Grumpy Dad: A Greenbridge Academy Romance

  Grumpy Dad

  A Greenbridge Academy Romance

  Abby Knox

  Copyright © 2019 by Abby Knox

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Edited by Aquila Editing

  Proofread by Red Pen Princess

  Cover Designer: Mayhem Cover Creations

  This book is dedicated to the ladies of the Read Me Romance podcast. All your saucy conversations about Jim Hopper from Stranger Things made me extremely hor—I MEAN INSPIRED.

  Contents

  Grumpy Dad

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Abby Knox

  An excerpt from the next story in the Greenbridge Academy Collection

  Grumpy Dad

  Book Two in a collection of stories from Greenbridge Academy

  By Abby Knox

  Sunny, eccentric Kindergarten teacher Jewel knows how to charm the typical private school parent. Vince, however, is the only one whose outward stubbornness provokes in her a nearly uncontrollable desire to stroke his beard, squeeze his dad bod and stare at him while he watches Burt Reynolds movies. Hey, whatever works to get more help for the PTA bake sale ...

  Vince really wishes people would leave him alone. For the most part, they oblige. So why does a gorgeous, relentlessly upbeat Kindergarten teacher keep trying to include him in all this bougie PTA rigmarole? But ... if all this nonsense will help five-year-old Max fit in at this fancy school, fine. Just this once, he'll help; and then everybody'd better leave him alone.

  This book is intended for adults ages 18 and over, because it’s full of explicit, juicy, delightful grown-up activities, vulgar language and also terrible puns.

  (Trigger warning: this story contains references to domestic violence perpetrated by secondary characters.)

  1

  Jewel

  My student’s large brown eyes, almost too big for such a small boy, stare up at me stubbornly.

  “Max, would you join the class for good morning stretches?” I gesture to the brightly colored foam mats laid out along the east-facing windows. The sunshine streams in over the manicured lawns of the campus, making all of these other kindergarteners look like haloed cherubs performing cute and clumsy downward dogs. How could anyone resist sun salutations on such a bright, cloudless September day?

  “No.” Max crosses his arms in front of him and tucks his chin to his chest as he stays fixed to his pint-sized wooden chair. His eyes land on my mismatched striped knee-high socks. He squints at them with suspicion.

  I crouch down to his level and speak to him conspiratorially. “I know. I get that look from adults all the time,” I say with a smile and put up my arms in a shrug. “I mean, what am I going to do with myself? Maybe someday you can help me pick out matching socks.”

  The kid is sitting here, shooting daggers at me with his eyes. “Are you sure you don’t want to pick a superhero cape? Who do you like? Iron Man?” I gesture to the wall of capes, but he isn’t budging.

  My classroom theme this year is superheroes, and all of my students are welcome to spend the entire day wearing a cape, apart from recess time.

  Well, I can handle this kid. Headmistress Moody hired me to teach kindergarten at the hallowed halls of Greenbridge Academy for a reason, and I intend to keep this coveted job. Not just keep it, but crush it.

  To that end, I am relentless in my efforts to win over my kids and their mostly well-to-do parents.

  With Max, I can see that I’ve got to let him warm up a bit. A late enrollee, he was granted admission just days before the start of the fall term and therefore had not had the opportunity to be involved in the various summer day camps and pre-term mixers that Greenbridge offers to families of new students. The culture here at Greenbridge can be … a lot. Max seems understandably overwhelmed. So I let him be still during our morning yoga session.

  Later, when it’s time for sharing, I try again.

  “Come on, Max. Join us for circle time on the rug to talk about the dreams we had last night.”

  He shakes his head and glares at me as if I’ve suggested we take turns kicking each other. Something in his expression is haunted. No, this kid does not want to talk about the content of his dreams. Somehow, I think they don’t come close to resembling the other kids’ dreams of flying on Pegasus or sliding down rainbows.

  After circle time and poetry recitation—the latter also of no interest to Max—it’s time for lunch. We practice our silly walks outside, down the stone walkway and into the dining hall. Max is not the least bit interested in a silly walk but his wide eyes hint at something close to wonder at the ivy-covered stone columns, the neglected St. Francis statue, covered in moss and standing guard in the bird-watching garden. When we enter the dining hall, I hear his stomach growling and yet all I can get him to say is, “I’m not hungry.”

  I have a special place in my glass-half-full heart for difficult kindergarteners, but now it might be time to call in the parents for a conference. Just as well because I’m curious to meet them. Since his parents didn’t attend the open house over the summer due to the last-minute enrollment, we haven’t had a chance to meet yet.

