by Ivy Fox
“Have I ever given you the impression that I’m naive or gullible in any way?”
“No, but—”
“Do you consider me intellectually challenged?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“No, you merely implied it.”
“Em,” he coos gently, squeezing my knee to stop me from continuing on with my rant, “I would never dream of insulting you. I respect you too much to ever do that. It just took me a bit off-guard that this is what you spent the last four years of your life working on. That’s all. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
The sincerity in his eyes is the only reason why I don’t bite his head off.
“Fair enough,” I retort coldly, squaring my shoulders and snapping my head back to my screen. “Now can you do what I asked so that I can go back to work, please?”
I wait for his usual witty reply, but to my amazement, he doesn’t utter another word. Instead, he stands up, list in hand, ready to tackle his assignment. I watch in my peripheral as he tries to locate the books on my list to fact check, looking completely out of his element. I stifle my snickering laugh when I witness his face light up after having correctly discovered the first book on his list without any help.
Focus, Emma.
You’re not here to gawk or fawn over your student.
This work is too important to be distracted by the likes of him.
I shake the reprimand away and get back to work.
For the next couple of hours, we both work side by side in total silence, my focus only interrupted by the odd question here or there about his task. When my foot starts to cramp up, I decide this is as good a time as any to stretch my legs and retrieve another book I need that I forgot to add to his list. It’s only when I’m on my way back to our shared table that I realize most of the women in this library can’t take their eyes off my new assistant. Some men, too.
Even on a dreary Monday afternoon like today, Colt looks like he’s about to step onto a photoshoot set to get his picture taken. I’ve taught enough boys his age to know that their sense of fashion consists solely of jeans and hoodies, but nothing could be further from the truth when it comes to Colt. In designer black slacks that hug his thighs and sculpted ass to perfection, and a navy sweater that screams out it’s in heaven just to touch his muscular biceps and abs, he looks as dignified as any Forbes entrepreneur ever could. It’s not only his clothes that reek of wealth and privilege, but the way he carries himself, too.
I’ve tried my best not to notice him back at Richfield, yet little things still manage to wiggle themselves to my subconscious. How I rarely see him talk to anyone, save for the few friends in his close unit. The way I sometimes catch a glimpse of him through my classroom window, lying on the grass on the campus green, his eyes shut while he lets the sun kiss his cheeks, completely oblivious of the world around him.
And in the few times our paths have crossed through the school’s halls, he’s either in deep discussion with his cousin or solely on his own. For a man who’s reputed as Asheville’s notorious ‘lady killer’, he sure seems to treasure his solitude immensely, which raises the question of how he’s able to romance so many women to his bed when he doesn’t seem to make any elaborate effort. Aside from Kennedy Ryland, I’ve never caught him saying two words to a woman in broad daylight.
Discreetly I hide behind the bookshelf, just so I can inspect him further without his knowledge.
He really is spectacular to look at.
He might consider himself not to be a people person, but with his high cheekbones and sharp jawline—not to mention the rest of his well-defined body—he’ll never be fully capable of preventing people from naturally seeking him out. With short dark brown hair in the back, but longer on top so that silky soft strands fall to his temple, even I find myself taking a beat to marvel at the stunning color of piercing eyes on his prominent face. Colt could have the most obnoxious and unpleasant personality, and still, the world would be captivated by him. So unfair that men like Montgomery Ryland are all I have to aspire to when such fine specimens walk the earth.
But then again, Colt gives a whole other meaning to the word eye-candy.
You might want to take a big bite of it, but in the end, it’s nothing but empty calories.
Still, can I really blame these women here for looking?
You mean like you’re doing now, Emma?
I roll my eyes and get back to our table, pretending not to have heard my censuring reprimand. But as I try to focus on work and ignore my new assistant completely, his faint chuckle breaks through my concentration.
“What’s so funny?”
“This bullshit right here.” He points to the open book in front of him, squeezing my knee.
While I’m on my best behavior to keep our relationship purely professional, Colt isn’t as careful.
I really wish he would stop doing that.
No, you don’t. Otherwise, you’d have said something by now.
“It says here that secret societies were the very incubators of today’s current democracy.”
“I take it you disagree with that assessment?” I arch a brow, genuinely interested in what he has to say, especially considering the family he was born into.
“You don’t?” he asks instead of answering my question.
“I can name you twenty U.S. presidents from the top of my head that belonged to one secret society or another. You have to understand that these same secret boys’ clubs elected their own leaders and drew up constitutions to govern their secret operations. So it’s not by accident that men such as George Washington and Ben Franklin—who had important roles in these secret organizations—also carried influential positions in the real world. It would be foolish of us to believe that their way of thinking didn’t mold our current democracy in some way.”
When he doesn’t look convinced, I continue on.
“Okay, consider this then. The power of these societies stemmed from having the ability to stay anonymous and keep their communications secret, correct? Doesn’t our own government use the same models in their own institution? The CIA? The FBI? Secret Service?”
