Educating Sophia (The Moran Family Book 5)
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Educating Sophia by Alexis James
Copyright ©2018 by Alexis James, LLC. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any written, electronic, recording, or photocopying without written permission of the publisher or author. The exception would be in the case of brief quotations embodied in the critical articles or reviews and pages where permission is specifically granted by the publisher or author.
Printed and bound in the United States of America.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
First Edition First Printing
Cover: Angsty G
Editor: Maxann Dobson, The Polished Pen
Formatter: Champagne Book Design
ISBN: 978-0-9980618-9-4
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Other books by Alexis James
To my family.
I love you and I thank you.
February
I’m not a stalker.
I’m not. I promise.
Peering around buildings, hiding behind trees, hoping I’ll catch a glimpse of him as he walks to his car or to the faculty building … it’s so out of character for me, but that certainly hasn’t stopped me from watching him—daily, I might add—for the entire school year.
I drop my backpack onto the grass and plop down next to it, putting in my earbuds. Music is a good distraction from the voices in my head reminding me that I need to be studying for a midterm. Those same voices also call me a stalker and tell me how out of control I’ve become.
It was not my intention to fall headlong into Stalkersville. Truth be told, there was nothing intentional at all. It was as if some unknown entity, an act of Mother Nature perhaps, steered me in his direction—something like lightning, thunder, possibly even an earthquake that swept me off my feet.
I saw him.
And I fell.
I fell hard. Painfully, all-in, no turning back.
Grimacing at my incredible idiocy, I dig around in my backpack for my notebook and a pen, watching out of the corner of my eye just in case he should decide to leave early today. How sick am I that I know his schedule, his patterns, his movements? I should. I’ve followed him long enough to know a whole lot of things: I know he carries a worn, leather briefcase—the same dark brown as the shoes he wears more often than the black ones; I know he prefers his herringbone jacket over the solid one he wears once in a while.
I know he rarely smiles. And when he does, it looks pained … and forced.
I know he drives a fancy, expensive car in a slate gray color that matches some of the streaks running through his wavy hair. I know he prefers to nod instead of speak and that he moves swiftly, eyes straight forward as if he can part the sea of students with only his gaze.
I know he’s beautiful. Hauntingly beautiful.
I know that his eyes are sometimes green, sometimes blue, and sometimes gray, depending on what he’s wearing—and his mood. I know I could get lost in them, if given the chance.
I know he’s untouchable.
I know he used live in California and that he moved here the beginning of the school year. I know that you can find out a lot of personal information on the internet. I know I prefer him with a bit of scruff on his regal chin, but the beard he’s been growing for a few weeks looks sexy as hell too. I know I’ve never liked men with beards. Until he came along.
The air around me crackles with awareness and right on cue, the building door is shoved open. He walks out onto the stone steps, squinting at the bright afternoon sunshine, briefcase in his right hand and his phone in the left, pressed to his ear. His harsh scowl tells its own story; he’s pissed, irritated and impatient with the person on the other end of the line.
I know he’s like that most of the time.
With one more curt word that I cannot hear, he shoves the phone into his jacket pocket and begins to move with purpose, striding right past me without any acknowledgement. Not that I expect it. He never sees me, not like I want him to. He doesn’t even know I exist. I’m simply one of many nameless faces at this school where I’m a student and he’s a teacher.
What a cliché, I muse as my eyes follow him until he disappears from sight. It’s not like I haven’t tried to stop, I have. Many, many, many times. But then he passes me in the hall, and he might nod or just lock eyes with me for a brief second or two, and when that happens I’m convinced there’s something more going on between us. Sure, maybe I’m the only one who feels it, but it’s there nonetheless.
Or at least that’s what I tell myself.
1 year later
The airplane taxis down the runway toward the terminal, and I sigh with relief. As much as I adore seeing my family and visiting my childhood home in Miami, I relish returning to my own life in New Orleans. Here, I’m not hovered over, babied, or smothered. Here, I’m free to live my own life, do my own things, make my own choices—and mistakes.
I admit it, I hide here, and I’ve been hiding for far too long now. With all the self-proclamation about wanting to get on with my career, I’m sure spending a lot of frigging time getting my degree. This is year six. As embarrassing as that is, I wouldn’t change a thing. I’ve done this on my own, without any help from my family. It might have taken me longer than most, but when all is said and done, I’ll know that I made this happen. Me, not my well-off parents or my uber-wealthy brothers. Not even my hardworking older sister Isabella, who would do just about anything to help me.
Just. Me.
I patiently wait for the herd of people to cattle-walk their way off the plane then grab my small suitcase from the overhead and stroll quickly out to the terminal. Since I fly home at least three or four times a year, I know this airport by heart. Weaving through the crowd and around their suitcases, I’m feeling grateful I won’t have to make the trip again for a while. Traveling is a pain in the neck.
