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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.”