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  Teach Me

  Olivia Dade

  Copyright © 2019 by Olivia Dade

  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.

  ISBN: 978-1-945836-00-8

  About Teach Me

  Their lesson plans didn’t include love. But that’s about to change…

  * * *

  When Martin Krause arrives at Rose Owens’s high school, she’s determined to remain chilly with her new colleague. Unfriendly? Maybe. Understandable? Yes, since a loathsome administrator gave Rose’s beloved world history classes to Martin, knowing it would hurt her.

  But keeping her distance from someone as warm and kind as Martin will prove challenging, even for a stubborn, guarded ice queen. Especially when she begins to see him for what he truly is: a man who’s never been taught his own value. Martin could use a good teacher—and luckily, Rose is the best.

  Rose has her own lessons—about trust, about vulnerability, about her past—to learn. And over the course of a single school year, the two of them will find out just how hot it can get when an ice queen melts.

  Praise for Olivia Dade

  With richly drawn characters you’ll love to root for, Olivia Dade’s books are a gem of the genre—full of humor, heart, and heat.

  Kate Clayborn

  With her warm and witty voice and wry humor, Dade weaves a story with shrewd observations about human nature, workplace dynamics, second chances, and the inner strength to overcome fear and take back control. Teach Me is a happiness-inducing, funny, clever, and empathetic book, and I'm very much looking forward to whatever Dade writes next.

  Lucy Parker

  Contents

  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

  Epilogue

  Also by Olivia Dade

  Preview of Desire and the Deep Blue Sea

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  About Olivia

  Acknowledgments

  For all the teachers. This book is a romance, but it’s also a love letter to you.

  * * *

  And to the Swedes who welcomed my family with open arms, generous hearts, and endless (ENDLESS) quantities of béarnaise sauce: tack tack!

  One

  Rose had been braced for calamity over a week, ever since she’d received the e-mail from Keisha. No department chair mandated a late-afternoon meeting with one of her teachers during the summer—especially not a week before they were due to report back to school—to relay welcome news.

  So Rose didn’t expect to hear about improved student test scores, or new funding for the AP U.S. History program, or even the availability of that corner classroom she’d been coveting for years.

  The problem: She didn’t know what she should expect.

  No clues revealed themselves in the social studies department office. No memos rested on the counters lining each side of the space, and no new signs relayed red-underlined warnings on the cork bulletin board. No administrator lay in wait to reprimand her or demand her resignation, for whatever reason.

  She straightened her pencil skirt over her thighs and checked her hairline for renegade strands, but everything remained in place. To the outside observer, she should appear unflustered. Unconcerned. And no matter what happened here today, that wouldn’t change.

  She would not invite other people’s pity or spite into her life. Never again.

  A rapid tap-tap-tap down the hall grew louder. A moment later, Keisha bustled into the office, her sunflower-patterned dress swishing with her every movement. She held up one finger, requesting patience, as she sorted through the pile of papers she held.

  “Just a minute.” A frown creasing her forehead, she deposited the pile on the nearest counter. “I need to find…”

  Rose settled back to wait. Keisha, without fail, shouldered responsibilities others shirked, which meant she was always busy. Always in a hurry. Always at least a few minutes late.

  Under other circumstances, Rose would have befriended her without hesitation. But a smart, private woman didn’t cross-contaminate her professional and personal lives.

  Unwilling to interrupt or rush her coworker, Rose bit back a greeting and surveyed the office again. Over the summer, the narrow room had attained a state of pristine cleanliness it would not achieve again until late June. Usually, piles of papers butted up against stacks of supplies and notebooks and textbooks and all the other detritus attendant with their profession, since at least two social studies teachers per year didn’t have their own classroom. Instead, they’d float from room to room with their carts, which they parked in the office during their planning periods.

  Once the school year began, this space would seem to shrink to stifling proportions, and the quiet of this afternoon would seem a false memory. Thank Christ she’d been given her own classroom over fifteen years ago. With great deliberation, she’d positioned her desk in a corner of the room where no one could see her from the door’s little window. During her planning periods, she could slip off her heels, remove her jacket, and relax. Maybe listen to some low-volume music as she graded. Maybe cry, if she needed to.

  Her first year of teaching, she’d cried all the time, usually in the staff restroom. After twenty years, weeping jags were rare, but they happened. Even veteran teachers had hard days.

  Keisha jotted a note on one of her papers, then plopped herself down onto one of the worn swivel chairs and faced Rose with a sigh. “Sorry to keep you waiting. And sorry I had to call you in during your break. But I wanted you to hear this from me as soon as possible.”

  Shit. Definitely bad news.

  “I appreciate that.” Rose laced her fingers loosely in her lap, the picture of calm unconcern. “What’s going on?”