This trip was one of those last minute things, which threw a big fat monkey wrench in everything from my homework to my job. My brother Marco decided a mere week ago that he and his girlfriend Amita just had to get married. No more waiting, no more putting it off until the right time. And it had to be on Valentine’s Day. I don’t know all the particulars of the why and how, but I do know my brother and he’s as ridiculous as he is impulsive.
The wedding itself was intimate, only my family in attendance, as Amita has no family to speak of. Intimate and wacky is how I’d describe it. They were married on the dock of my brother Cruz’s home—the place where they’d first got to know one another. While all of us sat in folding chairs on the lawn, Marco and Amita took their places on the dock while the officiant constantly squirmed in fear of falling into the water behind him.
Marco loves that new bride of his in a way I envy so much I bleed green whenever I’m around them. They are such a great mixture of naughty and nice, both gorgeous inside and out. Equal parts feisty and lovable. Their relationship, as well as the rest of my siblings’ relationships, are something I hope to eventually have.
If I ever graduate.
If I ever get a job.
Oh … and I suppose I’ll need a man too.
Rolling my eyes at myself, I scurry across the linoleum floor to where my favorite gal pal waits for me. Charlotte Lewis is my other half: my best friend, confidant, and the one person who knows my deepest, darkest secrets. As I trudge through my daily life of lectures and homework, I need someone like her. She has an infectious smile and a gentle personality. We’ve been friends for about four years now. It’s one of those seemingly easy friendships that we fell into over our mutual love of caffeine.
“Hey, girlie, how was the trip?” she says, hugging me tightly.
“It was good. They’re so much in love.”
She does a bit of swooning as we walk to her car. “Damn, those hot brothers of yours are falling one by one. What am I to do?”
Since Char has never met my brothers, she’s judging her opinion on the many photos I’ve shown her. She was convinced Marco would marry her. That was right before he hooked up with Amita. Then she moved on to Roman, the youngest of my three older brothers, until she heard he was engaged to Sabrina. She leaves my older brother Cruz out of the mix because she’s talked to his wife, Mia, repeatedly on the phone. Though, she does do her fair share of lusting after him as well.
“How’s Mia feeling?” she asks.
I start to laugh, shoving my suitcase in the backseat of her trusty Toyota. “She’s huge. Due in a few weeks. I’m bummed I can’t be there.” Mia’s second pregnancy, a few short years after giving birth to my nephew Thomas, is something that came as no surprise. Not to me anyway. If Cruz had his way, Mia would be barefoot and pregnant all the time.
Charlotte slides behind the wheel and grins at me. “We’ll video chat when she’s in labor.”
“Absolutely.”
Her soft brown eyes find mine and her expression is part grimace, part humor. “So, Soph, I gotta tell you, he was a super ass while you were gone.”
I snicker at her description of the man I’ve done nothing but think about the entire four days I was away. “Oh, is that so? Why?”
She shrugs. “You know him, he didn’t say much. Just more slamming doors and growling.” Her eyes dart to mine briefly. “Dude, he really can growl. Just like a dog. Or a bear. A big, scary, super-hot bear.”
Laughing out loud, I shift my legs and turn toward her. “Yeah, I’ve been on the receiving end of that growl a time or two.”
“Well, I don’t understand it. How can one person be so grumpy all the damn time?” Her eyes widen as she smacks her hand down on the steering wheel. “Do you think he’s always been this way? Even as a child, I mean.”
I’ve asked myself that same question many times in the past year and a half since he walked into my life and effectively changed it. Forever. He’s so driven, so intense, so very scary at times. I try to picture him in my head: a young boy with wavy black hair, ever-changing green eyes alight with happiness. And then I wonder what, or rather who, made him turn from a happy-go-lucky child into the cold, distant man he is today. Who knows? Maybe he was always that way. Maybe he suffered some trauma as a child that ripped all the happiness out of him and left ice in its place. Ice or cement. He’s so very cold. So very, very cold and completely unmoving.
I need to remember that I’ve been down a similar road such as this before and the outcome wasn’t pretty. I spent most of my high school years enamored of a fellow classmate. He was as untouchable as the professor is and just as intimidating. And yet I still found something about him to appreciate. I respected his take-no-prisoners attitude, the air of confidence that surrounded him even when he wasn’t trying. And I’ll admit, there was a part of me that longed to be brave and so damn ballsy like him and less like the dumb little sister and spoiled rich girl I was always accused of being.
One of my loud-mouthed friends told him about my little crush. Not only did the guy physically shudder at the idea of me liking him, he made it a point to completely ignore me after that. You would think I would have learned my lesson, or at the very least be hesitant about latching onto a man who is so very untouchable.
