by Kara Hart
His upper lip curls into a curious smile. “You look like I’m offering you the world.”
This is a lot to offer. I don’t want to come off as too poor and uneducated, especially when I’m teaching his daughter the ins and outs of the English language. However, the more I’m in his presence, the harder it becomes to speak. When I finally find the right words, I’m sure he thinks I’m a lunatic.
“I mean, you kind of are offering me the world. This place is incredible,” I say.
He looks uninterested. A tiny bit distracted, too. “I hired an interior decorator. The books are mainly for display purposes, but Sammy seems to enjoy them.”
That’s why he owns the books? To look cool?
I laugh because all of this is a little too much to understand for someone like me, and I’m a little frustrated by his lack of enthusiasm. “I’m not sure you know what treasures you’re sitting on,” I say.
“My bids were for first edition copies,” he says. “If they’re fakes, I’m going to write an angry email.”
I open the book and check it out. The year is printed in charcoal. It’s signed, London 1816. “My God,” I mutter. “This must have cost a fortune.”
Leaning over my shoulder, he points to the publisher name. John Murray. It’s a real copy. “You don’t want to know how much I spent.”
I quickly close its pages and lean on my toes to put it back on the top shelf. “You’re right. It’ll probably just piss me off. I’ve never owned an original anything.”
He stops me from returning it to its rightful corner, briefly bringing his hand to the small of my back. “Well, I’d like to hear your expert opinion,” he says. “What do you think? Is it fake?”
Careful not to run my finger over the pencil signature from the publisher, I hold the book closer to my face. The aroma is ancient but familiar. “It’s pretty neat,” I admit. “Definitely real. Not a fake.”
Positioning his waist close to mine, he leans and grabs the edge of the book, gliding his hand over mine. “What should we do with it?”
I give him my answer without flinching. “Keep it. Forever.”
Gently, he closes its cover. I turn to hand him the book, but to my surprise, he shakes his head and closes my hand around both ends. “Why don’t you keep it instead?”
“You’re… serious?”
He nods, appearing more cheeky than he was just a few moments ago. “I tend to lose things,” he says, shrugging into the kitchen to check on the food. A delicious smell emanates from the oven. “And you seem to care more about it than I do. So why not hand it over to someone who cares?”
I don’t enjoy receiving gifts. In fact, it makes me feel a little on-the-spot. This is a really expensive book, rarer than most diamonds. I can’t accept it without returning some type of favor. “Maybe I could read it to Sammy,” I blurt out.
He lowers his voice and eyes me. “Speaking of Sammy, how were things today? Anything from that Xander kid?”
I remember how rejected he looked on the playground, and how Sammy looked back at him like there were words needed to be said between the two. Realizing I’m gripping the old book too tight, I put it down and take a deep breath.
I zig-zag through Marc, pausing at the marble kitchen island. “Well, I think something is going on between them,” I say.
Although he chuckles, I can sense some anger forming. His face solidifies, and the cute smile soon melts into a distasteful frown. “My daughter’s eight. She believes in cooties, not holding hands.”
“Actually, kids display awareness of attraction at a really early age,” I say. “Your daughter might have her first crush.”
Shutting his eyes, he groans. “This is not a conversation I thought I’d ever have,” he says, face pained. “She’s my little angel.”
I lean against the island, noticing a world of space between us. “I think I agree with her,” I say. “Boys have cooties. They’re very intent on spreading them.”
He narrows his eyes and meanders to the side of the island, occupying himself with the silverware. I catch those eyes lower, before they rise to meet my own. “Is that some kind of jab at me?”
“It’s just a trend I’ve noticed,” I say.
In the living room, Sammy quietly plays with her dolls. “Just keep an eye on those two,” he says. “For a little while longer, at least. She’s acting quieter than her usual self.”
Taking another sip of wine, I feel a sense of urgency overtake my buzz. “Quit worrying. She’s my priority,” I say.
There’s some space between us, but we’re both looking at Sammy.
