DASH: A Secret Billionaire Romance

by Lucy Lambert

  When I’d brought it up with Mr. Stockwell he said there wasn’t any room in the budget for new bulbs until the next semester.

  I’d been doing some calculations, and if I skipped lunch for a week and had noodles for breakfast I could afford some new ones.

  One of the big windows looking out onto the plain concrete courtyard had a big spider web of cracks radiating from the point where someone had thrown a beer bottle at it over the summer. No room in the budget to get a new pane put in, either.

  And that’s definitely beyond what I can afford, even if I switch to Ramen for all my meals.

  It still made me feel bad, though. Like I wasn’t trying hard enough.

  The room had been designed with twenty five people in mind and we had nearly twice that in there. I had to keep my desk so close to the chalkboard that if I leaned back too far I would get white dust all over my shoulders.

  “Okay everyone, you can save the gossip for break,” I said, standing up. There wasn’t quite enough room for the chair to completely clear the knee hole of the desk, and I had an awkward moment making it over the gap.

  The kids quieted down, for the most part. I picked up the stack of papers and banged them down on the desk, straightening them out.

  Though it wasn’t fair to call them all kids. This was the 12th grade. They were mostly 17 or 18. There were even a couple holdover, hard-luck cases whose next birthdays would let them legally drink in this state.

  Those ones were only a few years younger than I was.

  “I’m proud of you guys,” I said, “The class average from the last assignment is up half a letter grade! I told you guys Dickens wasn’t that hard.”

  I started handing the papers back, watching the students’ reactions from my peripheral vision. A lot of these kids didn’t get much positive reinforcement. Not from home, not from school, not from their friends.

  Tyler, the first student to come in that day, grinned when he saw the B+ on his paper. He’d started the semester with lots of Ds with the odd C to break it up. “You earned it,” I said to him.

  “But,” I said as I handed back the final paper in my stack, “I still think that you guys can bring that average up even higher. In fact, I know you can. So, if you’ll all get your copies of Great Expectations out, we can start the lesson.”

  Desks and chairs squeaked as the students pulled out their copies. Many of the copies were different editions. Old library copies with the binding coming loose. Publisher discards with the front cover torn off and a warning on the inside saying if you found the book for sale with the cover removed to get in touch with the legal division.

  Basically, anything that I could find that was still legible. I myself had my marked-up copy I’d used back in college. It was a Penguin.

  I was just about to start lecturing about the imagery of having one’s life turned literally and figuratively upside-down when someone knocked on the door.

  I looked back over my shoulder and saw Mr. Stockwell’s thin face peering back at me through the wire-reinforced window. He made a quick come here gesture with one hand and I frowned.

  I sighed, then nodded at him. “Why don’t you all find one example of figurative language in the first chapter and we’ll talk about it in a few minutes?”

  I went and opened the door. Mr. Stockwell pulled me out into the hall. “What is it?” I said.

  Mr. Stockwell was in his late forties but looked like he was pushing 60, what with the deep furrows in his brow, the silvery horseshoe of hair around his head, and a pair of deep-set eyes that looked constantly worried and bewildered.

  Right at that moment he stood there in front of me, wringing his hands and glancing furtively up and down the hall as though someone might catch him in the act.

  But in the act of what?

  That wasn’t to say I didn’t like the man. I knew he tried to do right by the students and faculty. It was just another of those all-too-common stories of schools suffering under the weight of repeated funding cuts, increased class sizes, all that.

  “Are you ready? He’s here.”

  “He...?” I said.

  Mr. Stockwell stopped glancing around so that he could fix me with his sunken eyes. “Charlie, we’ve known about this for a month now.”

  I’d spent the last month drilling good essay habits into my students’ heads, sourcing copies of Great Expectations for this class and King Lear for another class, as well as countless hours and sleepless nights grading papers and assignments.

  So I couldn’t help the spasm of anger that seized my guts. I reminded myself again that none of this was Mr. Stockwell’s fault. “It must have slipped my mind. Who is he?” I said.

  I leaned over so that I could look into my classroom. They were a good bunch of kids, of young adults, but it was amazing how fast they could get up to mischief if you let them.

  “Alexander Crossley. He’s here for the CEO-in-Residence program.”

  I rolled my eyes at that. Some marketing guy probably came up with such a trite, cutesy title. It all screamed PR Stunt to me. Like some mega rich CEO gave a crap about a bunch of inner city kids.

  Mr. Stockwell saw my disdain and he lifted his hands in the same gesture he used to quiet the students during an assembly.

  “I don’t have to tell you how important this is, Charlie. It could mean a lot of money for the school.”

  “But why me?” I said. All I could think about was making sure I set aside enough time to mark papers, to identify areas where my students struggled and figure out new lesson plans to help them.

  Well, that and the text message on my cell phone. The one that had been there for six months and counting, that I knew I should delete, but didn’t.

  “We’ve been over this, Charlie. The PTA selected you as the official school ambassador for the program. If you didn’t want it, you shouldn’t have won those teaching awards.”

  “No good deed goes unpunished, right?” I said, but I nodded. I just wanted to get this over with, to get back to my job. I had enough on my plate without having to worry about holding some billionaire’s hand.