“So what you’re saying is that all the conspiracy theories out there are true?”
“No. What I’m saying is that every urban legend has a sliver of truth to it, no matter how minuscule. What is extraordinary to me is how people prefer to label these legends as delusional fiction, rather than face the possibility that these secret organizations not only exist but also have unchecked power to do as they please.”
“Huh,” he muses to himself, his forehead creasing. “So how would you be able to tell fact from fiction?”
“Research,” I tease, knocking my knee playfully with his. “And a lot of it, I’m afraid.”
“What if the answer to your question wasn’t in some book or newspaper clipping? What would you do then?”
I don’t need to think too hard on the matter since, by default, that’s the reason why he’s here.
“I’d go to the first plausible suspect and do my due diligence. Try to find any shred of proof to support my suspicions.”
When his emerald eyes shimmer with something I can’t quite name, my heartbeat accelerates, and my mouth begins to dry. I clear my throat and immediately turn my attention back to my laptop, kicking myself for letting out such a passionate rant.
“My book will be completely impartial, though. My aim is to find out the truth about such organizations. Nothing more.”
He opens his mouth on the verge of asking something else when my phone begins to vibrate on top of the desk. I quickly pick it up when I see it’s Montgomery and decline the call. Unfortunately for me, Colt recognizes the number.
“Why is the dean calling you? School hours are over, aren’t they?”
“I don’t see how that is any of your concern,” is my curt reply.
“Right.” He unclenches his jaw, making it pop.
I don’t miss how his tone has gone from be
ing enthralled and intrigued with our previous conversation to downright cold. The sudden chill between us gnaws at my throat. I dart my attention back to the screen, trying not to squirm under his scrutiny, yet I can’t help the cold shudder that ripples through me as I try my best to remain impervious to his insidious stare. Colt is wound up so tight that he might snap at the littlest provocation.
“It’s getting late. You can leave if you want,” I say dismissively, praying he takes the hint and leaves.
His chair scrapes against the floor, and without even as much as a goodbye, he stomps off. I let out the breath that I was holding, my shoulders slumping from his abrasive exit.
What the hell was that?
Snap out of it, Emma.
He’s just a means to an end.
You shouldn’t be wasting your time thinking of why his mood changed so suddenly.
Minutes later, I’m still trying to push away the guilty feeling of how abrupt I was with him when someone places two brown paper bags on the table. I look up to find Colt has returned, thankfully less taciturn.
“I thought you left.”
“Why did you think that? You told me that this job meant long hours, and I promised you that I’d be down for the long haul. I just went to get us some dinner. You’ll work better on a full stomach.”
“I don’t know what to say,” I mumble, honestly surprised by the kind gesture.
“Just eat, Em,” he orders, placing a bowl of shrimp garlic pasta in front of me.
It’s only when the rich aroma hits my senses that my stomach begins to growl. Too hungry to feign embarrassment, I pick up my plate and do just that. As we eat our meal in silence, I’m reminded of what I needed to ask him. Since Colt seems to be in better spirits, this is as good a time as any to bring the topic up.
“I heard your family has quite the extensive library of their own. Is that true?”
He nods.
“Is there any way I could visit?”
He places his plate back on the desk, using his napkin to clean up before answering.
“You want to come over to my place?” He wiggles his brows.
“I wouldn’t phrase it exactly like that, but yes.”
He runs the pad of his thumb over his lower lip, the crippling fear that he can somehow read my inner thoughts, making it hard to keep my breathing in check.
“I could do you one better. Let me just get the okay from the parentals, and instead of working here, we can work there for a few days. How does that sound?”
Like exactly what I needed to hear.
Chapter 11
Emma
Although the recently arrived December chill can be felt in the air, Montgomery insists we eat out on the terrace. Not that I mind the cold so much. It’s the company I’m still debating over. While the decision of having Colt as my aide seems to be bearing fruit, I’m still on the fence in regards to Montgomery.
“I thought a lunch date would be less intimidating for you. Was I right?”
I offer him a thin smile, not really comfortable with him labeling this simple lunch as a date, but in retrospect, I didn’t have to accept his invitation if I didn’t want to. The only reason I did was because I have my own agenda behind it.
“I gather you don’t date much?” I ask, taking a bite of my Caesar salad.
“If I’m totally honest, the school and my kids keep me too busy to think about socializing. But sometimes it feels good just to have a meal with a beautiful woman and indulge in delicious food to remind me that I’m still a man.”
I know he’s expecting me to gush over such flattery, but I do no such thing and move onto a safer topic.
“Your children are full-grown adults. I would assume they don’t need much of your attention.”
“Spoken like a woman who doesn’t have kids of her own.”
I bite my fork to keep myself from giving him the reply he deserves.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to offend,” he quickly backpedals, seeing that his offhand comment dampened the romantic mood he was aiming for.
I gift him another one of my fabricated smiles instead of telling him where he can shove his condescending remark. Thank God I have class in an hour. Otherwise, I’d end up with lockjaw from forcing myself to smile so much.