When his smile returns, I know we’re still good. Over the last few days, our rapport has grown into something like a feud. I’m not sure if there’s any way to stop it, but a little bit of lasagna never hurts. Maybe we’ll finally break bread.
“Stay for food,” he says.
“I don’t know, Marc,” I mutter. “I’ve got Rowdy and twenty-seven sheets of homework to grade.”
He frowns. “It’ll just be less than an hour.”
“Why do you want me to stay so bad?” I finally ask.
Glancing at the carpet, he scratches the back of his neck and sighs. “I know it’s weird, but I think it would be good for Sammy to have a role model in her life.”
It’s sweet to see he cares about his girl, but that’s a lot of responsibility to put on me. Not to mention, it’s a little out-of-the-blue. It reminds me that there’s something more to their family. “You keep saying things like that,” I say.
He blinks a few times. “Did I?”
I lower my voice, just in case Sammy can hear us. “Did something… happen to her?”
His throat tightens, and his mouth hangs open. He’s about to speak when the oven alarm cuts into the conversation. “Oh, shit,” he whispers. “I better check on that.”
I glance down, heart beating rapidly. “Right,” I say. “You go right ahead.”
I’m not here to dig into their personal life, but I also don’t think it’s fair to ask me to be anyone’s role model. At the end of the day, I’m just a normal woman who has dedicated her time to teaching children. I have a life.
He pops his head out from the kitchen. A plume of smoke follows, which he expertly ducks underneath. “You know, I could pay you,” he says.
Goodbye, life. Hello, money.
I step into the room with my listening cap on. “I might be interested,” I say.
Upon, opening the oven again, he pushes his head forward to smell the incredible carb-heaven. “It wouldn’t be a tutor job,” he says. “You could do everything you would otherwise normally do. You would just do it here instead. With Sammy.”
My house is probably trashed. “I have a dog now, remember?”
“Bring him here,” he says.
“He’ll pee on the carpet.”
He sets the glass baking dish on the island. “You’re making excuses.”
The heat immediately fogs up my glasses.
Clearing my throat, I really give it a second thought. Right now, Rowdy is slobbering all over my apartment. Coming home to that beast is going to be a nightmare and a half. Dinners are a challenge with such a big dog, and my apartment is too small to feel like he has any freedom. It’s almost cruel to keep him there.
Would this job be a good thing? It would make a massive difference.
There’s still a part of me that worries about jumping into anything fast. What does Marc really want? And is he using this job as a means to get it?
I’m a little tense. I didn’t expect to receive two job offers in one week. Judging by the size and location of his house, he can afford to be generous. I’m just not that used to winning.
“That sounds nice,” I say.
He winks, and a flash of electricity rushes through me. “It was just a thought,” he says. “We can talk about a price tomorrow or something. I’m starving.”
Am I smiling too big?
Not at all phased by any of this, he leads me to the ta
ble and gets to serving. Sammy runs over and politely sits, her feet dangling above the carpet.
Marc hands her a piece of lasagna on a spatula. “Here you are, lovely,” he says.
“Thank you, daddy,” she says.
Marc turns to me next. He looks into my eyes and grins. “And here you are, lovely.”
“Thank you,” I mutter. “M-M-Marc.”
Feeling my cheeks start to burn, I quickly make my way to the seat next to Sammy.
Marc sits down and motions to start. “Come on, guys. Eat. You don’t have to wait for me.”
Their family is open and free. It’s comforting in so many ways. Growing up, I never had that sense of freedom. Everything had a ritual attached to it, and if you didn’t follow the rules, people were bound to get angry. Sometimes those feuds lasted all night.
I cut my fork into the rich, melted cheese, so soft it melts through like butter. The pasta sheet gives way to meat sauce, bits of basil, and other fragrant spices. As soon as I take a bite, I lower in my seat because the flavor is out-of-this-world, delicious.
“You cooked this yourself?” I ask.
