Headmistress: A Greenbridge Academy Romance Page 2

  I knew I should stay away. Nothing good could ever come from pursuing a teacher as a student. But I never let go of that tiny moment she lost her armor.

  The way I pursued her was reckless that year. If anybody suspected anything, she surely never would have been promoted to headmistress now.

  Her absence at graduation finally convinced my head to let her go. I thought I could get over her once I moved on to college and law school.

  But I knew down deep in my heart that I would always love her.

  * * *

  Someone hands me a glass of cucumber water.

  I look up and it’s Megan, Garcia’s receptionist. “While you wait,” she says with a friendly smile.

  I’m grateful for the water so I pound it back and hand the glass to Megan, cucumber slices still intact.

  “Thanks so much but cancel that meeting. I’ve…I’m going to go revise this.”

  She shrugs, caring absolutely nothing about what I’m up to.

  I march back down to my office on the floor below and immediately shred the disclosure document.

  Nobody needs to know.

  I grab a stress ball from my desk—one of many—and pace in front of my office window, thinking about what to do.

  If the case gets reassigned, then that other attorney could get these Chamberlain pricks everything they want. They could bully the board of trustees to hire who they want. They could try to get the school under their control and send it backwards three decades. Everyone ever associated with Greenbridge knew of the constant complaints and bullying tactics of this family.

  Well, they can try.

  The first thing I learned after being hired on as a new associate at this particular firm is that sometimes you have to take clients who are assholes. You have to just hold your nose and look at the dollar signs. Billable hours and winning are the only things that matter.

  In this case, as ludicrous as it sounds, I don’t want to win.

  My decision is made. I have to do the right thing. As much as it might hurt my career to lose a case, at least Martha will be protected, and the school as well.

  I may not be able to represent her, but I’m not going to let just any other attorney at this firm oppose her, only to fuck her over.

  No, this is all up to me. It almost seems like fate. So much so that, deep inside the most illogical part of my brain, I wonder if it means that Martha and I might have another chance.

  4

  Martha

  Some eager sixth graders help me plant the pretty yellow, gold and purple mums in the ornamental garden beds along the walkways of the campus, and they should look gorgeous in time for Homecoming.

  When we’re finished and the kids head off to lunch, I have a seat on the stone bench to drink some water and stare at that blasted Virgin Mary statue overlooking the reflecting pond.

  What the hell am I going to do with you, Scary Mary?

  I roller-coaster between feeling scared of this lawsuit and indignant. I’m afraid one moment, and the next moment I find myself thinking that I don’t care if I’m being sued over the decision to have her removed. The school board left it up to me, and she’s got to come down.

  She only serves to remind people of terrible times.

  And now the family that made those times especially terrible is back for another round of accusations, interrogations and God knows what else. It’s been a few weeks since I was served my papers, and I still haven’t hired a lawyer. Maybe if I refuse to hire one, I can drag everything out and this will eventually go away.

  I skimmed the highlights on that first day, barely able to stomach the details. I had closed up the contents of that envelope and shoved it in a drawer. The legal system is barbarically slow, so there’s probably nothing for me to do right now anyway.

  I hear a text notification from my pocket, so I take off my gardening gloves and pull out my phone to read it. It’s from the front office receptionist.

  “A Mr. McRae is here to see you. Says he doesn’t have an appointment so I told him to wait. Want me to tell him you’ve left for the day?”

  McRae? It’s probably a coincidence. Surely my Aunt Katie didn’t jinx me that badly.

  I text back: I’m in the garden. You can tell him where to find me.

  Interesting name. It’s common enough; surely it’s not the same person by that name I used to know.

  I don’t bother tidying up my appearance. I know I have dirt on my face, and I’m covered in sweat underneath my button-down shirt. My hair is a fright.

  I shove my gardening gloves back on and bend over to harvest some rhubarb. After a while, I happen to glance backward between my feet, and my eyes land on a pair of fine Italian loafers.

  When I keep working, I hear the wearer of those loafers clear his throat and announce himself. “So nice to see you again, Ms. Moody.”

  That voice.

  Oh my God.

  It’s Miles McRae. From the debate team. Eight years ago.

  No!

  A familiar prickle of heat begins where the vibration of his deep, masculine voice lands between my shoulder blades and spreads across my skin and around my front like a bear hug. I bolt upright and swivel around to look at him.

  His smart-ass sideways grin is still as effortlessly charming as it was when he was 18. Only now, eight years older, his five o’clock shadow is much more pronounced. His wavy black hair is no longer tousled and cute, but cut short and Ivy League-styled with tidy sophistication that’s a sharp contrast from the picture of him in my memory. But it works for him—and works pretty well for me, honestly—as does that bespoke suit. You can hide nothing in a well-tailored suit, and this is no exception. Miles’s widened chest, thick biceps and narrow waist tell me this is a fully grown man with a high-powered career and who still makes time to work hard at the gym. Gone are the days of the rumpled Greenbridge Academy cardigan and plaid necktie. My knees want to buckle.