“It’s just that, no matter how old my children get, I will always worry about them and their future. It’s my job as their father to guide them in the right direction. The day you become a mother, I’m sure you’ll be the same way, too.”
Just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean my maternal clock is ticking, Montgomery.
“Mmm,” I mumble noncommittally before taking a sip of my white wine. I had no intention of drinking during lunch since I still have classes, but Montgomery isn’t making it easy on me with his douchebag remarks. “Both Kennedy and Jefferson seem to have good heads on their shoulders, so you must be doing something right.”
When his grin splits his face in two, I see that although I may be immune to his flattery, Montgomery takes my compliment at face value. I don’t, however, add that both his kids give me hives. Jefferson is an overachiever who doesn’t take failure lightly, while his sister Kennedy seems to be oddly manipulative, only saying what she thinks a person wants to hear and never her true thoughts.
“I try my best. It hasn’t always been easy without a woman in their lives. I can be quite strict with them. I know that. But it’s only in their best interest.”
Tired of talking about his kids, I try to divert the conversation to something that has more of my interest.
“If you don’t mind me asking, how long has it been since your wife passed?”
“Close to ten years now, God bless her soul.”
His eyes take on a purposely saddened hue. I know what words he expects to spill out of my lips next since it’s obvious this isn’t his first rodeo. Something along the lines of how lonely it must have been to raise two children all by himself, or how remarkable he is to have managed to balance a prestigious carreer and a family so flawlessly. But inflating a man’s ego has never been my style.
Does he want a fucking parade or something?
Why is it that single mothers are never half as praised for raising their children and bringing a steady income home as men are for doing the bare minimum? Sure he did it all by himself, but so did my grandfather, who never expected a pat on the back.
“I’ve heard lovely things about her,” I say instead of blurting out my true inner thoughts.
“Oh, have you?”
“Yes. I spend most of my free time at the Charlotte Library, so I couldn’t help but admire the section there called Dorethea’s books. I was told the children’s book section was specifically dedicated in your wife’s honor.”
“Ah. Of course.” He seals his lips in a fine line, his attention now on his risotto.
“I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I thought it was a lovely gesture to keep her memory alive.”
“As much as I would like to take full credit for that, I had no hand in doing it.”
I know.
Why do you think I brought it up?
If we can speed this along and get to the good stuff, that would be great, Montgomery.
I keep my interested look branded on my face, even though I’m becoming impatient with the way he’s chewing his food, intentionally trying to avoid the subject.
“I just assumed it had been you. Another family member, perhaps?”
“In a manner of speaking.” He takes a drink of his wine.
Oh, come on!
Give me more than that!
I take another forkful of my salad, waiting for him to just fess up and lead our conversation to where I need it to go, but it feels like I’m pulling teeth with this one.
“Your late wife’s parents, then?”
He lets out a resentful exhale.
“No. By the time my wife passed away, they were no longer with us.”
“I don’t mean to intrude. Please forget
I even brought it up if it brings you such discomfort.”
I pat his hand and bat my eyelashes at him. I’m not particularly proud of the lengths to which I’m willing to go, but I can’t turn back now. When his azure eyes begin to glimmer, I almost gag at what I can see so vividly in them. Montgomery has me naked and under him already, and all I had to do was flutter my lashes at him.
Yeah, that’s not going to happen.
“It’s quite alright,” he relents, taking my hand in his and caressing it. “I really shouldn’t be bitter about the gesture. It was made out of love, after all, and considering the person who did it, I should be honored that she was even capable of summoning such a sentiment. But my wife had that ability in her—to make even the most cold-blooded people fall for her enchantment.” Although he’s using his usual soft-spoken manner, I detect an undertone of resentment to his words.
“Oh. So it was a previous lover?”
“God, no.” He laughs, enabling me to release my hand from his hold. “It was her best friend, Colleen Richfield. She’s the one who did it.”
The way he says Colleen’s name seems to leave a foul taste on the tip of his tongue. The hate is so tangible that if I lunged myself over our table, I could grab it. Although I fully intend to commit every word to memory, I make a note to be smarter next time and record our conversation on my phone.
“I didn’t realize your family was so close to Richfields.” I lie.
“Not my family, but my wife sure was. She and Colleen grew up together and were joined at the hip, you might say. Colleen cared more for my wife than she did for her own younger sister, Sierra. But that was inevitable since Sierra was a different breed—alive and hungry to experience the world. Colleen and Dorethea were more tempered in their dispositions, down to earth.”
I don’t miss how the mention of the youngest Richfield sister brought a more heated sparkle to his eye that his own wife failed to inspire.
“How did you all meet?”
“Funnily enough, I was a student at Richfield when I met all three. To make ends meet, like so many scholarship students, I did some catering work to get by at the Richfield Country Club. I was introduced to them at one of their Northside galas. But here I am going on and on about myself when we haven’t talked about you yet.”