He chuckles, taking a sip of red wine for good measure. “I dabble in the art of cooking.”
Not going to lie, that’s pretty attractive...
Eyes wide, I lean back and look around the dining area. At the other end of the room is a grand piano. Is he going to play us some Bach for some dessert?
“What don’t you do?” I ask.
“Well, I hardly ever find the time to relax,” he says.
I laugh. “Ha-ha. Very funny.”
Sammy is looking at us like we’re crazy. “I usually help him,” she states.
I edge my voice into a whisper. “I bet you do most of the work,” I say.
“I do,” she whispers back.
Even though Marc is open, his protective side is still there. Watching me interact with his daughter, he takes another sip and quietly starts to eat.
Taking the moment to get to know her, I ignore Marc’s watchful eye. “Your dad gave me a book,” I say.
Sammy chomps. A bit of meat sauce falls down her chin. “He needs to read more than you do.”
Marc puffs out his cheeks, pretending to be outraged. Handing her a napkin, he says, “Well, maybe I’d read if you cleaned your face more often.”
When Sammy smiles, her tiny nose scrunches in the cutest way. Her dad is a jerk, but I’m really glad she’s in my class.
She twists as he cleans her face. “Daaad,” she whines.
“Oh relax. You’re fine,” he says.
They’re great together. A real team. But she’s sitting closer to me, and she keeps looking at me to guide the conversation. He might be right. She needs someone in her life who won’t tell her she’s fine. In all honesty, she needs a mother.
That’s not going to be me. Nope. Definitely not.
After she’s cleaned up, she raises her hand. “Ms. Greenwald, I have a question,” she says.
He’s lucky she’s a quiet, good natured kid. I really enjoy spending time with her. “Yes, Sammy. Ask away.”
She twists her fingers into her hair. “Well, I don’t know if I should ask.”
“Why not?” I ask.
She twists and turns in her seat. Maybe she’s going to talk about Xander, but she’s too afraid to do it in front of her dad. “I feel weird.”
I give a glance to Marc, who looks concerned. “Oh, honey. You don’t need to feel weird around me. In fact, you can ask me anything you want,” I say.
“Really?” she asks.
“Anything,” I reiterate.
She holds her breath. And then she just shouts it out. “Did you really fart earlier?”
Oh, no.
My mouth drops, along with my heart, and I struggle to find the right words to say. I’ve got my eyes on Marc. He’s going to think I’m so gross.
He raises a brow. “Ms. Greenwald,” he says, feigning shock. “Is this true?”
My cheeks are burning with embarrassment. “Um, it was just a little joke I made,” I say. “For the kids.”
“She farted,” Sammy yells, giggling.
All of the nice stuff I said about Sammy – forget about it. She knows exactly what she’s doing.
When I first arrived to their expensive home, I thought it would be a one off trip. I’ve stayed here for over an hour. I’m a little tipsy from the wine, but I’m feeling really good. And for once, I feel like I belong somewhere.
I’ve looked into his eyes for almost as much time.
What am I doing?
“Farting aside,” he says, “I’d like to ask you something a little lighter than our conversation earlier.”
I swallow, trying to act normal. He’s already given me a book, and though he’s alarmingly handsome, I’m a little out of my element. “Yes?”
Hesitating for a brief moment, he looks at the chandelier above the dinner table and seems to think of the right phrasing. After a few seconds, he frowns and just goes for it. “Valentine’s Day is coming up.”
My expectations get crushed. It’s not the job offer I was expecting.
I swore off handsome men for Valentine’s Day. Doesn’t that count for anything?
Doing my best to act pleasant, I sit up straight and shovel the rest of my food into my mouth. “It is,” I mumble.
Gently placing his fork on his plate, he angles his body to get through my inquisitive glare. “My company is having a holiday party.”
There’s no food left on my plate. I’m full, and I hate holiday parties. Time go home.
Clearing my throat, I push out my chair and quickly raise a napkin to shield my flustered expression. “Oh, that’s nice,” I say.
