The King and the Kindergarten Teacher

by Shanae Johnson

  The King and the Kindergarten Teacher

  The Rebel Royals Book 1

  Shanae Johnson

  Copyright © 2019, Ines Johnson. All rights reserved.

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  This novel is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and incidents described in this publication are used fictitiously, or are entirely fictional. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, except by an authorized retailer, or with written permission of the author.

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  Edited by Alyssa Breck

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  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition February 2019

  Contents

  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

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Shanae Johnson

  Chapter One

  In the view from his window, Leo looked out and saw the spires of tall castles. Tall towers of metal and glass dotted the landscape. Looking up, giant beasts roared and left trails of smoke in the early morning sky. Multicolored lights flashed in the distance like a witch or wizard casting a spell. Down below in the street, life-sized animals waved hello to awed children and posed for rowdy passersby.

  New York City’s Times Square was pure magic.

  Leo wanted to go down and be a part of it. But that would be impossible. Duty called. It always did, which was why he rarely had a good night’s sleep.

  He might live in a palace full of servants. Their main job might be waiting on him hand and foot. But each one of those people were ultimately his responsibility. As their monarch, their livelihoods were in his hands.

  “Are you ready for your speech, your majesty?”

  King Leonidas turned away from the revelry below him. He dusted off the formal suit and coat of arms over his chest. He might hold a title. He might know how to wield a sword. But there were no fairytales or romance in modern nobility. No. It was all business and protocol.

  “It’s important to bring up Cordoba’s ample resources,” said Giles who was serving both as his valet and chief of staff while on this trip to New York. “That will attract more business interest.”

  “Yes, I know.” Leo moved to the standing mirror in the suite to straighten his tie.

  But Giles brushed his hands away and undid the perfectly straight knot. “It would be most advantageous if we could capture the Spanish government’s interest. Their resources pair perfectly with ours. It would be a match made in heaven. In fact, that’s not the only match that would benefit our two countries.”

  Leo rolled his eyes. Unfortunately, Giles didn’t catch the gesture. The man was far more focused on making the noose around Leo’s neck even more pretty.

  It had been two years since Leo’s first wife had died. Giles wasn’t the only one after him to choose a new bride. The whole country was antsy for a new queen, and Leo was starting to feel the pressure.

  He might feel responsible for each citizen in his country. But did that give them all the right to have a say in his personal life? Being in the Land of the Free, Leo wondered if democracy wasn’t the way to go over a monarchy.

  He looked again out at the bright lights of the big city. If he were just another citizen, he’d be free of his duties, and he could live his life. He could go out to Times Square. He could attend a sporting event without disrupting the whole country. He could have a cup of coffee in a shop tucked away in a corner. He could ask a girl out for said cup of coffee—unchaperoned. He was a thirty-year-old king and, for much of his life, he still had to be chaperoned by aides and security.

  Cordoba was a small island country in the Mediterranean between the southwestern border of France and the northeastern border of Spain. It was virtually unheard of here in America. Therefore, his security detail and entourage were at a minimum. Just Giles and a driver most days. He could slip them easily enough. He’d seen his brother do it many a time.

  Leo turned from the window and picked up the notes for his speech. He knew thousands of people were relying on him for their livelihoods. So he did his duty. And he would do this duty of finding a new wife. Eventually.

  He couldn’t ask out a random woman for coffee. Just like his first marriage, his second would be a transaction. Not of the heart but of national interests.

  “The Spanish duchess, Teresa of Almodovar, comes highly recommended. She’s young, educated, philanthropic, and the women in her family’s breeding history are quite positive.”

  Leo would’ve cringed if he hadn’t heard this litany before with his first wife. Isabel had all these same qualities, and they’d gotten along amiably. But that was as far as the fires of passion rose.

  He’d never experienced passion. He never would. It wasn’t in the cards for a king.

  Leo gave his collected notes a shuffle. He knew them all by heart. What was in his cards was economic stability and a wife who would satisfy an industrial need and breed an heir. If they managed to get along, as he and Isabel had, that would be a perk but not a requirement.

  “It’s been two years,” said Giles. “Ample time for a respectful mourning period. Cordoba needs an heir.”

  “I already have a child.”

  “You know our country’s constitution is patriarchal.” Giles held up his hand before Leo could argue. “We don’t have time or support to change that law. You’ll need to find a new queen and produce a male heir. Otherwise … I don’t want to consider the alternative.”

  As if he heard them talking about him, the alternative bumbled into the room. A slightly younger, much more straggly version of Leo opened the door and spilled into the room.

  Alex’s shirttails were untucked. His belt was missing. His collar was askew with visible lipstick on the white fabric. Alex had likely made his way up from the revelry of Times Square.