  I have to check my expression. And, oh God, my hair. And I am pretty sure I have dirt on my face, and leaves and grass sticking to my skirt. God, why couldn’t he have scheduled a visit while I was sitting in my office looking like a fully prepared badass bitch?

  This is the same skirt I used to wear when I taught him as a student. The exact same skirt that he—oh God. And now he must think I’m an ancient spinster who’s been rolling around in the dirt.

  I stick out my hand. “Miles McRae, what a pleasant surprise.”

  He takes my hand in his, and that’s when I realize I’m still wearing my gardening gloves.

  Miles rolls with it and pretends there’s nothing odd about this. He chuckles and brushes away the dirt that I’ve spread all over his lovely, manicured hands.

  I look down and cringe. But I also notice he’s not wearing a wedding ring. I don’t know why I take notice of this. It hardly matters.

  “Did Aunt Katie find you and send you over here? Because she and I are going to have some words.” The least she could do is warn me to put on a little makeup and brush my hair.

  But his face looks all business and tells me he’s not here to chat about old times. “I don’t think I know any Katie.” His voice is low and grumbly and there’s heat behind those gold-flecked green eyes of his. This time, his words land in a very different place in my body. Blood rushes to my cheeks and my nipples are pushing the boundaries of decency right now.

  Someone please remind my nipples that I don’t believe in fate and that he must be here for some other reason than to declare his undiminished crush on me.

  5

  Miles

  “It’s so nice to see you again, Ms. Moody.”

  I try to get the words out without my voice cracking like a pimply 17-year-old out of nervousness at seeing her gorgeous backside bent over the vegetable garden. I can’t believe this woman’s ass hasn’t changed a bit in eight years.

  I spent a good deal of time in high school admiring her ass, and I’ve definitely memorized every inch, every curve.

  In
fact, it’s the same wool skirt and same godforsaken black tights and clunky shoes that I remember from—holy shit. Only this particular woman could dress like a nun and get me this worked up. Eight years later and she’s still got it, and she’s still got a hold on me.

  Martha stands upright and turns around, searing me with those eyes that still give me come-hither looks every night in my dreams.

  She’s got dirt and sweat on her face from the garden and a few tendrils have fallen from her signature bun. Martha’s full lips are parted in shock.

  My former teacher is still so fucking beautiful I can hardly hide my … uhm, admiration … and I slide my attaché in front of my pelvis.

  “Miles McRae,” she says, her voice giving away a slight tremor. “What a pleasant surprise.”

  She holds out her hand and I take it without tearing my eyes away from her wide-eyed, soul-piercing gaze. Her hand feels strange and I look down and realize she’s still wearing dirt-clad gardening gloves.

  I chuckle as she exhales in exasperation at herself, removes the gloves, and drops them on the ground.

  She asks me something about someone named Katie, and I tell her that I don’t know anyone by that name.

  And then her confused, discombobulated face notices the dirt she’s left on my hands, and she turns all shades of pink. She’s absolutely adorable.

  “So rude of me,” Martha mutters, taking my hand to wipe the dirt off of it. The temptation is strong to clasp her delicate fingers as they brush in between mine.

  “It’s not a problem,” I say, chuckling and smiling down at her. I was about an inch or two taller than her at 18; now it’s more like four inches. Honestly, I would not mind walking around with dirty hands, knowing that it’s dirt that she’s touched. Is that a stupid fanboy kind of thought? Probably, but I don’t care. I’m a smitten teenager around this woman all over again.

  She’s so flustered, I cover her hand with mine, hoping it will calm her down and get her to look me in the eyes again. I just want to look at her. It’s been so long.

  “Wow,” she says, when she takes a moment to share my gaze. “You’re taller.”

  I shrug. “Growth spurt.”

  Her eyes travel down the front of my suit, over my shoulders, back up to my face.

  “Ms. Moody, you look…”

  She cuts me off with a wave of her hand. “Call me Martha, please. I’m not your teacher anymore.”

  It’s for the best that she cut me off. How do you tell a woman older than you that the passage of time has agreed with her? Do you tell her that her tiny laugh lines are sexy? I mean, holy hell, are they ever sexy to me. But it seems like the wrong thing to say out loud.

  The way she’s batting her eyelashes, I know it’s not on purpose. It’s just like that moment eight years ago when I first knew she felt something for me…when she lost her composure for half a second.

  “Thank God for that,” I say.

  “Excuse me?” She cocks her head and furrows her brow.

  “I just mean thank God I had you as a teacher but I’m glad I’m not under you anymore. Not that I don’t want to be under you. I mean…”

  She laughs. “You know, you look like a lawyer, but right now you kind of sound like you need to brush up on public speaking again,” she jokes.

  Somehow, she sounds much more sweet than the way she used to bust my balls in debate.

  I let go of her hand and rub my palms together, trying to find my bearings. She throws everything off.

  “The thing is, you may not be my teacher anymore, but now I’m afraid we’ve got problems of a different sort,” I say regretfully.

  I study her face for a reaction. Was she hoping for something more from this meet-cute? Is this actually a meet-cute or a meet-again-cute?

  “I hate to tell you this, but I wanted you to hear it directly from me. The partners at my firm have assigned me to represent the Chamberlain family in their lawsuit against you.”