  Even more curious to me: neither of Max’s parents escorted him to class this morning. No tears, no hugs and kisses, no selfies at his assigned desk. He was brought to my classroom on his first day of kindergarten by the tight-bunned Headmistress Moody, who simply handed me his file, smiled warmly at Max and wished him a wonderful year, and left.

  When the children head outside to recess, I go to the main office to look through Max’s file and find his parents’ number. Make that dad’s phone number. The file shows no number for a mother. And this dad, I notice, hasn’t signed up for any of the parent volunteer committees. I peer at his name as I talk to myself. “Vince Cole. Sexy name. Too bad you didn’t sign up to help with a single thing, Vince, because now all that’s left is the fine arts committee. Of which I am the chair, and I’m not afraid to delegate.”

  My calls go to voicemail each time. But honestly, who leaves voicemails these days? I’ll just keep annoying Mr. Cole until he picks up. Did I mention relentless?

  Listen, if you want the privilege of calling yourself a Greenbridge parent and flaunting the school logo on your Land Rover, the rock bottom least you can do is answer you
r phone.

  2

  Vince

  The number isn’t familiar, so I hit decline.

  I’ve done enough people-ing today.

  People suck.

  I had a meeting with my court-ordered counselor right after dropping off Max at school, and I was almost late to it. Now I’m all talked out.

  The plan is to spend the rest of the day driving my classic Mustang around town to look at available office spaces until it’s time to pick up Max from school. If I don’t figure out a way to make some money soon, I might have to sell this sweet ride, which represents the entirety of my inheritance from my hard-working parents, may they rest in peace.

  I grab some burgers from a fast food drive-thru and ponder the properties I’ve looked at so far. Based on the notes on my legal pad, none of them look promising.

  The first one, downtown, was cool and looked like an old-fashioned private investigator’s office right out of a black-and-white movie. But it was too expensive, and the plumbing was for shit, no pun intended. I mean that; I hate puns.

  The second one was so small it barely had room for a desk and a laptop, let alone my ass. Of course, my ass could do with fewer burgers for lunch, if I’m honest.

  I’m mulling over whether it’d be unsafe for Max if I worked as a PI from home when the phone rings again—same number. The only reason I answer is because it’s local.

  “Yeah,” I grunt.

  “Mister Cole! Hi! So glad I finally got a hold of you!”

  It’s a woman. A loud woman.

  “OK,” I say, waiting for the sales pitch and more interested in watching a couple of squirrels scampering in the street in front of my parked car.

  “This is Ms. Fairhope calling from Greenbridge. I wanted to see if you could pop by for a minute?”

  The woman with a voice like an over-excited Disney princess wants to meet with me. On the first day of school. Pop by? I may amble, mosey, drag ass, schlep, roll in, or, on the rare occasion when I’ve drunk too much tequila, shamble. Never in my life have I “popped by” anywhere.

  Then it hits me. Shit. This better not be about some PTA fundraiser because no can do, lady.

  “I’m kinda busy,” I reply, speaking through a mouthful of my bacon double cheeseburger.

  I worry for a second that maybe she’s calling because the Greenbridge gatekeepers have found a problem with the scholarship application. Everything had been rushed to get Max in, and he’d been bumped up to the top of the waiting list due to his special circumstances.

  But, dammit, I filled out every line of that eighty-seven page scholarship packet. Well, with the help of Shelley, who knows about that kind of shit.

  Shelley and her husband Barry are about the only people in my life still talking to me after I lost my job, and they fully supported Max coming to live with me when many other people thought it was a bad idea. With their combined knowledge and connections, and the court’s permission, they insisted that I send Max to Greenbridge, despite my grumbling on and on about that fancy school. Those two made sure every “t” was crossed and every “i” dotted.

  What more does this school want? A DNA sample?

  “Max won’t eat lunch, so I thought maybe you could offer some insight. We all have to have full bellies and focused minds for Legos and Latin this afternoon!” The woman still sounds chipper, but her voice is now tinged with concern.

  Did she say Legos and Latin? I have questions.

  This is cramping my style, and my style is to avoid other humans. But hell, if Max needs me...

  “Be right there.”

  I toss my uneaten food back into the grease-stained paper bag and steer the black Mustang toward the school. I rarely have a reason to drive my muscle car with any muscle behind it, but Max is more than enough reason to exceed the speed limit.

  Guess I’ll have to show Snow White and her little birdies at that fancy school how it’s done.

  3

  Jewel

  Normally at recess, I let the children lead a hike in the woods, or I mix it up with them on the jungle gyms. But today I don’t have as much time to recapture my childhood.

  I spend about ten minutes teaching some of the little ones how to pump on the swings. And then I have to recruit one of the other teachers to take over for me.