  Leo didn’t envy his brother his playboy ways. He did envy that his brother had more choices in who he could love. Not that his brother opted for any choices. Alex was of the opinion of why choose when he could have them all.

  “Good morning, your highness,” said Giles, his tone drool, his emphasis on morning.

  “Is it morning already? I was hoping to catch a few winks before the sun came up.” Alex shaded his eyes from the dawning daylight. “Too late. There it is.”

  “You didn’t sleep at all?” asked Leo.

  “Oh, I slept a little. Just not in my own bed.” Alex pulled off his jacket. And in true rakish fashion, he let it fall where it may on the floor, secure in the knowledge that someone would pick it up. “You don’t need me for anything today? No ribbons to cut? No heiress to entertain? No press to distract with my insanely photogenic mug?”

  “Actually,” said Leo. “I do have need of you. You promised to take Pen out today.”

  Alex blinked, as though waking from a long slumber. “I did?”

  Leo nodded. “On a tour of a local school. She wanted to see a kindergarten class.”

  “Fine.” Alex sighed dra
matically and scrubbed a hand over the scruff of his face. “The little pea is the only woman I keep my word to. I just need a catnap. And a shower. And a change of clothes. And then I’ll be good as new.”

  Alex slumped on the couch. He closed his eyes and was out in the same instance. The man had always had the ability to slip into a contented sleep wherever he lay his head. That was easy when you didn’t have a care in the world.

  Leo put his notecards back in order and placed them in his coat pocket. Before leaving, he poked his head into his daughter’s room. She was the little woman his loyalty flocked to first. Aside from his duty to his people, his daughter was his reason for everything.

  Princess Penelope slept peacefully in the hotel room bed. Her dark hair fanned out over the white pillow case. A book of fractions lay on the side table.

  Unlike most five-year-olds, his Pen preferred to fall asleep doing mathematics. It was a trait she’d received from her mother. Isabel had studied engineering at university even though she knew she’d never be able to use it in her duties as queen. It had made his wife happy. Numbers made his little girl happy, so he was more than happy to pick up a pencil and do algebra at bedtime in lieu of a story.

  Losing her mother at such a young age was hard for his Penelope. He should’ve left her home, but he hated being parted from her. She was the true love of his life.

  His angel slept soundly. He didn’t dare wake her even though he wanted to say good morning before starting his day. He was beginning his day early, and he didn’t want to throw her schedule off. Especially with her uncle knocked out in the other room.

  Penelope deserved a mother, and he would find her the best one possible. That would be his number one criteria. Not some economic advancement for his country. Instead, Leo would focus on the advancement of his daughter. With his resolve set, Leo headed out to curry favor for his country and find a mother for his daughter.

  Chapter Two

  “And the charming prince drew his sword and rushed to rescue the princess when—”

  “But, Ms. Pickett?”

  Esmeralda Pickett looked up from the picture book at the interruption. This wasn’t the first interruption of the story. She’d paused at nearly every page of the story to answer a question or offer an explanation to the bright-eyed kindergarteners in her class. She was proud of her inquisitive group. Their little minds were like sponges, hungry to soak up new knowledge.

  “Ms. Pickett, why can’t the princess draw her own sword?” Aubrey Thomas scrunched her button nose up as she tried to work out her problem with the story. “You said this wasn’t the first prince to try to rescue the princesses. And they’re all in the dragon’s lair. So there are other swords lying around on the ground. Why doesn’t she just pick one of those up herself?”

  That was very good logic, especially from a five-year-old who Esme often suspected was going on fifty. All around Esme, ten other little heads bobbed and tilted their heads as they considered this addendum to the story. They didn’t immediately look to Esme for the answer. No, they discussed the possibilities and parameters amongst themselves.

  They’d been listening attentively for the first two pages. The interruptions had begun once the princess disobeyed her father and went into the woods. Esme’s class gaped with wide eyes as though they had never considered disobeying their parents.

  They gasped with open mouths and hands clutching at imaginary pearls when the princess accepted food from a stranger. A discussion group broke off between Kurt Willis and Carla Barrow about the dangers of accepting candy from strangers or anything that was not in a pre-packaged wrapper that had the ingredients and allergens clearly labeled for their moms and dads to read.

  But the kicker had been Tracey Chen. She’d crossed her arms over her chest in abject horror, pigtails swaying with the movement when Esme had described the villain of the story as an evil witch and showed her picture. Tracey was certain that Esme was discriminating against the elderly and those with psoriasis and eczema.

  What five-year-old even knew any of those words, could pronounce them and knew what they meant? But, hey, at least they were all engaged. And that’s what learning was about. Wasn’t it?

  “Okay,” said Esme, addressing the latest query posed to her by the youngsters. “What if the princess did pick up the sword? What do you think she’d do?”

