Breaking All the Rules (Searching for Love Book 2)

  Breaking All the Rules

  Kelly Myers

  Copyright © 2020 by Kelly Myers

  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.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Blurb

  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

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  Excerpt: Forbidden Daddy

  Invitation to join Kelly’s Newsletter

  Blurb

  I like to play it safe.

  And there’s nothing safe about David Russo.

  When he walks into my classroom for Parent-Teacher conferences, he turns my whole world upside down.

  I know myself, and Elena Ramirez does not take risks.

  So I know I should stay away.

  I can’t date the parent of one of my students.

  Yet I’m drawn to him anyway.

  I’m still heartbroken over my ex.

  David is way older than I am, and he has two kids.

  This will never work.

  How long before this whole thing explodes in my face?

  How long before the other teachers and parents at my school find out?

  And most terrifying of all, how long before his daughters discover our secret affair?

  Chapter One

  If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s the parents in my classroom.

  Don’t get me wrong, I love being a teacher, and I respect parents who care about their middle schoolers. But, my classroom is my sacred space. I set it up. I picked out the posters of book covers to hang on the wall.

  I’m not an alpha type. I don’t need to have authority or be in charge. In fact, ask any of my friends, and they’ll tell you. Elena Ramirez is quiet. Peaceful. Plays well with others.

  AKA, I’m a team player, not a team captain.

  However, when I step into the 7th Grade English Classroom at Lakeview West Middle School, I’m Queen of the Kingdom.

  Until Parent Teacher Conferences roll around. All day, I’ve been meeting with parents and trying to assure them that yes, I am qualified, and no, their child is not being neglected.

  I glance down at my schedule. Just one more set of parents, and they’re due in ten minutes, which is perfect because I need time to recover from the last meeting.

  Mrs. Fontaine seemed to not understand why her daughter failing to do the assigned reading is resulting in a lower grade.

  I suppose it’s a good thing. Better an over aged parent than a neglectful one. Then again, I can’t help but think there’s got to be a happy medium. My parents were attentive, but they never waged war against my English teacher.

  I sigh and look out at my classroom, the late spring sunlight gleaming through the big windows. I love my job, I really do. I admire the little groups of desks that I assign and mix up every few months so the kids get to sit next to different people. I smile at the wall covered with brightly colored index cards. The students write their favorite lines from To Kill a Mockingbird or Out of the Dust or The House on Mango Street and then we put them on the wall. We’re almost done with the school year, so the entire wall is covered.

  I know a lot of teachers that are dissatisfied with the long hours and the low pay, and it can be exhausting. But when I get to see one kid fall in love with a book, it’s all worth it.

  I glance down at the list of parents. The last one scheduled is David Russo.

  I frown. This one might be tricky. His daughter, Amy Russo, is a great kid, but she’s been up and down in terms of behavior. I only teach her for one period, but the rest of the seventh grade teachers have reported similar things. She was actually in another teacher’s section the previous trimesters, but she was switched to mine this Spring. I don’t know her as well as I would like.

  She’s smart, and she always does her assignments. However, she’ll often be withdrawn and sad. Some days, she’s energetic and smiling and chatting in class, but other days she’ll be dead silent.

  Amy never misbehaves, and I know she has good friends, so I’m not sure what the issue is. With twelve-year-olds, it could be anything.

  Fortunately, her grades are very good, and she likes me as a teacher, so I think the conversation with her dad should go well.

  I open my desk drawer and pull out my phone. I usually keep it hidden away at school because I don’t like to encourage students to be glued to their screens, but David Russo isn’t due for another five minutes, and I want to check my email.

  I slump in my chair when I see my inbox.

  Logan sent me an email thirty minutes ago. The subject: Pick up stuff?

  My chest contracts as my finger hovers above the unread email. It’s been six months since the break-up. It shouldn’t still hurt this much, right?

  Calling it a “break-up” doesn’t describe it with any accuracy. It was more like a slaughter. A sneak attack. I was totally and utterly blindsided when Logan, my boyfriend of three years, told me he needed space. At first, I thought he just wanted to spend more time with his college friends or something. We had fallen into the couple habit of being practically attached at the hip. I didn’t mind, but I told him he could totally have more space to hang out with other people.

  Then he clarified. By “space,” he meant he wanted to date other people. He wanted to not be in a relationship with me.

  It still bugs me that he didn’t just come out and say that right off the bat. I’m an English teacher, words are important to me. They matter.

  I shove my phone aside. I’ll look at the email later. He clearly just wants to grab his clothes that are still at my place, and I hate myself for hoping, even for a second, the email might say something else. Something about how he’s changed his mind and wants me back.

