Teach Me (There's Something About Marysburg, #1)

by Olivia Dade

“Throughout world history, for a variety of reasons, people have erased powerful women, both literally and figuratively, both during their lifetimes and after their deaths. In Hatshepsut’s case, her late husband’s son did it by destroying her statues. Literal erasure. Other female pharaohs remained undiscovered for centuries because archaeologists assumed they must be men. Figurative erasure. One could even argue that Hatshepsut erased herself in the later statues she commissioned, although I think the issue is more complicated than that.”

“But my larger point is this: Powerful women—some famous, some not—have always existed in world history, just as they exist today. There were influential women in every culture, in every time.” He closed his laptop. “In my class, I don’t save discussions of women for women’s history month, because if we don’t talk about women, we’re not addressing half the population. If you don’t know what they were doing, what rights they did or didn’t have, how they affected their culture and government and economy, you don’t know history. Period.”

“The same principle applies to other marginalized groups. History is written by those in power, but those deprived of power deserve to be seen too. For the sake of their humanity, but also because their stories are crucial in understanding world history. Our job this year is to see everyone, not just great leaders. Even leaders as great as Hatshepsut.”

She’d just watched Martin—who knew full well she was observing him that particular period—walk his high-school class through a well-considered discussion of gender, power, and the historical erasure of women and the marginalized. Heard him declare with quiet passion that their stories mattered. That, by inference, her story mattered. That she mattered. Brandi Rose Owens. Born female and poor. Unlikely to appear in any history textbook. She understood her own worth and power. The choices she’d made to honor the former and preserve the latter. Now she knew he did too.

The English department did seem rather intense, now that he thought about it. He should have noticed during the whole Frankenstein Is Not the Monster Initiative earlier in the year, given all their posters and morning announcements and costumes and yelling during staff meetings. Not to mention the assembly. A quality production, but the hand puppets had been overkill.

Martin blinked. Wait. The school’s state-champion girls’ softball team consisted entirely of goths?

It wasn’t that her regal composure didn’t stir and attract him. It did. He just wanted all of her. Not simply the parts of herself she deemed safe for exposure.

“Hey, Bianca.” He rolled up his sleeves, not that it would matter in a minute. “Let’s talk about how overrated Tim Burton’s films are.” Her shoulders slowly pulled back. “What did you just say?” Once again, he extended a hand to Rose. This time she took it, and the explosion of prideful glee inside him might have been disproportionate, but he didn’t care. A win was a win. “You heard me. Quirk does not always equal quality.”

Thisssss

“Don’t fall on the wet floor,” he told her, unable to stop himself. Seventeen-plus years of Dad training. He couldn’t abandon it at a moment’s notice. She sighed, but her lips curved. “Thanks for that necessary tip, Mr. Krause.”

Yes, something had clearly misfired in her brain. But the man was a terrible liar. Just awful. There was absolutely no way in hell he’d ever intended to staff the dunk tank until he’d seen her plunge into the icy water. He’d come to the booth with no towel. No bathing trunks or wetsuit. No extra changes of clothing. No excuses to offer when Keisha found him in the tank and loudly wondered what in the world he was doing. No, he’d clearly intended to watch the festivities and consume mango salsa-topped latkes—very tasty—and go home just as bone-dry as when he’d arrived. One look at her goosebumps, and he’d taken off his shoes and prepared for submersion. And the way he’d dabbed at her face with that towel, his brow furrowed in concentration, his touch as light and soft and warm as a cashmere throw… No. She wouldn’t think it again. Wouldn’t feel it again.

“The cliché is correct: Villains get all the best lines. Besides, they drive the plot.” The long night had definitely caught up with her. She had few filters remaining between her brain and mouth. “And women often get cast as villains for trying to be the heroes of their own stories, so better to embrace the role from the start. Make it your own.”

“I don’t intend to present a more comfortable version of myself for anyone. Even me.” Yes, sometimes her feet ached, and she longed to relax into flip-flops or Crocs or Uggs or whatever comfortable, hideous shoes were currently popular. But discomfort was a small price to pay for the safety of an inviolate, immaculate shell. He spoke slowly. “Yet here you are. In sweats.” For him. Her breath hitched, and her hand jerked in the direction of her purse. Shit. Shit, this was a mistake.

