Page 10 of My Forbidden Billionaire
“Are there any other rules I should be aware of?”
“Oh yes. There’s a whole handbook of them,” she replies, opening up her desk drawer and pulling out a thick booklet. “Here, take this.”
I take the handbook from her and flip through it, noticing that it’s full of pages and pages of rules and regulations. It’s overwhelming.
“Don’t worry, you’ll get the hang of it soon enough,” Stephanie says, noticing the look of bewilderment on my face. “And if you ever have any questions, just come to me. I’ve been here for a while and I know how things work.”
“Thanks, Stephanie. You’re really kind.”
“It’s my pleasure. Now, let’s do something about your outfit before your meet-and-greet,” Stephanie says.
I watch as she opens the small closet next to her desk. There’s a series of white lab coats packed in there, a few overalls, and some casual clothes. She pulls out a long, but quite stylish, black coat and hands it to me.
“There you go. I can’t do anything about your pants, but this should do. At least it’s long enough to cover them a little. And it’s black—so, Ms. Abadie won’t comment anymore.”
“This is incredible. You are a lifesaver, Stephanie! I mean it!”
“Don’t mention it! You can buy me a cup of coffee or something.” She winks. “But now I really have to go. I’ve got my own meet-and-greet in the chemistry lab and I have a senior class this year, among others. They’ll want to know how to prepare for the final exams. Wish me luck!”
She waltzes out of her own office while I follow suit, pulling on the black coat to conceal my—apparently shameful—navy blue wardrobe. It’s not a perfect match, but it will do quite well.
As I make my way toward the literature classroom—my classroom—tension grips the back of my neck as my knees weaken. I slow my pace.
This is it.
I try not to bump into the hundreds of parents and students who have filled the hallways. They rush by like little rivulets, flowing in the direction of every classroom and gathering space that the school has to offer. I can see them entering the library and running down the stairs to the chemistry and physics labs.
And then, out of the crowd, a dashing man stands out like a Greek statue—perfectly carved and poised. Tall and athletic, too—impossibly handsome.
He’s walking down the corridor as if he owns the entire building, unbothered by the moms surrounding him, whose heads are on swivels as they’re clearly gawking—overcome by his good looks. Before I get the chance to wonder which classroom he’s heading to, he disappears into mine.
Voices murmur from inside and my palms glisten as I step toward the open door. It’s my first day, my first meeting, and a countless number of parents are waiting for me. My heart is beating so hard that I fear it might rip through my ribcage. My breath simply won’t settle down.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
I brace myself and enter the hall, and about a hundred pairs of eyes suddenly turn and stare at me.
I walk to my desk and pull out my laptop. I don’t think I’ve ever been this aware of my hands. My fingers are trembling on the keys of the laptop as I prepare my presentation. My knees are wobbling slightly behind my desk, while my throat constricts.
I’m overcome with the realization that I must actually address these people.
Public speaking is a bit frightening. I’ve gotten comfortable speaking in front of students, but talking to parents is a whole different ball game. And this classroom is overflowing with parents who are watching my every move, like wolves ready to pounce on the deer in the clearing.
They’re waiting to pounce on me—the woman who’s teaching literature to their beloved children. This is my moment to make a good impression—to show what I’m capable of.
“Good morning, everyone! My name is Josephine Andrews, and I’m the new literature instructor here at Jameson Juniper Hall! Thank you so much for being here today.” I glance up at the screen to ensure my PowerPoint is on display. “I’ve prepared a brief presentation for you concerning the school year, the curriculum, and the exams that your children will be facing. If you have any questions, at any point, please—feel free to interject.”
As I scan the room at large, I can see that quite a few of the parents are nodding. That’s a good sign—so I charge on, emboldened by this.
“We’ll be starting with Chaucer and then will make our way through early British literature until we get to Shakespeare. I plan on including a few examples of European literature as well, which have proven to be beneficial for children of their age, such as Don Quixote…”
I cast another glance around the room, and I can see that many of the parents are now taking notes. My knees start to fortify a little and I click the space bar for the new slide.
“Recent studies prove that the inclusion of these chapters, as well as the mention of classic literary works has impressive benefits for the cognitive development of children between the ages of ten and fourteen, which is why—”
“What do you think?” a deep voice from the back of the room interrupts me.
Suddenly, the entire room goes silent—so quiet, it feels like I’ve entered one of those strange, sensory deprivation chambers. I whip around to see who’s talking but can’t find the source. Then, just moments later, the voice speaks once again.