Headmistress: A Greenbridge Academy Romance

by Knox, Abby

  Headmistress

  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 Kasi Alexander

  Cover Designer: Mayhem Cover Creations

  This book is dedicated to anyone turned on by a woman in charge.

  Headmistress

  Book Four in a collection of stories from Greenbridge Academy

  By Abby Knox

  Martha Moody has only ever wanted to be the leader of her alma mater, one of the most prestigious prep schools in the nation. So when a powerful family threatens to dismantle her life's work and everything the school stands for, she's not going to take it lying down. Unfortunately, someone from her past has shown up suddenly, complicating everything and clouding her judgment.

  Miles McRae has never stopped carrying a torch for his high school crush, who also happened to be his debate coach and English teacher-turned headmistress of Greenbridge Academy. Now a hot shot lawyer, he's called on to represent the family that's out to destroy her. Will he risk his career to make sure his own client's case fails before it even starts?

  Eyes on your own work, class! This older woman/younger man age gap romance will leave you with more than a little bit of chalk dust on your ass.

  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

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Abby Knox

  Coming up next

  1

  I love getting dirty before school starts.

  Harvesting the final haul of the summer herbs and tending the winter squash in the school garden has become a favorite annual activity for my Aunt Katie and me on the day before the start of the fall term.

  Since I was promoted to headmistress three Septembers ago, Aunt Katie—former headmistress herself—just can’t keep herself from coming by the school to see if I need help before the grounds fill up with children and my schedule overflows with meetings and other obligations.

  Sunlight shimmers on the small lake nearby as she laughs and reminisces about her turbulent times leading the academy.

  “It’s a wonder you can laugh about it,” I say, pulling out a basil plant that’s bolted with little white flowers. “They put you through hell back in the day.”

  She waves me off and fills her basket with fresh mint. “Well, one fine-looking detective helped smooth over the rough places in my memory.”

  I stop to dab beads of sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand and look at her. She still blushes talking about her now-retired hunk of a husband. “You had many years of celibacy to make up for,” I say to her with a laugh. “That might have had something to do with it.”

  A day cannot possibly get better for me than spending it with her, the only blood family I have left. Tomorrow, my other “family” arrives—all the children in their pristine, pressed new uniforms, eager to fill their little brains with knowledge.

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “In all my years of educating, I’ve never felt anything better than the jolt of excitement on the day before school.”

  Aunt Katie laughs and spikes her spade into the dirt, finished with her side of the garden. “That’s because you’ve never had a proper jolt to your nethers.”

  “Oh God!” I say, covering my ears as she laughs at my mortification.

  “Why don’t you let me set you up with one of Dean’s friends? All retired, no drama.”

  I shake my head and pull out the annual flowers, getting the bed ready for mums. “Maybe I like drama. Maybe I like men my own age. Or younger.”

  Immediately I know I’ve said too much. I can see Katie pointing. “Well, you’ve never gotten over—”

  “Don’t say it!” I shout over her, but with a silly grin that can’t be denied. “You’ll get me fired.”

  She dismisses my worry with a wave of her hand. “My dear, you cannot be fired for a thing that never happened with a student eight years ago!”

  I scoff. “First of all, keep your voice down. Second of all, yes I can. He could come back and sue me for sexual harassment. I don’t know what he’s like now.”

  “He pursued you!”

  “Well, I didn’t exactly hate it.” I toss the old, dying summer flowers into the wheelbarrow. “Anyway, anybody can sue anybody for any reason these days. Let’s not jinx it, okay?”

  I set my mind to the tasks I need to finish later today. When Katie and I finish with the garden, I plan to shop for school supplies for kids at the nearby public school. My secret annual anonymous tradition makes my heart happy. I’ve never told Katie about this thing I do. I receive enough fawning and praise from her already; any unnecessary attention embarrasses me.

  I could easily let the groundskeeping crew handle the garden and spend my whole day preparing for the start of school, but planting and pulling weeds is good exercise. And, as it was a pet project of mine, it does the students good to see me working in it.

  Katie and I clean up our messes while we talk about lunch when I notice a strange woman approaching from the visitors parking lot. I stand up to greet her as she comes closer.

  Her conservative, professional and plain outfit first makes me think she could be looking for a job here.

  “May I help you?” I ask as she walks directly up to me.

  “Mary Martha Moody?”

  I chuckle because absolutely nobody calls me by my full name.

  “Yes, I’m Martha.”

  The young woman holds a manila envelope out to me. Confused, I reach for it and when I do, she chirps, “You’ve been served.”