“My father had very specific ideas about how boys should act and think and be. About how his sons in particular should act and think and be.” She’d laced her fingers together on the table in front of her, but not in a relaxed way. As if she were holding them back from doing something infinitely more destructive. But her voice was soft and sweet as whipped cream. “Such as?” “They should be good at sports. They should shout over other people. Make a mess. They should have lots of equally loud and messy friends. They should get laid early and often. Tell bitches to shut up and fuck off if they got too bossy or clingy.” He sighed. “His words. Not mine.” “I know.” Her fingers had turned bone-white in her own grip. “Go on.” “Boys shouldn’t care much about school or grades, or anyone else’s feelings. Shouldn’t like keeping their mom company as she cooked. Shouldn’t join Model UN. Shouldn’t cry if they got hurt or try to disappear during an argument.” He tried on a smile. It didn’t quite fit. “Basically, they shouldn’t be me.”

Buckling her seatbelt, she spoke without looking at him. “You know you’re just as much a man as your father and brother, right?” The buckle clicked into place. “And more importantly, you’re a better human.” The last bit was kind of mumbled, but he caught it.

She didn’t try to tug the door from his hands. Instead, she glanced up at him as the winter wind blew a strand of her hair across her cheek. “See you Monday?” When he carefully tucked the strand back behind her ear, he could have sworn she nuzzled into his touch for a millisecond. “See you Monday.”

She understood the weight and gift of that trust. The strength required to make such a valuable, fragile offering.

Without warning, Martin straightened, about-faced, shielded his eyes from the sun, and looked directly at her window. With a small, secret smile creasing his face, he gave his head a disapproving shake. Naughty, naughty, naughty. She offered him a taunting, wiggling wave of her fingers in return. With exaggerated gestures, he wrapped his arms around his torso and shivered. Shuddered, actually, his expression so pitiful she actually laughed out loud in the copy room. In response, she plucked at the sleeves of her fitted sateen jacket and slid her arms free, removing it in a slow, deliberate glide to show just how warm she was. Warm enough to lounge in just a thin, silky blouse. Below her, he went absolutely still on the frozen grass. Which was weird, because why would removing her jacket— Hold on. Had she just stripped for him? In the copy room? It was just a jacket, but still. What about stripping said friendly distance?

He hefted the bottle and carefully poured his steaming coffee into the cup, and she almost wept in envy. Then he nudged the cup directly in front of her. Oh, she wanted it. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t. “It’s yours. You should have it.” With sorrow in her soul, she slid it back in front of him. “If I fall asleep, please elbow me. And if I die of boredom, please scatter my ashes directly in front of the presenter, so he accidentally breathes me into his sinuses and gets an infection.” He grinned and moved the cup beneath her nose. She tried not to moan in need. “I had plenty of coffee after the fire drill. Because some of us needed to warm up more than others.” His lips quirked. “This is dark roast, by the way. Black and bitter.” “Like my heart.” She snorted, still amused at the running joke.

Martin leaned close and whispered, “Rose, stop eye-fucking the coffee and just drink it.” His breath, a waft of warm air. His mouth, so close to her ear… She shivered as a tingle of arousal eased down her spine. At the first tap of the microphone on the impromptu dais, she pulled herself together. “Language, Mr. Krause.” But she drank his coffee, and as she did, she could see him watching her mouth.

Discreetly, she tapped Martin’s knee under the table. He jumped, turning to her in a startled rush, and she rolled her eyes and removed her hand. Real smooth, Krause.

“Bingo?” he mouthed. “Really?” She scrawled in her notebook and turned it so he could see. Loser buys coffee next time. After a moment, he wrote a response on his legal pad. His gaze steady, he watched her read his message. What does the winner get? Whatever he or she wants, her fingers wrote, entirely without direction from her brain. Like he had at the sight of her copy room striptease, he went very still for a moment. His lips parted, and his handwriting became a bit choppy. High stakes indeed. They were. Higher than any she’d allowed for a long, long time.

And as everyone knew, teachers made absolutely terrible students, so she and Martin weren’t doing anything worse than, say, Mildred over there, with her crossword puzzle in her lap. Or Becky and Rasheed, who were whispering to each other. Or Jia, whose discreet game of cell phone solitaire seemed to be progressing nicely.

Dammit. Those were words she’d given Martin, and he made a low, pleased hum as he crossed through each of them. Fifteen minutes later, Martin was silently exulting in his imminent triumph. Either of two separate phrases would give him bingo: high-impact or research-driven. And since Barnes was about to start discussing assignments, she was probably fucked. So thoroughly fucked. She shifted in her seat as her imagination ran with that image, ran until it was flushed and breathless and sweaty. With effort, she dragged herself back to the tasks at hand. Professional development. Bingo.