  Keisha’s glasses slipped, as they inevitably did, down her nose, and she peered solemnly over the top of them. “Betty retired over the summer.”

  Rose inclined her head. “I heard.”

  “We’ve hired her replacement. Martin Krause. He’s a great pickup, and I think you two will work well together. But…” Keisha’s lips pursed in a brief grimace. “Dale got involved.”

  The head of secondary social studies, based at Central Office. One of the few remaining throwbacks to the time when the school system had operated like a men’s-only country club, he occasionally elbowed his way into department matters, blustery and pompous and very, very aware of himself as a man with power over dozens of lower-paid, mostly female underlings.

  His involvement definitely portended disaster in some form, still unknown.

  “I see.” Keep your fingers relaxed. No clenching.

  Keisha pushed up her glasses. “I imagine you do. Once Dale saw Mr. Krause’s pedigree, he insisted we take measures to retain our new teacher for more than a year or two.”

  Their school, like many, had trouble keeping good teachers. Any teachers, actually. Some fled within weeks, leaving the department scrambling for long-term subs. Others departed over the summers, initiating yet more rounds of interviews and training.

  Getting paid an amount commensurate with the hours they worked and the difficulty of their assigned tasks would prob
ably help staff retention. But that wasn’t the point of this meeting, whatever the point might be.

  Neither was her next question, but she had to know. “What’s his pedigree?”

  Satisfaction softened Keisha’s expression. “Master’s in world history. Specialization in ancient civilizations. Twenty-five years of experience. Fifteen years of teaching AP World History with exemplary pass rates for the exam.”

  Well, shit. That was a pedigree.

  Rose had a master’s degree too, in U.S. history, as well as twenty years of experience. But very few job candidates could say the same.

  Enough. Time to peel away the prickly outer layers and get to the heart of this particular artichoke. “How does Dale plan to retain him? And what does it have to do with me?”

  Very little, one hoped.

  “Mr. Krause will teach AP World History, of course. But Dale didn’t want to give him the rest of Betty’s schedule. He thought three periods of Regular World History would scare Mr. Krause away.” The creases across Keisha’s forehead reappeared. “So Dale gave him your Honors World History classes.”

  At last, there was the choke. Inedible, a fuzzy, breath-stealing lump in her throat.

  And like an artichoke, her anger and despair contained layers. “Teaching Regular World History wouldn’t scare away a good teacher. Some of the most committed, kindest students I’ve ever taught—”

  Keisha held up her hand. “You know that. I know that. But you and I also know Dale doesn’t agree. As evidenced by the term he employs for those kids.”

  DOA. Dumb on arrival.

  The first time he’d used that phrase in Rose’s presence, she’d nearly imploded with rage.

  Over her two decades of teaching, she’d been assigned every possible U.S. and world history prep. Regular classes, for kids whose interests or skills might not involve history—or who might not have the time or energy to enroll in harder, more work-intensive classes. Honors classes, for kids willing to cover history in more depth and with more demanding assignments. And finally, Advanced Placement classes, for kids interested in potential college credit—and kids curious or ambitious enough to handle frequent, time-consuming homework and assignments that would stretch their analytical and writing skills.

  She might not have taught regular history in a while, but that didn’t mean she’d disliked that prep. Every single one of the history classes had worth. Meaning. Importance. As did every single one of the students in those classes.

  Dale didn’t see that. He never would.

  In a just world, he’d have found a profession that didn’t involve schools. A job that didn’t give him any authority over students or teachers.

  The world wasn’t just, though. She’d understood that before she’d even understood what just meant.

  She measured each word. Mentally rehearsed until they emerged low and calm, not volcanic with emotion. “What will I be teaching, then?”

  “You’ll keep your three AP U.S. History classes. The other two will be Regular U.S. History.” Keisha’s warm gaze offered sympathy that Rose couldn’t—wouldn’t—accept. “I realize you haven’t taught that prep in a while. I’m sorry.”

  Rose didn’t give a shit about teaching a different prep. Losing her Honors World History kids, though...

  That gutted her. For more reasons than Keisha would ever know.

  With an effort, Rose relaxed her jaw. A long, slow inhalation brought her temper back under her command and her common sense within grasp.

  School hadn’t started yet. She could fix this, if only she found the right argument. “How exactly does Dale expect me to keep our AP U.S. enrollment high if I don’t teach Honors World History?”

  Keisha took off her glasses and rested them on the counter, then rubbed her hands over her face. “I mentioned that concern. Dale wasn’t in a mood to listen.”

  Rose’s AP U.S. History numbers were going to tank next year. No doubt about it.

  Kids who took AP World History in tenth grade were going to take AP U.S. History as juniors, assuming the new teacher didn’t traumatize them. But that was thirty-five or forty kids, max. They couldn’t fill three AP U.S. classes, the number she usually taught.

