“Well, I’m sure one day you’ll find the girl to be your Leia. Or maybe you’ll have to play dress-up with your dog forever.”

“I could think of worse things.”

I try not to smile, but I do. “Fair.” I type in my number and save it under first name: Waylon; middle name: Your; last name: Queen.

He checks my work. “Well, my queen, intel says we’re way behind the curve on these projects. In fact, I’ve heard Bekah and Hannah are nearly done with their projects and Callie and Mitch are halfway done. Not to mention our volunteer hours.”

I gasp. “Hannah has been radio silent.”

“Well, if she’s working with Bekah, she’s in it to win it.”

“What about you?” I ask, my brow arched. “Are you in it to win it?”

“I’m in it to not bomb this thing and look like a total dick.”

“Well, that might take some work.” The last bell rings and we take the only two seats left, side by side on the last row.

“What about tonight?” I ask. “We could get together and come up with a plan.”

“I have to work.”

If he didn’t work for my dad, I’d say he was full of shit and trying to flake on me all over again. “Tomorrow?”

He shakes his head. “Got plans.”

While Higgins is taking attendance, he leans over. “Did you just call me a dick, by the way?”

“Indirectly.”

His gaze narrows into a simmer as the morning announcements begin, and I have to remind myself to breathe.

I spend Friday night as the Lord intended: watching Fiercest of Them All bonus content and drag makeup tutorials that make contouring look like an art form. Hannah and Clem go out, and even though they dutifully invite me, I’m not really up for being their date-night third wheel, as romantic as that sounds.

On Saturday morning, I wake to a text from Tucker that is time-stamped 4:23 a.m.

Tucker: So no breakfast for the teachers. No spa day. What about oil changes?

You were thinking of me at 4 in the morning? I type, before hitting the backspace button until the message box is blank again. If I think too much about him and four a.m., I start to wonder what his room looks like and his bed and what he wears to bed and—I type a message back. When in doubt, give them snark.

Waylon Your Queen: I never took that course at Masculinity Prep.

The moment my message goes through, the three little dots indicating that he’s typing a response appear.

Tucker: I could teach you. You could be my assistant.

Waylon Your Queen: I’m not really the assistant type.

Tucker: I’m running low on ideas here. And I guarantee no one’s ever done this before.