  Mr. Stockwell relaxed visibly, his shoulders slumping and some color returning to his cheeks. “I have to say, I’m glad it’s you and no one else. You really have been dedicated to...”

  I cut him off, trying not to smile, “I heard this speech at the award ceremony. I’m just doing my job. Speaking of which, please tell Mr. Crossley that I won’t be able to meet him until lunch. Unless, of course, you want to go and take over my lesson? I just started talking about the motif of inversion in Great Expectations.”

  At that, Mr. Stockwell blanched, his eyes shifting to take in the classroom over my shoulder. He hadn’t taught in close to a decade, I knew. Lost his nerve.

  I’d been planning on spending lunch in the teacher’s lounge with a steaming cup of noodles and another stack of essays, getting as many marked as I could. Well, that and doing my best to not obsessively read the text message on my phone. Not that I needed to; I knew it by heart.

  But that would have to wait, all thanks to Alexander Crossley.

  I hadn’t even met the guy and already I didn’t like him. Couldn’t he see how this whole PR stunt of his interfered with a whole school?

  “I’ll tell him,” Mr. Stockwell said. “And Charlie? Have you considered taking a bit of a break?”

  “Why?” I asked, startled by the question.

  “You’ve always been hard working... but this year, there’s something different. Is everything okay?”

  I knew what he wanted to say. I knew he wanted to tell me that I was acting manic, possessed. But he didn’t go there.

  “Of course,” I said, a sudden need inside me urging me to hide my cell phone, as though Mr. Stockwell might know what was on it.

  Mr. Stockwell’s concern waned, and a cool, trembly sensation of relief filled the pit of my stomach.

  Lunchtime rolled around and I stopped outside Mr. Stockwell’s office, willing my stomach not
to growl.

  Mr. Stockwell had given the CEO his office for now, probably because it was the nicest room in the building. No spray-painted tags on the walls, the paint fairly new, all that.

  There was a long window looking into the admin office and I checked myself in the reflection, tucking my blouse back into my pants and tugging at the cuffs of my blazer, which I’d thrown on a few minutes earlier.

  I knew how young I was. Like I said, only a few years older than some of my students. I was painfully aware. So I tried to look more mature by dressing more maturely. It seemed to work on the students at least.

  Even though most of the times I caught myself in a reflection I thought I looked like a girl playing dress-up.

  No use procrastinating anymore, I thought as I stared into my reflection’s eyes. I’d drilled the lesson into my head long ago that you shouldn’t put things off, especially not the unpleasant things, because they just keep growing in your mind.

  Better to be like a Band-Aid: tug it off in one quick pull rather than agonizing about it.

  I realized that that was an ill omen. I had yet to introduce myself and I was already thinking about Mr. Crossley like that.

  I knocked on the door, my heart thudding against my ribs.

  “Come in,” I heard him say.

  I opened the door and found him sitting at Mr. Stockwell’s desk. He looked up at me, then did a double take, his eyes narrowing. My heart raced. I wondered if there was a stain on my blazer. If my hair was sticking up. If I’d forgotten to put makeup on over the dark circles beneath my eyes. If...

  “You’re a woman,” he said, apparently shocked by that fact.

  I couldn’t help myself. I gave the hallway a secretive glance, looked back at him, and put a finger up to my lips. “Shh, don’t let anyone know.”

  Meanwhile, I experienced a touch of hurt. I mean, I knew I wasn’t some bikini bombshell, but I also knew that I didn’t look like a man. Or did I? And why won’t he stop staring at me?

  Panicked self-awareness flashed through me, and I again felt the urge to check and see if there was a big stain on my blouse or my slacks that I’d missed before coming in.

  He seemed to realize what he was doing and he shook his head, bringing his eyes back up to mine.

  “Mr. Crossley, I presume?” I said.

  I also have to admit that, after the initial shock of his comment left, it was amusing to put someone like him on the spot.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Charlie Morgan,” I replied, holding out my hand, “Miss Charlie Morgan.”

  He reached out and gave my hand two quick, businesslike pumps, apparently fully recovered. Then he cracked a smile that was a bit crooked and a lot mischievous. “I heard the name Charlie and figured I’d be meeting with a male teacher.”

  I pulled my hands back and crossed my arms. “Is this going to be a problem?”

  I knew this was a bit harsh. I’d just met the man and already I was laying into him for an honest mistake. I couldn’t help it, though. I couldn’t help thinking about how I had to scrimp and save to buy office supplies for my kids and that he could go out and blow pretty much any amount of money and not even think about it.

  I couldn’t help thinking about how right now I could be marking papers and doing up lesson plans, but instead I had to babysit him.

  And the worst part of it all was that I couldn’t help but see how handsome Mr. Alexander Crossley was, with his dark hair, smoldering eyes, and tailored suit.

  He stood up and buttoned his jacket, “No problem at all. A pleasant surprise, even. Miss, is it? Not Mrs?”

  My mind couldn’t help flashing to the tabloids and newspapers I saw on the rack down at the A&P. Scandals, mostly. Crossley with this starlet and then that one. Sometimes more than one at once.