  Her Honors World History students made up the difference.

  The administration called most of them “untraditional AP students.” Which meant, as far as she could tell, that they came from the same sorts of trailer parks and dilapidated apartment complexes she’d inhabited as a child.

  Those kids had never taken an AP course. Had no intention of taking one. But they were motivated enough to enroll in an honors course. After a year in her class, the ones who respected and liked her also trusted her. Trusted her good intentions, her teaching ability, and her promise that she’d meet their efforts with her own.

  They held their breath—knowing she would assign much more homework than they were accustomed to getting, knowing they’d have to juggle after-school jobs and responsibilities to their younger siblings, knowing they’d relinquish time spent asleep or with friends to complete assignments—and leapt.

  And those tenth-grade Honors World History kids became eleventh-grade AP U.S. History kids. Lots of them. Her first few years, she’d had about forty students enroll in her AP classes. The year after she’d been assigned to teach Honors World History classes? Over a hundred kids had signed up for AP U.S. History.

  She’d had to duck into the faculty restroom after seeing those class lists, spotting those familiar names, and realizing the trust her students had bestowed on her. The trust she’d earned.

  Afterwards, the makeup repairs had been challenging, and her colleagues had probably seen the evidence of her tears.

  For once, she hadn’t cared.

  Nothing in her adult life, other than her few close female friendships, had ever felt like that. Like a cloak settling on her shoulders, light and warm and hers.

  Nothing. Not her wedding ring. Not her lavish home. Not her disorienting wealth. Not the man who’d bestowed the ring and the home and the wealth upon her, and then taken them all back.

  That full-to-the-brim feeling, repeated each year, had helped sustain her over the last decade of teaching, despite long hours and piles of essays and staff turnover and administrative vagaries and the not-inconsiderable fury Dale evoked in her.

  And now he was taking that feeling away.

  After this year, a hundred AP U.S. History kids would dwindle to thirty or forty “traditional AP students” once more. Disproportionately wealthy, given the school population. Disproportionately white, too.

  Her pulse pounded in her head in a violent thump-thump-thump, and her thoughts raced and scattered like sophomores after the last bell.

  Deep breath. “If my enrollment drops substantially, I may not be given the resources I need to teach even a handful of AP kids. You know the superintendent is looking to cut costs.”

  Keisha didn’t argue. “Unfortunately, I have more unwelcome news. As another enticement for Mr. Krause to stay, Dale wanted to give him your classroom, since you’ve had one the longest of anyone here. He said your becoming a floater might help”—she made air quotes—“shake up stale pedagogical practices and lead to greater student success in the long run.”

  The school didn’t contain enough oxygen for the number of deep breaths Rose needed to take. Neither did the entirety of the Earth’s atmosphere.

  Fortunately for the universe’s oxygen supply, Keisha immediately added, “But that’s not happening. I told Dale giving the new teacher your room would cause chaos within our ranks. Classrooms have to be allotted by seniority within our department, period. Otherwise, I’d spend all year fielding requests and complaints.”

  Thank god for Keisha Williams, rightful queen of the department chairs.

  “So our new teacher will be a floater, as usual.” After another rub of her face, Keisha put on her glasses again. “But Dale wants to minimize the number of places Mr. Krause has to go, so he’ll be teaching in your room d
uring both of your planning periods.”

  Both of them? She’d have zero quiet, private time in her classroom during the school day? For an entire school year, and possibly longer?

  Her face, frozen in an expression of equanimity, felt as if it might shatter.

  “If I could have convinced Dale to change his mind, I would have. I certainly tried.” Keisha’s shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly. “But he’d already given in on the issue of ceding your classroom entirely, so he couldn’t be swayed. I’m sorry, Ms. Owens. I know having your own space is…” She hesitated. “I know it’s very important to you. I wouldn’t take your classroom for both your planning periods if I had any other choice.”

  Rose’s jaw made an odd popping sound. “I know. I appreciate it.” She attempted to marshal her thoughts. “Perhaps Mr. Krause could—”

  “Excuse me.” A quiet knock sounded from the cracked door, matching a quiet male voice. “I apologize for interrupting, but I wanted to let you know I was here. A bit early, I’m afraid.”

  After mouthing a silent I’m sorry to Rose, Keisha got to her feet. “Please come in, Mr. Krause.”

  Rose did the same, watching as the door swung open.

  And there stood the paragon. Martin, apparently. The man who’d inadvertently taken her Honors World History classes and—at least part of the time—her classroom.

  For a paragon, he was awfully nondescript. Maybe mid-forties. White, with a slight tan. Lean frame. Brown hair sprinkled with a little gray. Watchful blue eyes. Standard button-down and striped tie above a pair of standard dark pants. Unremarkable features. Not ugly, not particularly handsome.