  I think of the box of his things tucked into the corner of my closet. A pair of sweatpants. Some jeans. One of his frisbees he liked to bring to the park and toss around.

  I cringe as I remember his oversized college T-shirt. For a month after the break-up, I slept in it every night. It was pathetic, but no one, not even my close friends, knew. It smelled like him, and so when I woke up each morning, I could convince myself, just for a brief second, that he was still there. I have no problem being pathetic if I’m the only witness.

  Over the last few months, I’ve managed to wean myself off the T-shirt. But after a rough day, when I’m tempted to order from the ramen place both Logan and I loved, or if I open social media and see a picture of him smiling, I sometimes have to pull out the T-shirt.

  We never lived together, that’s the one silver lining. I wanted to be engaged before I moved in with anyone. Six months ago, I was already planning what our apartment together would look like. It wasn’t a daydre
am; I was convinced Logan was my future. I spent half my time at his place, and if I wasn’t there, he was with me.

  I blink and force myself to focus back on my classroom. My job and my friends were the only thing that got me through the break-up in so-so shape (I’m not delusional enough to say I’ve been in “good” shape). Being at the school from early in the morning until almost 6 kept me busy. I threw myself into not just my classes, but into the extracurriculars I advise as well. And, then on the weekends, I hung out with my best friends from college. Zoe Hamilton, Beatrice Dobbs, Marianne Gellar and I have been inseparable since freshman year. Even when I got serious about Logan, I made sure to keep them close. That turned out to be a saving grace. Logan is gone, and now they’re all I have in terms of a social life.

  I push my long dark hair over my shoulder and stand up to straighten my dress. I’m usually not one to care that much about my appearance, but it’s important to present a polished front to parents. I’m 27, but I look younger thanks to my round cheeks and petite stature. This morning when getting dressed, I tried to compensate for my youthful looks (which parents often take as an indicator that I can’t control my students) by wearing shoes with a small block heel and a long green dress, as well as a bit more makeup than I usually wear.

  I pull a small mirror from my purse and check to make sure I look ok. My curly hair is a little frizzy, but that’s the norm for me. I brush away a bit of smudged mascara from beneath my brown eyes.

  I glance at the time. It’s past 3, so I poke my head out in the hallway. No sign of him.

  I walk back over to my desk. He probably got held up in a meeting with another teacher. I’m not the only one who is concerned about Amy’s moodiness.

  I wonder why David is coming alone. Usually both parents attend all the conferences. And, if it’s one parent, it’s almost always the mother. Even when parents are divorced, they usually come in together for the parent teacher conferences.

  Of course, if Amy has siblings, the parents might have divvied up the meetings. I have the kids write journal entries in a notebook to read aloud sometimes, and I remember Amy mentioned a younger sister. That must be the case; the mother is going to the sister’s meetings, while David takes Amy.

  Just then, I’m startled from my thoughts by a light knock on the open door. I look up and freeze for a second.

  “Mr. Russo?” My voice comes out an octave higher than usual.

  “Please, call me David.” He walks into the room and gives me a smile that’s as warm as the summer sun.

  I stand up and reach out to shake his hand. “Have a seat.”

  David Russo does not look like the other fathers I’ve met with that day. For one, he’s insanely handsome. He’s well over six feet tall, with light brown hair and broad shoulders.

  He folds himself into the chair across from my desk, and it makes my stomach flutter at how at ease he looks.

  He’s young too. Definitely not my age, but I would guess he’s only in his mid-thirties. There’s not a hint of a receding hairline and no wrinkles on his face, although I spot bags under his eyes, and his face is a bit pale.

  “So you’re the famous Miss Ramirez.” His green eyes seem to glimmer as he looks around at my classroom, and suddenly I’m self-conscious. I want him to like what he sees.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Amy adores you,” David says. “She’s been way happier since she switched to your section.”

  I try to hide the surprise from my face. Amy has seemed comfortable with me, but she is often reticent. And if the past semester has been a “happier” version of Amy, I’m worried about what she was like before.

  “Well, she’s a wonderful student,” I say.

  David nods, but I see a hint of a smile tugging at his lips, and it’s clear how proud he is of his daughter.

  I look down at my notes. I need to focus. Just because he’s good-looking doesn’t mean I should get distracted. It’s unlike me. As a rule, I’ve never really trusted attractive people.

  I know that sounds silly, but I think it’s the result of being shy all my life. Attractive people always made me more nervous in social situations. Not that I think I’m unattractive. I just always assume that most good-looking people are way more confident and extroverted.

  Logan wasn’t traditionally good-looking. He was too scrawny, and his hair was thin and wispy. But I adored him. I was comfortable around him.

