Page 1 of Taming His Teacher

Chapter 1

Erin

Whatever you do, do not think of them naked.

It’s my first day at my new job. My heart is beating hard and my palms are sweating.Don’t. Panic. Fainting is not the way to show them you’re in control.

The second hand on the clock ticks to seven-forty and I take a deep breath. Here we go.

“Good morning, gentlemen. My name is Erin Brewster. Miss Brewster to you, please, and we’ll be spending first period together this year.”

My eyes skim over my audience as I make my speech, telling them my rules for homework and tests, my expectations for making up work and seeking notes when they’re ill.

Teenage boys. Why did I think this was a good idea? They’re regarding me in polite silence, although if I could crystal-ball gaze into their adolescent skulls, I bet I’d see myself in revealing lingerie if anything at all, spread open in some pinup-worthy pose. I’m going to have to earn every inch from these boys.

When they’d filed in, I’d noticed all of them are taller than I am. To be expected since I’m five feet tall and they’re seniors, but I hope I’ll have a few inches on some of my freshmen. Please?

They’re a well-groomed crew on the whole: to-dress-code blazers clean and button-down shirts crisp. Whether because they want to make a good impression or because they haven’t had a chance to spill anything on themselves, I’m not sure. Most of them have the careless posture of kids who feel entitled to be here, a few the eager forward-leaning of perennial teachers’ pets, and one—whose intense gaze nearly sends me tripping over my wastebasket—sits ramrod straight. Dark blue eyes under heavy slanted brows and long lashes any cover girl would murder for observe me with a detached, cautious stare from the back row. He’s undecided about this new girl, but he doesn’t seem to be undressing me with his eyes.

Jesus, Erin, get a grip. You’re twenty-two, not sixteen, and you shouldn’t be thinking of anything other than how to get these kids through their AP exam. That’s right.Kids. You are an adult. The line here is firm.

I recognize most of the boys from going through the face book. It’s an old-school paper version the school gives out to faculty and staff to help us get to know the students before they arrive on campus. We’re to guard them with our lives. I can imagine the unsavory things that have been done with those booklets during the years they were passed out to students.

Taking roll call, I confirm my guesses about the identities of my students. The boys raise hands to help me find them in the small sea of ironic thrift shop silk ties and athletic duffel bags slung around the classroom. When I call the last student’s name, Zachary Shepherd, it’s blue eyes who raises a hand in acknowledgement, expression still impassive. Mr. Shepherd, then.

After introductions, I barrel straight into the textbook, drawing the graph of a simple parabola to illustrate the concepts of domain and range. Some of the boys exchange glances. They’re surprised our first class won’t consist entirely of inane pleasantries.Oh no, gentlemen, you’ve met your match in me.You’re all going to get fours or fives on the AP test if it kills me.It might.

The bells sound off in the distance and I wrap up my thought before sending them on their way to second period. They punch each other on the shoulders on the way out, fists landing against flesh hard enough to make me wince, but they smile.

The rest of the day is uneventful. My youngest kids, second period algebra, are sweet and as nervous as I am. I take it easier on them than first period, but not too easy. They may be fourteen, most scrawny, a few with bad skin, but they’re still teenagers. I need to establish my dominance in the classroom early and often. On one panicked night a few weeks ago, I’d watched a few episodes ofNanny 911andDog Whispererfor notes.

Working at a boys’ boarding school probably isn’t everyone’s idea of a dream job. But my grandfather spent his whole career at the Hawthorn Hill School; teaching, coaching, being a dorm parent. My whole life I’ve wanted to follow in his footsteps more than anything else. To be honest, it’s theonlything I’ve ever really wanted. My father booked it away from the Hill as fast as his feet could take him, wanting to escape to something bigger, less insular, somewhere he wasn’t Kent Brewster’s son. I don’t blame him. It’s a lot to live up to.

* * *

Shep

“Hey, Shep, wait up!”

I glance over my shoulder but don’t stop. Lucky’s always late, and he’s not going to hold me back. He sprints to catch up and falls in beside me, his messenger bag bumping against his side.

“How was your summer, man?”

“Fine.”

“Were you at home?”

Yeah, I’d been at home. Working my ass off holding down three jobs, getting yelled at by my mom for not being around to watch my little brother, and taking crap from my father because I’d gotten “too big for my britches.” But Lucky doesn’t give a shit about all that and I have no interest in spilling my guts.

“Yeah. You?”

“Nah. My parents made me go on this crap-ass immersion in Italy. The classes were a bitch, but Italian girls… Man, they are—”

I block out his rambling about Italian tits and snatch. I like girls as much as the next guy, but he sounds ridiculous, and most of his bragging is bluster. I’d be surprised if he’d done more than get his hand smacked away when he tried to sneak it up some Catholic girl’s skirt. Not that I should talk. I was too busy to think about girls this summer, never mind hook up with anyone.

Back at school where I’m not allowed to have more than a ten-hour-a-week campus job shelving books in the library, my mind isn’t too full of dangerous machinery, orders being shouted, and invoices to fill to find a stray thought during the day. I’ve recovered enough in the week I’ve been back that my head doesn’t go dark as soon as it hits the pillow. No. Now I’ve got room for thoughts of something other than what’s happening this very second and it’s been to one thing they’ve been wandering.

The new math teacher. Miss Brewster. Erin. I hadn’t been so sure about her when Headmaster Wilson introduced her at opening convocation. She’s pretty. Not in a flashy way. In a girl-next-door kind of way. Except I’ve never lived next door to a girl who looked like that. I got stuck with the Donnelly brothers, all five of whom thought it was fun to pick on my brother and therefore all five of whom I’ve had to apologize to after punching. Nope, I’d trade their flaming red heads for Erin’s shiny brown any day.

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