  I stand there in shock while I watch the woman disappear into the lot. I drop my gardening gloves to examine the contents of the envelope.

  “My God, we did jinx it. Is that boy actually suing you?” Katie asks, but my heart hammers so loud and my ears ring so badly, she could be a thousand miles away.

  I snap myself out of my temporary fugue and read the first lines of the papers inside.

  Oh. Shit.

  “What is it?” Katie demands to know.

  I hold it out to her and she takes it.

  “It’s not that boy. It’s the Chamberlains,” I sigh, closing my eyes and pinching the bridge of my nose, as if the universe will be set right again if I just concentrate hard enough.

  Katie, the former nun and most formidable leader this school has ever seen, mutters, “So they’re at it again, are they? Fucking Chamberlains.”

  2

  Miles

  My newest client can best be descri
bed as a giant prick.

  I feel close to being completely over having to take on clients that I hate.

  Clicking my Montblanc pen absentmindedly under the conference table, I try not to let my eyes glaze over while the guy across from me blusters, “And when we get rid of the ice queen that runs that school, we go after all the teachers and administrators who are loyal to her.”

  As a fresh, green associate at Garcia, Smith & Jones, I don’t have a lot of choices in my clients. When a busy founding partner of the firm gives one of her cases to you, you say, “Yes, Ms. Garcia, and may I also shine your shoes?”

  As the client blathers on about what he wants out of this case, I can’t decide what I resent more: the fact that he’s going after a female headmistress of my alma mater, or that he’s chosen to wear shorts and a ballcap to this initial consultation. True, the general public isn’t subject to a dress code when meeting with an attorney. But come on. Present yourself like a grown-ass man.

  “…And I know for a fact the school library has a whole section of religious texts, so what could she possibly have against a simple statue? You know what I think? I think she’s biased. If she’s gonna remove all religious symbols from the school then she should get rid of those books, too.”

  I have to remind myself that I don’t have to like the guy. But I do have to try to understand what he’s rambling about. Truth is, I haven’t even opened the file yet. Garcia dumped this guy on me less than an hour ago and I haven’t exactly had time to prepare for this meeting.

  Hell, it’s been so long since I visited the hallowed halls of Greenbridge Academy that I don’t even know who this headmistress is currently.

  I flip open the manila folder while I nod and scribble notes. This guy is all over the place. I remove a stack of initial paperwork to have him fill out at home and bring back later. Sometimes, these hot heads don’t know what they’re getting themselves into and they change their minds overnight.

  “Oh, those?” he says, looking at me with disdain. “I downloaded these off your website yesterday, already filled ’em out. That lady lawyer, Miss Garcia, said that lady principal has already been served. Here.” He sniffs importantly while he unlatches a 1980s-looking briefcase, and I have to control the mocking look on my face. He might be a bumbling tool but his family owns the biggest construction company in town. He can more than afford the services of this law firm.

  Chamberlain slides some papers over to me and I peruse them while I also correct him. “Ms. Garcia is the founding partner of this firm. There’s no need to put the word ‘lady’ in front of everything.” In my head, I finish that sentence with “jackass.”

  My jaw hits the floor when I read the paperwork more closely and finally see the name of the defendant. “Mary Martha Moody.”

  It’s a good thing I’m into fasting every other day, or my breakfast would be rising up in my throat. As it is, the black coffee I drank this morning is definitely threatening to come back up.

  I check everything over. Maybe it’s a case of mistaken identity on my part.

  But there’s no denying it. It’s Greenbridge Academy. It’s her. I feel as though the floor has cracked open, the walls are crumbling around me and the ceiling is caving in.

  How can this happen? Who would want to sue this woman? This incredible, brilliant woman… And why would a toad like this guy in front of me dare to stand in her way? Does he even know her? Has he ever even spoken to her personally? If he did, he would have figured out by now that it’s best to just let Ms. Moody do whatever the hell she wants.

  I would have thought that history had taught us all—including the Chamberlains—not to try so hard to throw one’s weight around.

  And yet, here I am, forced to represent the bloated twit who wants to take everything away from the only woman I have ever adored.

  3

  Miles

  I walk the long, stylishly minimalist hall down to the office of founding partner E.L. Garcia, Esq.

  Clearly, I can’t take on this case.

  At the very least, I’ll have to inform Ms. Garcia that Martha Moody is a former teacher of mine. I hold the disclosure form in my hand.

  I push in through the engraved glass door. The receptionist greets me warmly and asks if I have an appointment to see the big boss.

