost immediately, her mood improved.

She loved reading hour. Even though, as the assistant, she was only supposed to sit and make sure they read for an hour, she squeezed bonus educational juice out of the activity.

“Good afternoon. How do we feel about reading today?” she asked.

Most of her twenty students sat attentively; a few of the “regulars” jostled around in their seats, needing the extra minutes to transition.

“Written on the board behind me are the words you said last week were interesting, unusual, or you didn’t know the meaning. Come on up and write the definitions.”

Forgetful students pulled out their dictionaries; others carried their personal whiteboard markers to the board and jostled for space.

She used the words as a five-minute vocabulary exercise emphasizing multiple meanings. There were sides to any controversy; even the ultimate controversy of the English language.

Once they were back in their seats, she moved to her final interactive portion. “Open your books, review where you are, and give us your one-second summary of what happened last time.”

She started with her most concise students to set the tone. It gave them a chance to interact with their books, and it fulfilled the basic human need to share stories. Plus, by the time the quarter ended, students might be hooked by another’s story and check out extra books to read over summer.

Her students finished their summaries and opened their books, eager to find out what would happen next.

Corinne gave her great freedom. Twice a week, Amy got the whole class to herself like this. In addition to working with the school librarian finding exciting books to match students’ interests, she’d inserted mini-lessons on story structure, heroism, emotion, and even figurative language.

Yep. She’d already snuck in her own mini-lesson. Done her way. The way she’d liked.

Amy leaned back in her seat and stared out the window.

Normally she’d read along with them, but her book — Passionate Teaching — only mocked her. Teach what you believe in, the chapter subheading instructed. Make not only the way you teach but the subject itself something that you care about deeply.

Double ugh.

The verdant green lawn gleamed in the sunlight. Upper-level lacrosse players tossed their hard, white rubber ball from stick to stick. Brick and glass buildings shone with the pristine care of the landscaping team.

Amy made four dots on her planner paper and drew the frame connecting them, then divided it with her string and began filling the quadrants with meditative Zentangle forms.

Her parents were so proud when she’d gotten this substitute position. “You’re on your way,” her dad had said, patting her shoulders.

“Don’t screw it up,” her mom had added. “Stay smart.”

And then they’d both chanted the phrase embedded into Amy’s soul. “One bad choice can ruin your life.”

Like the other night. With Pyro. When she’d thought she was going to be arrested.

She’s nobody I care about.

Amy set aside the unfinished Zentangle and picked up her book. Her kids were reading feverishly; a few were jotting notes. Talk about responsible. That had always been her, too. When she went through a rebellious junior high phase and public school got too distracting, her dad, a history professor at the local community college, threatened to pull her out and homeschool her. But that would’ve meant giving up on friends, band, and the small freedoms she had left. She’d doubled down on homework until her test scores reached perfect and never changed.

Getting this job was her last mission. Her final promise to her parents. They’d be able to relax and know she was as responsible as they’d always wanted. She’d make them so proud. She’d talk about “safe” figurative colors until she gagged.

Something odd swooped across the sky. Too big to be a bird, too close to buildings to be a plane.

Was that—?

Her belly pinged.

It couldn’t be.

Was that a hard, delicious, heart-stopping male clad in a leather jacket, shades, and jeans? And was he searching for her?

Pyro swooped over the lacrosse players, causing surprise and pointing, and buzzed silently around the high school class buildings and the library.

She jolted to her feet.

A few of her students looked up from their books.

“Class, keep reading.” She grabbed her spring jacket from the back of her chair. “I’ll be right back.”

She raced across the hall and thundered down the stairs. He was going to disrupt every class on campus. She shoved open the glass doors and raced out into the private, tailored courtyard.

Pyro caught sight of her and checked. He descended into a sheltered garden, his rough form hidden by Japanese maple and trellises. “So you do work here.”

He looked too good. Loose jeans invited her to tug his empty belt loops, a tight blue T-shirt highlighted his corded muscles, and a devilish smile reminded her in intimate places that he knew the flavor of her kiss.

And she knew his.

She crossed her arms. “What are you doing here? This is a restricted campus.”

He smiled disarmingly. “You’re looking teacher-ish.”

“I am a teacher.”

His gentle fingers caressed the tendrils that had escaped from her sensible bun, lingering by her pearl earring. “It looks good on you.”

Need twisted need between her thighs.

She squeezed them together. “What do you want, Pyro?”

“I wanted to see you.”

Another wave of heat flooded her. His rough voice rasped and his words caressed her like liquid sex. Rough and fearless masculinity. He wouldn’t run from administrators or change his lessons. Carefree, his true self filled her with longing.

But that wasn’t smart.

“Here I am.” She tightened her elbows. “Now what?”

“Now, we dance.”

He stepped forward, catching her by surprise, and lifted her onto her toes. His hands made two solid brands on her thick waist. He moved her effortlessly, humming an unrecognizable tune as he floated her around the courtyard.

In another life, she might have laughed. Giggles bubbled up inside.

He’d come to see her. He liked her. He teased and danced with her.

She’s nobody I care about.

And here he was.

His hard thighs caressed hers. His abdomen pressed against hers. His commanding grip was firm and powerful.

Campus security guards rustled nearby.

She was an idiot. Getting excited for silly reasons when she should be getting nervous about the rapidly approaching trouble. Security could detain him. She’d have to explain his presence to administration. He’d probably fly off, abandoning her once more.

“Seriously, Pyro.”

She fought to keep the smile off her face. Oh, she couldn’t help it! Despite everything he’d done, he was a hot guy teasing and dancing with her. Hot guys just didn’t do that. Even though she knew he was bad news, she couldn’t quell her excitement.

She must be a masochist. “Why are you here?”

“You didn’t come to the bar yesterday.”

No. No, she hadn’t. She tightened her arms. “And?”

“I need your help.”

Excitement thrilled through her. A hot, desirable, dragon shifter needed her help.

No, no, no. He’d needed her help before. Boy had she helped him.

“Help breaking into another rival’s warehouse?” she asked cynically.

He stopped and gripped her shoulders to look directly into her eyes. “Amy, I truly regret what I did to you the other night. Sard Carnelian stole our ideas and kidnapped a treasured friend. He will never be brought to justice. I used you to gain access to his building in a way that I could not and take revenge. This abused your trust. I apologize.”

Her hurt feelings abated. “You said I was a nobody, and you didn’t care about me.”

“I don’t remember that.” His lids half-lowered. “I remember our kiss.”

She flushed with heat. She remembered that, too. In intimate detail. “It was when we were cornered by Syenite and the other dragons.”

Something flickered in his eyes. “Those words had nothing to do with you.”

“It was the worst night of my life.”

“I know.” His sincerity shone in the mesmerizing red and brown threads of his irises. “Can you forgive me?”

She shouldn’t. She really, really shouldn’t.

The dark blue flash of uniforms trooping down the cobblestone walk said their private time was over.

“What kind of help do you need?” she asked, already knowing she would try to help him.

“I have to marry a human female or risk being married to the Empress.” He rested his finger under her chin. “The human woman I wish to marry is you.”