  I look up at David and force myself to hold his gaze. I got past my severe shyness a long time ago. I’m perfectly capable of holding a professional conversation, no matter how handsome this guy is.

  “Here’s a recap of her assignments and grades.” I hand David a sheet with all of Amy’s information. “I was particularly impressed by her essay about her basketball team. She can be very funny in her prose, which is a rare skill.”

  David glanced over the sheet with careful eyes. It struck me that he was not one to miss details. “I haven’t read that, I’ll have to ask her to show me.”

  “I have a copy.” I shift through my papers. I always keep a few copies on my desk of students’ best work so the parents can read them. Not all parents want to, but I’m happy David asked.

  “Thank you.” He gives me that sunny smile again, and our hands brush as I hand him the paper.

  While he bends his head to read over the essay, I feel a warm blush spreading over my cheeks.

  I dig my nails into my palm. I haven’t looked at a guy in six months – despite the best efforts of my friends to “get me back out there” – and now all of a sudden I have a crush on a parent of one of my students.

  My eyes widen. I need to stifle my strange attraction immediately.

  Because it hits me all of a sudden: this man’s wife is probably right down the hallway, chatting to another teacher about Amy’s sister.

  He’s not at all for me. And, for some reason that makes me ridiculously sad.

  Chapter Two

  David finishes reading the essay and looks up at me with a bright grin, as if we’re in on some joke. “This is good.”

  I nod, and I’m touched by his obvious pride in his daughter. Half the times the fathers don’t even speak in parent-teacher conferences, and if they do, it’s to bark out questions about whether their child is on track to get into a competitive high school or college.

  “It’s clear she keeps up with the reading, but she doesn’t always participate in class discussions.” I pause. It’s always hard to transition into this part of the conference. “When she does talk, she adds a lot to the conversation, but there are days, sometimes weeks, where she’ll be very quiet. Almost sad.”

  David doesn’t look the least bit surprised. It’s late in the day. He has probably met with all her teachers before this, who probably have said similar things. It makes my heart ache. I can tell by the sadness in his green eyes – the exact color of celery – that he is worried about Amy.

  “I know other teachers might have expressed concerns,” I say. “And, I want to make it very clear: most of the time, Amy is an exceptional student, and she has never misbehaved or acted in a rude manner. I just feel it’s important to note when a child’s happiness seems inconsistent.”

  “Thank you for saying that.” David lifts his head and meets my gaze. “Amy has had a tough time, ever since her mother died five years ago.”

  I am absolutely still. Her mother is dead? I had no clue. Granted, it’s not common that a teacher is given every detail of a child’s personal life. It’s on a need-to-know basis. The school counselor probably knows, but it appears a lot of her teachers do not.

  “I’m sorry.” The words feel lame and ineffectual coming out of my mouth. “I was unaware, I thought it was maybe bullying or self-esteem, those are more common in girls that age.”

  I feel so awkward. I know it’s not my fault, and I haven’t done anything wrong, but I wish I had never brought up the topic. At the same time, I’m overcome with curiosity. When did her mother die? Poor Amy, it’s
hard to go through middle school and puberty without a mother.

  Is David remarried? Is there a stepmother?

  I quickly shut down that inappropriate line of questioning as David leans forward to speak.

  “Don’t be sorry, please,” he says. “A lot of her teachers don’t know since Amy herself asks me not to share. Her mother passed five years ago, and everyone at her elementary school knew, and I think it made her day to day life painful.”

  I nod. It makes complete sense. Children are far more perceptive than we give them credit for. If everyone was tiptoeing around Amy after her mother died and giving her pitying looks, she definitely sensed it. And, after losing her mother, the last thing she needed was to feel different from everyone else.

  “I’ll definitely make sure that Amy receives the same treatment from me,” I say. “But it is helpful to know a little background.”

  “Thank you.” David sits up straighter in his chair and appraises me. “You’re Amy’s favorite teacher, so I thought you would handle it well.”

  I raise my brows, surprised at that news. I’ve only taught Amy for a few months, and while she enjoys the class when she’s in a good mood, she’s never gushed over it. It’s flattering to hear that I’m her favorite.

  “It’s true.” David nods. “I can’t get her to stop talking about Miss Ramirez, ever since she switched sections. It is ‘Miss’, right?”

  “Oh, yes.” I swear I see his eyes flash down to where my hands are resting on my desk, as if he’s checking for an engagement ring. I tell myself it’s just my imagination and try to focus on the topic at hand. “And, if I may ask, has Amy gone to talk to anyone? A counselor or a therapist?”