  I shake my head. “No, I just have a disclosure to drop off.”

  She answers perkily, “Oh! I’ll have her paralegal file it when he gets back from lunch.”

  Megan holds out her hand expectantly but I’m still not sure.

  “Actually, I’ll wait. On this one, I need to speak directly to her.”

  Without batting an eye, she nods and says she’ll ask Garcia to save five minutes for me when her current consult ends, and sends Garcia a text alert that I’m waiting outside.

  I sit in an oversized white leather chair in the waiting area and look over the document in my hand, considering.

  I’ve read through all the paperwork that nimrod filled out. It turns out there’s a lot of money and ulterior motives behind that dopey exterior. The Chamberlain family has been trying to unseat one leader or another of the school since the 1980s, when the school went through a huge upheaval and a change in its charter.

  This time around, it looks as if they’re trying to use monuments and the school’s founding fathers to make a point about the school’s heritage. According to their documents, their chief complaint is that Moody has contracted to have the final piece of major religious statuary removed from the grounds: a large statue of the Virgin Mary that overlooks the reflecting pond.

  Not only is the Chamberlain family angry that she’s taking it down, but when the family offered to replace it with a monument of the Ten Commandments, she refused. Apparently, in Chamberlain’s world, them’s fighting words.

  Never mind that every single kid back in the day—and probably the current students—referred to that giant concrete figure as “Scary Mary.” It is scary. It’s too tall and modern and angular to even be suitable as a piece of art to complement the classic architecture of the school. It’s always been a sore subject, ever since the troubles of the 1980s.

  I smirk to myself. Martha may not even need my help with this. The Chamberlains could lose this one all on their own. Woe be unto any witless schlub who went up against Ms. Moody in a debate back in my day, and I’m sure nothing about that has changed.

  It was the debate team that made me fall in love with her in the first place.

  * * *

  My first day of senior year at Greenbridge Academy was eight years ago.

  That was the year I decided to pursue law as a career at the behest of my lawyer father, and so decided to try out for the debate team.

  I can still smell the classroom where Ms. Moody held tryouts after school. Chalk dust and Pine Sol. And then she walked in. Hunter green turtleneck sweater with school logo. Charcoal gray wool pencil skirt that hugged her hips as she walked in with those chunky, lace-up witchy heels and thick, opaque tights. Hair up in a tight bun and thick glasses. She may have had every inch of her skin covered apart from her face and hands, but the way that skirt flaunted her hip sway when she walked was everything. Every stitch of clothing she wore was carefully chosen and created the perfect, soft silhouette. The dip of her waist from her hips was so abrupt, I couldn’t help but picture my hands there, holding her flush against my body. Full lips curved into a slight, knowing smile, and eyes the color of a cloudy day that threatens a storm. She oozed sex without knowing it.

  “Let’s begin tryouts. Mister McRae, you’re first. What have you prepared for us?” And that voice: sultry and challenging.

  Of course, I’d prepared nothing. I thought I’d wing it, standing up in front of her and the whole seasoned debate team to speak extemporaneously about—what was it again? Oh yeah—

  “The death penalty.”

  Ms. Moody’s lips quirked upward in a look of skepticism. “This topic has been around the block many times, so you’d better
give me something good, McRae.”

  Some dudes might find this emasculating. I actually felt a twitch in my pants while she essentially labeled my topic as unoriginal.

  Ms. Moody started the timer and I gave my argument. I completely focused on her, not once muttering “um” or glancing out the window. I did not search the ceiling tiles to try to remember my points, nor at the ground when I was uncertain. I just kept staring into those dark gray eyes of hers. And she stared back at me with her head tilted slightly to the side, her elbow resting on her desk, hand in the air quietly clicking her pen. Call me a late bloomer, but that was the first erection I ever got at school.

  When I finished my argument, she leaned back, crossed her arms in front of her and said with a look of someone who’s intrigued but suspicious, “Mister McRae, you are a decent enough speaker. You need to make your point much faster if you want to excel at debate. And you also need to not be full of shit. If I catch you winging it, ever again, you’re off the team.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, my eyes still searching hers for something. How did she know I had totally winged it?

  I did get something from the look in her eyes. A glimmer of hope. Damn me if I didn’t see a rosy flush creep up above the line of her turtleneck sweater, and her eyes blink rapidly and cut away to pretend to look at her legal pad, on which she’d written zero notes.

  That was the moment I fell in love with her. What can I say? I love a powerful, no-nonsense woman.