“But you do have a hard shell. And that man is so into you, he can barely form words when you’re occupying the same space.” The department chair let that sink in for a moment. “I get that you may have had a hard past, and I get that he turned you down once for a date. But if you don’t intend to let him inside that shell, be kind.” Keisha’s braids rustled as she leaned forward. “Be kind, Rose.”

After folding herself into the driver’s seat, the department chair squinted up at Rose. “I almost forgot. Two more supervisory matters.” Her finger pointed at Rose once more. “Cool it with the note-passing at staff meetings.” Damn, that woman had sharp eyes, even if they spent some of their time crossed. Keisha’s grin pressed dimples into her round cheeks. “And at our next consultant presentation, I get my own bingo board.” Yup. Way too sharp.

he’d failed to spot any prices, which was always, always a bad sign. As the old saying went: If you had to ask, you couldn’t afford it.

“Believe me, your presence was our pleasure.” Alfred arranged his fork at a precise angle on his plate. “We’ve never met one of Rosie’s colleagues before.” No doubt they hadn’t. “Rose is quite private.” Annette’s shoulders visibly stiffened under that drape-y fabric, and her blue eyes narrowed on him. “She has her reasons. Anyone in her life would have to understand that and appreciate her for what she is, rather than what he’d like her to be.” Fuck. He hadn’t meant that as a criticism, merely a statement of fact. If honesty would fix this, he’d offer it.

He held Annette’s gaze without flinching. “I think Rose is magnificent. Smart and kind and hardworking and witty. Do I wish I knew more about her? Yes. But that doesn’t mean I resent her self-containment or that I’d ever push her to change for my own comfort.” Alfred’s mouth turned down at the corners. “Which makes you a better partner for her than our son ever was.” That…that was more information about Rose’s marriage than he’d expected to receive. More than he was comfortable receiving from anyone but her.

Annette reached across the table and covered his hand with hers. It was slim and cool. “I’m going to tell you something. Rose would kill me if she found out, so don’t share this with her.” More private information about Rose? No. He couldn’t allow it. “Please don’t—” he began. “She may try to appear impervious to hurt, but she’s not.” Annette patted his hand, then removed hers. “Cause her pain, and we’ll make quite certain you regret it.” “So much regret.” Alfred offer...

These people loved Rose. Would threaten near-strangers for her. Would openly criticize their own son’s behavior toward her. Which meant they deserved more truth. “I can’t promise I won’t ever hurt her, because I’m human, and I also don’t know enough about her to avoid any sore spots. But I can promise I will do my absolute, unequivocal best not to cause her pain. Ever.” “Good enough for me.” Alfred leaned over the table to thump Martin’s back. “For now, you can forget about all those terrible regrets. But we’ll be watching.” “Oh, Alfred.” Annette heaved a dreamy sigh, scooting her chair close to her husband’s so she could rest her head on his shoulder. “Did you hear that? Unequivocal. He’s a nerd, just like her.”

Rose’s hand on his arm somehow managed to heat his entire body, and her murmur tickled his ear in a shivery taunt. “Impressive acting skills, Krause. And if you’re worried about them paying for Bea’s meal, please remember that they have plenty of money. Besides, eating with people they like really does make them happy.” When she removed her hand, his forearm continued to burn from the contact.

then held Rose’s sleek, quilted black coat open for her. She stared at it, then at him. “Really?” But at that point she apparently decided to take the same approach with him as she did with her former in-laws. Without further protest, she let him ease her into the coat and draw her silky hair from beneath its collar. When his fingertips slid along her warm, soft nape, her chin tipped back, her eyes going half-lidded, and if his daughter hadn’t been standing three feet away, he honestly had no idea what he might have done next. Stroked her nape a second time. Kissed her. Found out whether he could earn that look again. And again.

“Dinner was fun. I hope Bea enjoyed it too. And like I said, please don’t think twice about letting Annette and Alfred pay for her.” She paused. “However, you should probably know that their performance tonight was just a warmup.” At his alarmed look, she laughed. “Once Annette gets out her Swarovski-studded reading glasses and starts talking about whether she needs one of those adjustable beds and a walk-in bath, that’s when you know you’re really in deep shit.” He could only imagine.