He stands with me, perhaps more rattled by my response than I am by his. “Well, I’d like to ask you if you’d be my guest of honor.”
What is this, the Netherfield Ball from Pride and Prejudice?
I back toward the door, anxious to get home. “I’ll… I’ll think about it,” I respond.
“Dad, what’s Ms. Greenwald doing?” Sammy asks.
Marc goes back to looking at me like I’m a crazy woman. “I’m not sure, sweetie...”
I know it looks rude to leave so fast, but I can’t help but harken back to my initial feelings I had arriving in Seattle. I met a guy just like this one. Was he as rich? No, but that’s not what I’m looking for. The charm is what gets me every time.
My ex came off as a family man. He was the opposite of my expectations. I don’t know Marc that well, but I made an oath to myself. No more men. Not for a while.
In the meantime, we can be friends.
I leave the book behind with me.
Marc
Valentine’s Day party? Did I really have to phrase it like that? It’s an unveiling, not a holiday themed celebration.
Of course, I choked under pressure. Assuming she’d say no to something so formal, I dressed it up in a cheap silk dress. She still said no.
I’m not going. Not without Ali, my guest of honor. And even if she decides to go with me, is it even worth dealing with her anger over this stupid, minuscule lie? I have to find a way out.
I spend the day locked in my office, brainstorming with Brian. In reality, I’m avoiding any real conversation with my team leader, Sandra. That doesn’t stop her from interrupting with some pretty annoying news.
“Jim called earlier,” Sandra says.
This is the seventh call today, not counting my cell.
Although I’m not fully cognizant of my actions, I can feel my teeth grinding. “You had to schedule that party. You just had to do it, didn’t you?”
She glances at Brian and bites her tongue. “I told you about the party a month ago,” she says. “You chose to forget.”
“Ever think I might have my own plans?” I ask, knowing full well I sound like a douchebag.
She gives me one stare before the guilt starts to sink in.
It’s quite possible she did tell me, that
I really did forget. Ever since Ali walked into my life, I can’t stop my head from spinning with confusing emotions. I’m not sure if I like her or if I’m just enthralled with the idea of another life. A different kind of life. Right now, I feel like I’m pulling in two different directions, and if I don’t stop, I’m not sure where this will end up.
I crack my neck and shake my head. “Why is Jim so obsessed with this party thing?”
Sandra juts out her hip, hand planted with enough annoyance to send me flying through the windows behind my desk. “He just wants to make sure the Valentine’s Day party is still happening.”
“What does he need, a physical invitation?” Brian asks.
The guy is richer than I am. He’s probably penciling the party in between the spa treatments and hair restoration appointments. Nevertheless, a man like him can fart and convince a crowd that it actually smells good. So far, he’s been a good ally in the boardroom, despite his larger than life personality sometimes getting in the way. And right now, I need him more than he needs me.
Leaning against my mahogany desk, exhausted by the cast of characters within this business, I ruminate. It’s a wonder how so many people found themselves with so much money. And it’s a miracle I’ve managed to deal with all of them, individually.
“He’s a real pain in my ass,” I mutter.
Sandra twists her lips, balancing on one heel. “They all are,” she sings.
I shut my eyes, wincing from a headache that has just started to take shape. “Just tell him it’s on, and that I’ll bring the cover girl. We’ll get the staff to craft a whole spread on her life. Jim will be pleased.”
There’s a ten percent chance I show up, a five percent chance I’ll take Ali home with me, and a two percent chance this magazine will even happen.
She lights up like a bulb and takes out a notepad and pen, “All right. Let me just pen this in real quick,” she mutters before glancing up again.
“What is it now, Sandra?” I ask.
“Did the model agree to the shoot, or are you just trying to get me out of the room, as usual?” she asks.
I frown. Although it was my suggestion, it’s bizarre to hear her call Ali a model. That’s not really her job. At all. She’s a clear ten, but if she was a model, I wouldn’t give her the time of day.