“No idea, Char.”
She fiddles with the stereo and changing the station, lowering the volume. “He left a huge stack of stuff for you to do tomorrow. Probably as a payback for missing two days of class.”
I wince, recalling how his words blistered me when I informed him I’d be out of town. Never one to say more than necessary, he ripped into me, reminding me that I’ve spent too many years not making school a priority. His veiled insult cut me to the core. I sure as hell didn’t need him to remind me I’ve taken far longer than most students to get my degree.
“Yeah, probably.”
She pats my knee. “You know what, my friend? You should find a guy worthy of all your devotion.”
This isn’t the first time Char has said something like this to me. From the first moment I told her of my secret stalkerish crush on him, she’s been my voice of reason. She reminds me constantly that hooking up with a teacher could have huge repercussions—not just for me but for him as well. Then I remind her that the only hooking up we’ll be doing is in my fantasies.
And I’ve had quite a bit of fantasies over the past year and a half.
Because she’s my very best friend in the entire world—and beyond, which she likes to say—she’s not only my conscience, but she’s my ear to bend, my shoulder to cry on, my cheerleader whenever he tries to break me down.
He likes to break me down a lot.
I fear tomorrow will most likely be worse than all the other times, and there have been many, many times. I’ve been his teacher’s assistant since the beginning of the school year; it’s a position he seems to believe entitles him to treat me like crap whenever I’m anywhere near him.
“I’ll get right on that,” I say about finding a worthy man. “As soon as I get my degree, go on to get my masters, and pay off the mountain of debt I’ve accrued over the years.”
One blonde brow shoots up. “Uh, lady, you did that to yourself. You could have very easily asked your parents or even one of your hot as hell brothers to help pay for your education.”
“Not an option. You know that.”
My hostility about this subject is unfounded. While most people would kill for someone to pay for their education, I’ve done nothing but refuse their help. As a result, it’s taken me a long time to get through college. This is all on me, I know that. I’m stubborn as hell, but I refuse to continue to be babied all my life. Sure, it would be easy to take the quick handout from my parents and let them remove the unnecessary financial burden from my life, but I suppose that is exactly the reason why I don’t. I don’t want this to be easy. I want to fight and bleed for it. And when it’s over, when it’s done, I can say without a doubt it is mine. All mine.
I’ve done nothing but refuse my family’s help from the moment I told them where I wanted to go to college. It’s not that I’m ungrateful for their help with tuition and bills. I just don’t really see the point in it if it is something I can tackle on my own.
I’ve been lucky, and I don’t ever want to take that for granted. I grew up in a home where I never longed for anything. We never lacked decent clothes or struggled to put food on the table. I grew up knowing I’d always be well cared for, and yet I had good friends who would sometimes only have enough to only eat one meal a day. I was teased for my family’s good f
ortune, called “little rich girl” more than a time or two. Instead of feeling insulted by the nickname and teasing, I took it as something to rise against, something to build me up. Yes, many things might have come easy for me growing up in the Moran household, but I’ll be damned if I skate through my future on someone else’s dime.
“Yeah, I know.”
We chatter on about random subjects for the remainder of the drive, and by the time she pulls up in front of my apartment building, I’m weary with exhaustion. I want to burrow under my covers and sleep like the dead until my alarm goes off. Unfortunately, I still have homework to catch up on so sleep will have to wait.
We exchange a tight hug, and I extract my bag from the backseat. With hurried steps, I wind my way through the courtyard of the large two-story apartment building. A small kidney-shaped pool sits in the center courtyard, surrounded by a tall wrought-iron fence and keyed gate. The landscaping is minimal though well-maintained, and as I walk toward the stairs at the back of the building, I embrace the warm feeling of coming home. I’ve lived in this building since I moved to New Orleans, and while different neighbors have come and gone over the years, little else has changed.
My small one-bedroom apartment is on the second floor, the last one on the backside of the building. Given my insistence for doing things on my own, my place is filled with the few pieces of furniture I brought from my childhood bedroom and a variety of mismatched items I’ve picked up at garage sales and flea markets. Between my job at the preschool where I work most afternoons, and the frequent tutoring jobs I’m able to line up, I do okay. Sure, I’ll have student loans up the wazoo to deal with after I graduate, but they are a small price to pay for this freedom that I crave.
Tossing the front door open, a wide grin spreads across my face. How odd is it that I’ve missed my home so much in such a short time? I used to miss Miami like this in the beginning, but as the years have passed and I’ve secured my life here, the emotion has shifted. Of course there are days where I long for Mama’s mouthwatering enchiladas or Papa’s warm embrace, but the sense of homesickness has faded greatly over time.