  Martha blinks at me with such incredulity that I start to doubt the veracity of my own words.

  She appears to shake the cobwebs from inside her head. “Wait…you are representing the people who are suing me? The people who are trying to run me out of Greenbridge Academy over a fucking statue?”

  I take a deep breath. “I’m so, so, so sorry.”

  Martha throws back her head and laughs. “Well, you can get out of it because I used to be your teacher. I’m sure that’s not allowed, right?”

  “It’s not spelled out that clearly, but it’s something the partners should, probably, know about,” I say, my voice low, my eyes traveling down her shirt, across the width of her hip-hugging pencil skirt. Why? Why does she have to taunt me with the same outfit that’s been etched in my spank bank for ages? Does she not own any other clothes?

  Her eyes flash. “Miles. Come on. How could you take this case?”

  I have to grit my teeth and look away from her breasts, her tempting hips, her glistening lips. “I didn’t want to, Martha. I didn’t want this case even before I knew that you were the person in the crosshairs. I was this close”—I hold up my two fingers—“this close to walking into Garcia’s office to disclose that you and I knew each other from school—more than knew each other—but then I realized something.”

  Looking down at her, her eyes searching me for answers, her arms crossed in front of her, her teeth chewing on her bottom lip nervously—I wonder if she ever lets her students or staff see her like this. So unsteady. Unsure. Without answers. Confused.

  All of those traits she metaphorically smacked out of me back in our debate team days. Not that I would have minded a literal smack from her. I would love to walk around with a bruise in the shape of her hand on my ass. My unruly cock twitches at the thought. Oh God. Why am I torturing myself? This is never going to happen. Not while I’m representing the enemy.

  “What did you realize, Miles? I can’t wait to hear this.”

  I clear my throat. “I realized I’m not going to disclose anything to my boss or to my client. I’m not going to step away from this case because of our prior relationship. If I claim conflict of interest, then Garcia will assign someone else. Someone even better and more experienced than I am. And then, you will lose. If you go up against me, you might just win.”

  Martha thinks about this for a minute and then bursts out laughing for the second time.

  “I might just win?” Martha cackles harder when I nod my head.

  “This is very serious, Martha.”

  “Sure it is. But it doesn’t matter. I’m not going to engage in any of this bullshit. I’m not going to hire a lawyer, I’m simply not going to comply.”

  I’m totally confused. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I’m just going to drag it all out until they drop it. And I’m going to keep doing my job as headmistress of this school, and I’m not going to give in one single inch to the holy rollers. That’s what I’m going to do. What are you going to do?” She points at me in challenge.

  The truth is, my only strategy is to lose the case for her. “I just came here to tell you to hire a good lawyer. If you do, you could conceivably beat me.”

  Now, I’m not so sure that my plan is all that brilliant. Should I tell her I’m going to throw the case on purpose?

  Martha takes a step toward me, about to deliver a savage blow. She’s so close I can smell her. Her voice dips to a low, sultry octave and she’s got me so shook I’m painfully biting my tongue to keep from forcing it down her throat.

  “That’s not the student I remember,” she says. “This is not how I taught you to be. I may not be a lawyer but I didn’t get the job of headmistress for nothing. So, if you have even one crumb of respect for me, you had better bring your A game. Son.”

  6

  Miles

  Garcia, the only other woman in my life who has nut-shriveling power over me, by virtue of the fact that she signs my paychecks, sends me a text as I’m driving away from Greenbridge.

  Eve
ry inch of space between me and Martha now feels like a tragedy.

  What am I doing? I should drop the case. Just seeing Garcia’s annoyed text is enough to make me spill all my beans.

  “Bring an update to the weekly meeting with the partners on the Chamberlain suit. I want you to wow us with your strategy.”

  Wow them with my strategy.

  If Martha doesn’t hire an attorney, I won’t need a strategy. I’ll need a deserted island to spend out my days. No law firm will touch me for throwing my own clients under the bus, or Martha won’t want anything to do with me because she’ll simultaneously lose so badly.

  I can’t win in either of these scenarios.

  At a stoplight I quickly send her a thumbs-up emoji, risking her ire because she hates emojis.

  Probably because, although most people enjoy the fact that emojis help us relate tone to each other, Garcia would rather keep people guessing.

  But if Garcia puts the fear of God in me, Martha gives me all that plus full-body chills.

  Those full-body chills came roaring back after eight long years, as if nothing has changed.

  When she was close to me just a few minutes ago, her ginger spice scent and dazzling eyes saw right through me. She made me shiver all the way from my skin down inside my guts. If my doctor were to examine me with a live X-ray right now, I’m sure my spleen would still be trembling in fear despite my enormous hard wood.

  While I sit here waiting on the traffic light, I daydream about the day I escalated the innocent flirting with Martha.

  * * *

  My friends thought it would be hilarious to announce my 18th birthday with a balloon bouquet in the middle of debate practice. I never told them about my crush, but the emotions on my face were uncontrollable. A liability in debate, but my dad assured me that in romance, women appreciate being able to tell what we’re thinking when we’re looking at them.