“I was complaining about how you always make me go to bed early so I get enough sleep, and I slipped up and called you Old Sobersides.” In his peripheral vision, he caught her grimace. “I’m sorry.” He darted a quick, reassuring smile her way. “I told you not to worry about that.” “I know. But I won’t do it again.” His daughter wiggled, settling herself more firmly in the seat. “Anyway, that’s not the interesting part. The interesting part is what she said.” He wasn’t certain he wanted to know, but Bea was going to tell him one way or another. “What did she say?” “She was really nice about it, but really serious too. She told me she didn’t understand the nickname. She said you had a great sense of humor and”—she crooked her fingers—“a sharp wit, and she thought it was hilarious to watch you say funny things with a straight face.” That felt good. Better than good.

“That’s when it occurred to me.” Bea spread her hands. “You and Mom don’t have the same sense of humor. Like, at all. She likes slapsticky stuff, and you’re more into nerdy references and wordplay. That’s probably why she didn’t think you were funny, but you totally are. Ms. Owens is right.” He didn’t know quite what to say to that. “Thank you?” “And then she said how much she’d wished for a dad like you when she was my age. Someone to tell her she was working too hard and that she needed to get enough sleep.” Again, more information he desperately wanted, but coming from the wrong mouth.

“The last thing she said was that all her students thought their parents were unfair and annoying sometimes. But not all of them had dads who cared enough to make sure their daughters got enough sleep. Which was her roundabout way of telling me to appreciate you,” Bea said. “And after that, I told her exactly what I’m about to tell you. I do appreciate you. You’re a great dad, and I love you, and I don’t tell you that enough.” How did Rose manage to twist his heart even when she was miles away? And how was he going to survive dropping Bea off at college? “I love you too.” He cleared his throat. Then cleared his throat again. “You’re the best daughter I can imagine having.”

“I told you before, and I’ll tell you again: Ms. Owens likes you. I mean, likes you, likes you.” She poked him. “I don’t know why you haven’t asked her out yet, but you need to stop messing around. Before some other guy figures out she’s awesome and snatches her up.” How much could he say without violating Rose’s privacy? “Ms. Owens isn’t always the easiest person to understand.” He selected each word with care. “Sometimes it can be hard to know what she wants.” Bea made a sort of unimpressed grunt. “Doesn’t seem that hard to me. Then again, you’re a dude.” “I am.” He turned into their driveway. “I am a dude.” “But I have faith you can overcome your dudeness.” As soon as he turned off the engine, she hopped out of the door. “Crack her like a walnut, Dad.” She thumped the hood in demonstration of said cracking.

“Is Martin okay?” she gasped out. “I can’t find him.” Keisha’s eyebrows rose. “He’s having back issues. He’s out today and maybe the rest of the week.” Thank God. Although…oh, he must be in terrible pain not to come to school, given the circumstances. “But…” Rose leaned forward, bracing her hands on her thighs. “But the AP test is coming up in a couple weeks, and I know he’s trying to review as much as he can beforehand. A random sub won’t be able to help much with that. Martin must be horrified.” “Be that as it may, he’s in no condition to come to school, so we called a sub.” Keisha glanced at the clock on the wall. “There really aren’t a lot of other options.” Shit. Rose needed to go. Now. “His AP classes are during my planning periods. I’ll take them. The sub can get everything else.” She hobbled toward the door. “Please e-mail me his substitute lesson plans if you can.” Keisha’s eyebrows essentially disappeared into her hairline. “I will.”

“Why…” He swallowed. “Why are you here?” That question could be answered so many ways. But if he wanted her gone, none of the more embarrassing responses mattered. “Keisha said you were in bad shape and might be out for the rest of the week, so I wanted to check on you. Maybe help, if you needed it.” She took a half-step back from the bed. “I’m sorry. I know this is an intrusion. I can g—” “No.” He reached out an arm, then clenched his eyes shut and let it fall. “No, Rose. Not a complaint. Definitely not a complaint. A question.”

If she didn’t need to leave, and he no longer required immediate assistance, she wanted to rest her feet for a moment. Before they fell off of their own accord. She looked around his small room, dominated entirely by the large bed. “Could I sit down somewhere? Is there a chair I could bring in here?” “Sit.” His hand rose an inch and patted the mattress once. “King. Plenty of room.” That seemed like a terrible idea. “I’ll jostle you.” He mumbled something she didn’t quite catch. “What?” She leaned closer, until a bare inch would have meant kissing him. His eyes closed again, this time as if in defeat. “Always wanted to have someone sitting next to me. Dad said…weak.” That asshole better hope she never encountered him, because her pointy-toed shoes were good for more than just fashion.