  I think about how to talk to this man as I make my way back down across the lawn to my classroom. I could use the covered walkways, but why would I on a day like today?

  On the phone, Max’s dad was about as monosyllabic as Max. Two of a kind, I suppose.

  Regretting leaving the sunshine when I reach the building, I mull over how best to make sure this parent doesn’t think I’m criticizing his parenting style. That’s always a major pitfall at this school.

  Helicopter parents, free-range parents, lawnmower parents, tiger parents—we have them all. Max’s dad, Vince, has yet to reveal his style to me. But I am up to the task of helping to form a team for Max’s well-being.

  And then I set eyes on him.

  A man, whom I presume to be Vince Cole, is waiting for me in my classroom.

  His back is to me, and all I see is short, strawberry-blonde hair, broad shoulders hidden under a slightly rumpled white dress shirt with the cuffs rolled up to reveal strong, sinewy forearms, one of them sleeved with tattoos. His hands rest on his hips like he’s making a judgment about the state of my superhero-themed classroom. Is he a Marvel or a DC man?

  I take a moment to notice his jeans—at least the parts that aren’t hidden by his untucked shirt. It’s clear that beneath them is a nice, bulbous backside and thick, masculine thighs. His shirt may be ill fitting, but damn, the man knows how to pick good jeans. Not overly expensive, not a trendy cut, but good quality and well chosen.

  Good jeans can tell you a lot about a person.

  4

  Vince

  Call Guinness Book of World Records, because I think I’ve discovered the world’s most quaint classroom in the most pretentious school I’ve ever seen.

  The desks are all mismatched and some look straight out of a one-room schoolhouse.

  I see a blackboard but no whiteboard. I don’t see any screens, except for a small, closed laptop on the desk of the assumed Disney Princess in Charge. A large, shiny brass apple is perched on the edge of the wooden desk. Next to the apple is a hand-painted tissue box holder with suns all over it. My eyes then land on a misshapen ceramic pencil cup that could only be a handmade gift from a preschooler. Yeah, I’m definitely in the right room.

  Set in the deep stone window sills are numerous vining plants, terrariums, and an aquarium.

  In the corner are colorful mats, pillows, and a play tent with a beanbag and a lantern inside of it. In another corner is a huge classic dollhouse, and several bins of Legos and blocks—all kinds of shit I associate with preschool and not an elite academy. I don’t know how a school can justify charging parents this much tuition to have their kids play with blocks, but whatever. I stopped trying to figure out other adults a long time ago.

  I shake my head to wipe away some really shitty memories about some extra shitty parents. Not mine, thank god, but still. I’ve seen too much—way too much—and it haunts me.

  The classroom has a superhero theme with lots of posters of Iron Man and Aquaman with pithy sayings about learning on the walls. Yeah, a lot of chicks fucking love Aquaman. Shit, I can’t say I’m not attracted to the guy, if I’m honest.

  “Mr. Cole?”

  That Disney Princess voice disrupts my thoughts. I spin around and…whoa. Exactly what I expected. She wears space buns, mismatched rainbow knee socks, and corduroy knickers from the eighties. She is also wearing a satin superhero cape.

  But also…wow.

  Those eyes. Bright blue and wide with enthusiasm. Shaped brows raised expectantly. The kind of open face that says she’s ready to have fun no matter where she is.

  “Yeah,” I say dumbly, holding out my hand and meeting her gaze. Her hand is soft but her handshake
is firm. “I’m Vince. You must be Mrs....Doolittle?”

  She smiles wider and I can see she’s stifling a laugh. “Fairhope, but you get lots of points for Doolittle. One of my favorite musicals! You could say I’ve got a ‘fair’ amount of show tunes in my repertoire, haha!”

  I think she’s speaking in puns, but I don’t get it. I’m too busy noticing something else going on here. A deep, dark, empty space inside of me is making me keep hold of her hand. I like it. I like holding it.

  “Musicals? I’m not sure what you mean…” I trail off because she can see I’m confused and is looking at me in that bemused way a lot of women adopt when they’re trying to figure out if I’m being deliberately obtuse.

  “Have a seat,” she says, her smile never faltering.

  “Where?” All I see are tiny chairs for tiny people.

  “Well,” she says, letting go of my hand and pointing to her desk. “You can sit in my chair.”

  My hand feels empty without hers in it. I don’t like it. On the other hand, I don’t like the fact that I like her hand in mine that much. I’m not supposed to enjoy touching my kid’s teacher. That’s like in the top ten rules of being a parent, I’m pretty sure. Let’s get this over with, you big idiot.