Three Cocky Billionaires and a School Teacher (Three Guys and a Girl Volume 2, #11)
Chapter One
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Genevieve
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Well, this definitely makes sense now.
I continue to click through the images on my laptop. If I were easily impressed, I would be in awe that people actually live like this—that they have that much money. Apparently, they do.
But money can’t buy everything, and I’m about to make that clear to Mr. and Mrs. Grant—in person.
I scribble down the address in my little notebook—yes, I’m old-school, and I like it that way—though I probably don’t even need it; I’d just have to look for the tallest building on the Upper East Side, where all the stinking rich people live.
“Hey, you. What’s up?”
I glance at the pretty girl bouncing into the teacher’s lounge, carrying a stack of books in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. Esme Vega is never without her coffee; she drinks it by the liter.
Considering her abuela is a renowned fashion designer who creates the most amazing clothes I’ve ever seen, Esme’s sense of fashion often fails her on a daily basis.
She’s happiest wearing her signature floral pants that are two sizes too big and a striped t-shirt three sizes too big—every single day. She has three sets of each item, so laundry day never gets her down.
She’s also one of my two best friends, despite her fashion faux pas, and I wouldn’t trade her for the world.
We met in high school and have remained close ever since.
My other best friend is Josh Burton. We grew up as neighbors and were friends since we could walk.
More than anything I love that my two best friends are also best friends themselves.
Her mother is a scientist, and her father is a doctor. Esme once dreamed of being a mountaineer, but her abuela said, “Over her dead body.”
Esme always jokes that the already seventy-year-old will outlive everyone, so she’ll never be climbing any mountains in this lifetime. Instead, she opted to become a school teacher, like me.
“That’s way, way, way out of your price range, babe. Are you manifesting or something?” Esme says, peering over my shoulder at the screen of my laptop.
“Hardly.” I live on a teacher’s salary in a tiny two-bedroom house, where one of the bedrooms is actually just a closet.
I don’t come from money. Both my parents, who were much older when they had me, were teachers. My grandparents didn’t leave me a secret fortune when they died.
Unless I marry a prince—and I’m not—I could never afford the luxury building that seems to touch the clouds. It’s the size of a castle but modernized into a sleek, glass-wrapped monolith.
“You know the new boy in my class? Jake Grant?”
“Yeah, what’s wrong? Adjustment issue?”
“Not at all. He’s very smart and confident, but do you know what his parents sent for movie day snacks today?”
“No idea, just tell me.”
“Oysters on ice, some caviar on thin wafer discs, and something I had to look up online because popcorn should not smell that funky. Apparently, it’s truffle popcorn. Truffle popcorn, Esme,” I repeat.
“Eww,” Esme grimaces.
“Exactly.”
Once a month, I put folded scraps of paper into a bowl, and the five kids who pick the numbered ones have to bring their favorite homemade movie snack to share with the class. It’s a way to encourage parental involvement at home.
It’s not compulsory, and if the parents are unable to provide any snacks, I step in without anyone knowing. While my job is to encourage family activity, I never want to single out any of my students.
Today’s movie treats were proudly brought to us by Sam, Daisy, Conrad, Melissa, and Jake. Except, while all the other parents dropped off their containers with treats this morning, Jake handed me a note saying his would be delivered ‘fresh.’
I assumed it would be ice cream—homemade, I hoped—or it would defeat the purpose of the activity entirely.
It wasn’t ice cream, homemade or otherwise, and it was delivered by a catering company. A catering company. He’s six years old, for goodness’ sake. I couldn’t hide my incredulity if I tried.
They might as well have sent a bottle of... I don’t know, the most expensive champagne that only rich people drink—or even a crate of it.
“He was so embarrassed, and it didn’t help that the other kids started teasing him about eating boogers. He doesn’t even eat those things himself.”
“Poor kid. Clueless rich parents. Did you call them in for a meeting?”
“I tried to,” I tell Esme.
I haven’t met Jake’s parents yet. He just transferred to my class a week ago, and he fit in from day one.
“The number on file for Jake went to their office, apparently. I had a very strange conversation with the receptionist who answered, but I finally learned they were home, and home happens to be here,” I say, tapping the screen of my laptop.
“I asked if I could make an appointment, and she said if it concerned Jake, I could just drop by, day or night, unannounced. So that’s what I’m going to do.”
I close my laptop, slip it into my handbag, and swing it onto my shoulder.
“Good luck. Give ’em hell.”
“Always,” I say, waving at her. My kids come first, and the Grants won’t be the first parents I’ve set straight.
“Hey, what happened to the food?” Esme calls just before I slip out the door.
“Oh, Melody to the rescue, since none of the kids wanted to try it. She took care of it before lecturing us all about having poor taste; emphasis on poor, I guess.”
Melody Avers is the most unqualified school secretary in existence. Her father bankrupted his hotel business, and if he didn’t know the principal of Valley Bright Elementary, Melody would not have gotten the job.
She’s also declared herself my number one enemy for reasons I don’t know yet but am too busy to care about.
This is also the perfect opportunity to speak to Mr. and Mrs. Grant.
Jake is currently at swimming lessons and won’t have any idea I visited his parents.
Kids are very sensitive about things like that, and he hasn’t been in my class long enough for us to have built trust. This way, I’ll fix the situation without him knowing, offering an easy solution for the parents: don’t send caviar to school for your six-year-old son’s movie day.