“When you were sick or hurt, you wanted someone beside you?” He sighed. “Yeah.” “Of course you did. All kids do.” His features relaxed when she stroked his brow, so she kept doing it. “Did your mom ever keep you company when you didn’t feel good?” “Sometimes. Until Dad came home.” “Hmmmm.” Slowly, she eased her weight down onto the mattress at his side. “My dad left before I was born. But when she wasn’t w...

Most of the time, Rose had stayed home alone when ill. But on the rare occasions when her mother insisted on calling in sick to work or missing class to nurse her daughter, she’d spread a threadbare quilt over the couch and cocoon Rose inside, positioning them so they could both watch cartoons. In those moments, getting sick had almost...

“Shhhhhhh.” With gingerly movements, she lifted his hand and placed it back by his side. “Sleep, Martin. I’m here.” She slowly scooted back until she could prop herself against the headrest and stretch her tired legs in front of her. Then she kept stroking his forehead as his brow cleared and his chest rose and fell in the steady rhythm of sleep. He hadn’t even asked how she’d gotten inside. Hadn’t questioned her right to come. Hadn’t hesitated to fall asleep under her touch. More trust from him. Maybe it was about time to return some of it.

“Different…” His voice was husky from sleep, his features softened. “Different doesn’t begin to express how you look right now.” After she’d gathered what she needed for an overnight stay, she’d changed clothing. Instead of her usual tailored pieces, she’d chosen a pair of soft knit gaucho pants and a slouchy silk tee, along with her favorite ballerina flats. Essentially, they were really expensive pajamas and slippers. All black, of course. All clothing she’d never worn outside her home before. Before she’d left, she’d also taken down her hair and gathered it into a loose braid, as she often did in the evening. A generous application of makeup remover took care of her usual foundation and blush and everything else that announced her readiness to do fashionable battle on a daily basis. This was as naked as she ever got, except during actual sex. And Martin, drugged but perceptive soul that he was, appeared to realize it.

His face abruptly creased in concern. “Not that you aren’t beautiful every day, because you are. Obviously. That’s not what I meant at all.” He’d called her beautiful. Just said it outright, as if it were a given. An immutable fact. As if any suggestion she wasn’t beautiful would offend him. How had all that sweetness survived his childhood intact? She would have said he had a heart of gold, but it must have been stronger than that. Steel. Diamond, maybe.

Fire sparked beneath her skin as he gently played with her fingers, exploring the valleys between them and the ridges of her knuckles with light strokes of flesh against flesh.

“I know you too well, Martin. You will always, always have enough functioning brain cells to worry. It’s one of your many charms.” He tugged her hand to his mouth, and his lips pressed against her palm. “Thank you.” “For calling you a worrier?” No oxygen again. She was going to have to evolve into a higher life form soon, one that could survive outside Earth’s atmosphere. “My pleasure.” His lips were soft. So soft. He spoke into the cup of her palm. “Thank you for caring about me. Thank you for coming to check on me.” His muffled voice turned dry. “Thank you for breaking into my home to do so.”

“Thank you for telling me about your father and your mother.” Goddammit, she was trembling like some nervous virgin. “I didn’t tell you much.” “It’s enough.” A tender kiss to the center of her palm, and then he folded her fingers over that spot.

“Let’s get you fed. I can ransack your closet later.” His steps slowed. “I’ll take that as a promise.” “You can take that any way you want.” They were almost precisely the same height, so when he turned his head, his lips came a hairsbreadth from hers. “Really?” His lashes were surprisingly long, but they didn’t shield the expression in his eyes. The yearning. The banked heat. The solemnity of a man ready to lay his soul bare. When she licked her lips again, he followed the movement with his gaze. Then his stomach protested with a rumble loud enough to wake neighbors. Rolling his eyes, he sighed. “Dinner. Then we talk.” Her arm tightened around his waist. “I’ll take that as a promise.”

Sandwich forgotten, he stared at her in horror. “You sacrificed both your planning periods to teach my AP classes? Your only break all day was lunch?” “I won’t lie.” She took a big bite, chewed, and swallowed. “I’m a bit tired. But I can keep covering for you until you’re ready to come back.” Now that he’d recovered from the initial gut-punch of seeing Rose entirely unguarded—in both expression and garb—for the first time ever, he could spot the circles beneath those wide-set amber eyes, the lines of tension around her lush mouth. No teacher had ever covered for him like she had. In fact, he couldn’t remember another teacher ever covering for anyone like that. This much gratitude was uncomfortable. Almost unbearable.