Lucky Bunny:
A Billionaire Fake Fiancé Romance
Copyright (c) 2018 by Eva Luxe; All Rights Reserved.
Published by Juliana Conners’ .
Chapter 1- Tessa
I’m upside down with my legs pinned behind my head when I notice red and pink construction paper hearts hanging haphazardly from clotheslines tied to the rafters.
Shit.
Those decorations are from a dance the school held last month for Valentine’s Day. And even though I established this school and the dance was my idea, I forgot to take the decorations down.
As if I need one more reason to hate Valentine’s Day. I’ve never been the romantic type, and even if cupid decided to shoot an arrow my way, I’m way too busy with my career and caring for my students to pursue or celebrate love. No wonder I’m still a virgin.
I’ve been so busy not dating and not having sex, in fact, that I didn’t even get time to take these decorations down or switch them out to some that would be more holiday-appropriate.
Come to think of it, St. Patrick’s Day has just come and gone. Luckily some of my teachers had their students make their own decorations and had a naughty leprechaun mess up their rooms during recess, but otherwise, it went unacknowledged around these parts. I make a mental note to myself to get eggs or bunnies up in time for Easter.
“Now we do the downward facing dog,” Ann Bassett, the gym teacher, calls in her low, raspy voice which is somehow appropriately hushed but also loud enough to be heard throughout the room. Anne graciously teaches free yoga to our teenage students—and me—when I have time to show up.
I don’t come as often as I’d like, even though I’ve found Anne’s promises to be true—practicing yoga both de-stresses and relaxes me. As I’ve said, though, I’m usually just too busy to take five minutes for myself never mind a whole thirty.
I shouldn’t even be here now, I think, as I sneak a guilty peek at the clock on the wall and remember all the paperwork I have to do before I can head home.
I move into the downward dog position and stifle a giggle. How appropriate that I’m scolding myself for my lack of decorating prowess as if I’m a dog who peed on the carpet. My best friend Devyn would tell me to go easier on myself, to lighten up. I’m only one person and can only do so much, that I do more than enough yadda, yadda, yadda. But—as I always respond when Devyn says these things—my ‘more than enough’ never seems enough. I feel like I’m always somehow lacking.
“Okay, Miss Bassett,” I whisper, trying not to trip over myself as I unfurl the limbs of my pretzeled body, “I hate to disrupt the class, but I need to go finish up some office work.”
She finishes her pose and breathes in calmly before opening her eyes and giving me a gentle, understanding smile.
“Too-da-loo.” She waves a cheerful hand at me before adeptly turning it back down towards the mat and calling out, “One more downward facing dog before we do our boat rocks.”
“Bye, Miss Maynes,” some of our students who are able to vocalize call out as I leave.
I’m not sure whether to interrupt their yoga class further by responding or seem rude by failing to respond. So, not wanting to hurt their feelings, I give a half-wave gesture as I hurry towards the doors. At least I left before I could distract them from the final and most peaceful part of Ms. Bassett’s yoga class: the one in which we cradle ourselves like babies, shifting our legs from one side to another like a fetus in a warm womb, before lying flat to pretend we’re floating in a canoe down a calm, gentle, protective stream.
My kids need that moment to re-center themselves. Hell, I could sure use one too, but it’s inevitable that if I stayed until the end of class, a parent, caregiver or teacher—maybe Ms. Bassett herself, who likes to remind me of how important yoga is for my body and soul and how infrequently I attend her class—would try to pull me aside to chat, and I need to do my work uninterrupted.
The changes I see and feel in the air once I’m outside reminds me it’s now the month of March. The grass is changing from winter-brown to green, the birds are chirping, and the trees are waking up. I can’t wait for spring to be in full bloom because it’s one of my favorite seasons.
During my walk from the gymnasium to my office located in a separate building, I notice the first sign of my wish coming true: a lone daffodil sways in the community garden that Ms. French, another one of our teachers, maintains with the children’s help.
They’ve all been patiently waiting for this first sighting and will be even more thrilled than I am to see it.
The chill of winter also seems to be thawing: I only need my cable knit cardigan instead of my wool coat, and I’m so looking forward to daylight savings time. The combination of longer days and warmer weather means I can soon sit outside on the picnic bench and tend to office work. But for now, I still have to head inside to my actual office.
It’s nearing the end of the school day, but my work never ends. I could stay in my office twenty-four-seven and still need more time. Running a private school means grant writing, cutting through endless red tape, and finding ways to fundraise.
Once I’m inside my office, I sit down to a stack of envelopes and begin opening them.
Dear Ms. Maynes and Hope School,
I hope you will consider my foster child Timothy for placement at your school. At only seven years old, he has already lived a hard life. His biological parents were convicted of child abuse, and he has a history of being shuffled back and forth between state-run residential treatment centers and neglectful foster homes.
Now that he’s been placed in my care, I’m doing everything I can to find him the best place, although I make a meager living and have little money for expensive treatment. I can assure you that Timothy is a resilient child who thrives best in an environment of support and encouragement. Despite significant fine and gross motor delays, and his near complete inability to walk or talk, I have hope that his condition will improve, which is why I do hope you choose him to be a student at Hope School…
I finish reading and place the letter face up in a separate pile of its own before picking up the next envelope to open.
A few years ago, when I was in the planning phases of opening this school and considering which students to accept, letters like this one made my hands shake and my heart sink.
I felt compelled to save every child I possibly could from a life of low expectations or limited resources.
Now, sadly, I’ve almost become numb to the daily requests I receive. I know as the pile of envelopes I open gets shorter, the stack of letters I add to the new pile will grow taller. And the letters are full of stories such as Timothy’s. Letters that keep me awake at night.
I still wish we could save every child, but I face more practical realities such as budget, finances, and space. My school has no openings now, and when we do, I tend to choose the children who could most benefit from our unique combination of educational learning, physical and occupational therapy, socialized interaction, and creative play.
Nevertheless, I always take care to personally reply to every letter with an individualized assessment of which potentially available facilities might be best for the child in question.
After that, I scan and save each one, backing them up in our cloud system.
I have plans to expand the school, although they won’t reach fruition until further down the road because I’m still building things up slowly.
At times like this, when I think about my plans for the school, I count myself lucky I have no one in my life to distract me. First and foremost, my heart belongs to the school and my students. There’s no room for anything or anyone else.