  It was no wonder he wanted in on this program. The embattled CEO trying to improve his image before that reputation of his hurt his company.

  He was supposed to inspire the students to something greater, but I hoped no one followed his example.

  And what does that mean? ‘A pleasant surprise?’ Was he teasing me? That would definitely fit in with what I knew about him.

  I noticed again that involuntary pang of desire inside of me when I looked at him. I pushed it away savagely. Just hormones, that’s all. It was just a physical thing.

  His eyes searched mine, unwavering. I had the urge to look down at the floor, but resisted.

  “Look, I don’t know about you, but I’m getting hungry,” he said, “Let’s grab some lunch and discuss how this is supposed to go. I understand that I’m supposed to give some talks to the school in a few assemblies, visit the different classrooms, talk about how I became so successful...”

  “Mr. Crossley...”

  “It’s Alex, if I can call you Charlie.”

  “Mr. Crossley,” I rode over him, getting a small sense of satisfaction from the way one of his eyebrows lifted in surprise that I would talk over him like that.

  Except then I saw it wasn’t irritation that made him raise the eyebrow, but amusement. My amusement wilted.

  I continued, “Thank you for agreeing to this program. I’m sure the students here at Thomas A. Edison will benefit from your wisdom. But I’m a teacher here first and your tour guide second. And right now I have a stack of Great Expectations pop quizzes I need to get marked.”

  He flashed his rogue’s grin at me, but what came next I didn’t expect, “’So I came to be called Pip,’” he quoted, “I could give a talk about expectations, great or small. Or about not being who people think you are. What do you say to lunch?”

  So he knows Charles Dickens. So what? That doesn’t mean anything, I thought, barely able to contain my surprise. Another thought, which I snuffed before it could finish, started: Maybe he’s not so bad...

  I knew that Mr. Stockwell would want me to do anything and everything in my power to please this man, but my students had to come first. And I had to make sure that he knew that.

  “I don’t think that would be appropriate. I have those quizzes to mark, and another class to prepare for. If you want to get started, you can meet me in room 137 for final period.”

  He pulled his sleeve back and glanced at the crystal face of his watch, frowning. “And what should I do until then?”

  I’d already begun to turn around. I stopped at the door to Mr. Stockwell’s office and looked back at him over my shoulder. “Don’t you have a multinational corporation to oversee?”

  Harsh, I thought. I didn’t know entirely why I was laying into him so hard. Using him as some sort of focus point for my frustrations, I suppose. A defensive reaction to realizing that I found him attractive, maybe.

  And that made me think about the old message on my phone. A message I knew I needed to delete, but one that I also knew I’d be looking at in a few minutes.

  “You’d think so,” he replied, that grin spreading across his lips again.

  Chapter 3

  ALEXANDER

  I couldn’t help smiling at Charlie Morgan’s (Miss Morgan! my mind corrected with a touch of humor) exasperated expression. She was the most interesting thing that happened to me all day.

  And she didn’t have a comeback to my comeback, and I saw how that flustered her. A hot flush crept into her cheeks before she could turn away from me and continue down the hall.

  I went and leaned against the door frame, watching her walk away, wondering if she might turn around for another look at me.

  I’d especially liked the look on her face when I quoted one of the opening lines to Great Expectations at her. The way she’d frowned, a tiny line appearing between her eyebrows.

  I continued watching her go, looking at the way her blazer tapered at the waist, the way her hips filled out her slacks. I caught myself wondering how she might looked if she dressed to compliment her body rather than hide it.

  She kept her hair pulled back in a ponytail, which swung from side to side with each strike of her feet on
the semi-polished floor. I found myself wondering what it might be like to wrap one arm around her waist, press her body against mine, and then use my other hand to pull on that ponytail, make her expose that neck of hers.

  I wondered what sort of sound she might make if I were to then run my lips over the sensitive skin of her throat, whether that skin might pebble and tighten with gooseflesh.

  I could tell that she was trying so hard to be seen as professional, respectable.

  Of course, I also kept thinking of that old classic rock song, “Hot for Teacher.” There was something about Charlie that attracted me in a way opposite of that of, say, Alisha back at the office.

  I definitely wanted to learn more about Miss Charlie Morgan.

  Here I’d been thinking about how boring and pointless this whole thing was going to be, spending all this time in some rundown school full of hard luck cases. But now I had myself a challenge.

  At least there’s something interesting here, I thought, glancing again at the rows of dented and vandalized lockers and the old floors that had gone way beyond the point of a simple polish.

  Still, a small thread of discomfort wormed its way into my mind. This place reminded me far too much of where I spent my own youth. Something I’d prefer not to dwell on.

  I wasn’t where I came from. I was where I intended to go, and meant to accomplish.

  Chapter 4

  CHARLIE

  I finished my class (Grade 11 English instead of Grade 12) and couldn’t hold out any longer.

  I waited until all the kids cleared out, most of them toting their tatty copies of Jane Eyre. Then, when the sounds of the voices in the hall started to reach its regular buzzing level I pulled my phone out.

  I hid it in the knee hole of my desk, despite no one else being around to see it. It was a secret, I suppose. A secret I wanted to keep even from myself.