  “With the sword, the princess could slay the dragon herself,” said Aubrey, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. “Then she could get home before bedtime, apologize to her parents, and not get too big of a consequence for her actions.”

  “But she slayed a dragon,” said Carla. “That’s animal cruelty.” She was a vegan and cried every time she saw one of her classmates eating chicken fingers or hot dogs.

  “Dragons aren’t real,” said Aubrey.

  “They are in my culture,” said Tracey. “In China, they symbolize strength and power and good luck. That’s why my people wear them in parades.”

  Kurt Willis sniffled as though the thought of an imaginary dragon in pain or a costume dragon in a parade hurt him. “I think she should sit down and talk to the dragon and work out her problems with words.”

  “These are all very good ideas,” said Esme. “But what do you think the prince should do?”

  The class stared mutely.

  “I’d forgotten about him,” said Aubrey.

  “Why is he there again?” asked Tracey.

  “To rescue her, I think?” said Carla.

  “But she made the problem,” said Aubrey. “My mommy says if you get into a jam, you gotta clean it up yourself.”

  Esme believed it. Aubrey’s mother was all standards and procedures. On the first day of school, Mrs. Thomas had shown up with a ten-page, hole-punched folder entitled Getting to Know Aubrey. In it was the bathroom cycle the child had been trained on since one-years-old, and Mrs. Thomas insisted Esme keep to it.

  “In fairytales,” said Esme, filling the silence, “it’s the prince’s job to rescue the princess and the damsels in distress.”

  “Damsels in distress?” both Tracey and Carla mouthed the new words as if hearing them for the first time.

  “But this is the real world, Ms. Pickett,” said Aubrey. “There’s a queen in England and a whole bunch of princesses.”

  “One’s coming to visit us today,” Carla bounced on her bottom.

  “But she’s just a little girl.” Aubrey rolled her eyes. “My mother met a grown princess. She rescued children from war zones.”

  “Ooh,” said Kurt. “Did you get to meet her?”

  Aubrey nodded. “She brought me chocolates, but they had dairy so I couldn’t have them.”

  All the kids turned and listened to Aubrey’s story. And story time was effectively over. Esme closed the picture book.

  “All right everyone,” she said. “To your sleeping mats. It’s nap time.”

  There was a chorus of groans, but they all did as they were told. Eventually. Kurt went to the cupboard to get his special blanket. Aubrey fished her earbuds and iPhone out of her cubby hole. A part of Aubrey’s welcome packet said that she had to nap listening to Brain FM.

  Finally, all the kids were down for their midmorning nap. The resource teacher came in relieving Esme for her lunch break, and boy did Esme need it.

  She’d only been on the job for a couple of months, but these weren’t your average kids. Back in undergrad, she’d dreamed of changing kids’ lives, giving them a hunger for learning, and widening their imaginations. The only hunger she was allowed to quench at Global Learning Preparatory Academy had to be from pre-packaged, dairy-free, nut-free, gluten-free products. Imaginations were stifled because these kids didn’t watch TV or play games that weren’t educational. Esme wasn’t changing anything.

  She grabbed her purse from the teacher’s lounge and prepared to go out into the bright New York City day. Walking down the hall of the school, she passed awards, recognitions, and commendations. The kids of years past captured i
n the celluloid all looked serious. Not a single smile of joy or eyes sparkled with imagination.

  Esme was still determined to bring fun and joy into her class’ childhoods. But first, she needed a break. And some sustenance.

  “Miss. Pickett.”

  Esme’s shoulders drooped at the sound of Principal Clarke’s voice. The way he said Miss was elongated with the buzzing sound of a Z in place of the double S. It was like he wanted to swat the extra S of her single hood away from her and put in a firmly rooted R to make her a Mrs.

  Esme wanted that too. The problem was not many twenty-something men were ready to settle down. Thirty was the new time to get engaged. And don’t even think about kids before thirty-five after the career was settled, the house built and feng shuied, furnished, and child proofed.

  Like most things, Esme was a fan of the old ways. She was a feminist, to be sure. But the kind that wanted equal rights and pay and still have a man open the door for her and sweep her off her feet. She could put up a good fight next to her prince if a dragon—in a tower or in a parade—came after them. But why should she when he should be well-equipped to do it for her?

  “Ms. Pickett, I just received another complaint about inappropriate reading material in your class. Something about princesses and dragons and swords?”

  Esme whirled around. How had he known that? She’d just left her classroom.

  “Aubrey Thomas’s mother just called.”

  Aubrey-stinking-Thomas. The kid had a cell phone. Had she texted her mom? Well, she could already read. Most of the five-year-olds in her class were on a second grade level already and were bored with her alphabet lessons.