She blushes as she quickly scoops up her stuff.
“Yeah, it’s… last minute stuff. Camden wants me to work on my hundred-meter breaststroke.”
I arch a brow. “Oh Camden, is it?”
She blushes fiercely.
“Not ‘Coach Kirby’?”
“We’ve just been working together a lot, that’s all. For training.”
I grin, eyeing her. “Sure, for training. Is he showing you the best way to breaststroke?”
Her blush turns downright scarlet, and I laugh. I love how flustered she gets sometimes. I mean, you’d almost think from her reaction that there was something going on with her and our coach, but I’m positive there isn’t. Not with “always driven, always training, dedication is everything and I don’t have time for boys” Waverly Owens. The blush is, I’m sure, mostly just because Coach Kirby is freaking gorgeous. I mean there’s not a girl on the team who wouldn’t want a one-on-one lesson on “breast stroking.”
“Oh, go swim, dork. Then maybe you can take out your hormones of being wet and half naked in a pool with Coach Kirby on this new mystery guy of yours.”
She blushes again, nodding quickly.
“See you later?”
I nod. “Yep.”
She scampers off, and I shake my head, going back to the studying. But after another half an hour, I’m burnt out anyways. I pack my stuff up and head out of the library, crossing campus in the direction of the Principal’s manor, my heart beating faster with every step. I’ve become a pro at this the last few days. There’s a hedge and iron fence around Colton’s back garden, and a path that leads behind that to some faculty parking lot. But the path itself is heavily wooded with weeping willow trees, and I’ve learned pretty fast that you can duck under the branches and sneak to the back fence, and if someone’s left the gate open—like Colton always does—you can slip right in without a single person seeing you.
My pulse skips as I grin to myself, hugging my hoodie tighter against the autumn wind as I half skip towards his place.
“Ms. Henley?”
I whirl, the scream catching on my throat and my face going white before my eyes focus on who I’m actually looking at.
A woman. Not Lorenzo or any of his goons. She looks to be in her mid-twenties, and pretty if not severe looking in a sharp business suit and her dark hair pulled back almost painfully.
“I’m so sorry,” she smiles wryly. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Do I know you?”
She shakes her head. “No, I’m afraid you don’t.” She frowns, looking down at a pile of manila file envelopes in her hands. “Ms. Henley, I work with your father at his organization.”
My mouth dries, my lips tightening.
“I see.”
“Oh, no. No, I…” she frowns again, stammering. “Can I call you Brynn?”
“Who are you?”
“Sorry,” she stammers. “My name is Olivia Simpter.”
“And you work with my dad?”
“I did.”
She frowns. “Brynn, it’s been brought to my attention—well, to a few of us who worked at the…” her frown deepens. “Well, the fraud, it appears.”
“What has?”
“That you’re holding back on talking to the authorities or giving any testimony against your father.”