I should be mad. I should be angry. Instead, I am so damn muddled I need to get my head on straight.
I am almost at the door when a strong hand grabs hold of me and pulls me in the opposite direction. I lurch back and am swung around to come face-to-face with eyes so dark they’ve lost their golden touch.
“What are you doing here?” Asher’s voice is harsh; that full mouth is in a hard line. Using his body as a shield, he pushes me into the corner where our building meets the one next to it.
I blink in disbelief. Pulling my arm back, I try to get loose but he tugs harder.
“I work here.” My face contorts as I try to get away from him. Anyone looking at us would think we are just talking rather closely. He is keeping his hold on me hidden.
“Since when?” His voice is hushed but angry nonetheless. I can’t help but notice he no longer smells of sea and salt.
“Two months ago. I got a call offering me a job and I took it. If I knew you had anything to do with it I wouldn’t have accepted.” I give my body a final yank and release myself from his grasp.
Asher’s eyes narrow on mine, becoming beady and accusatory. “I promise you I had nothing to do with you being here. Who would do this?” he asks, massaging the back of his neck with his hand.
Rubbing my arm, which is now tender from his abrasive hold, I lean back and look to my right. I’m about to tell him how I know Frank when I see a familiar giant in a black suit standing near an SUV on the corner, just behind the barricade.
Devon’s hands are clasped in front of his body, standing at attention. The two of us make eye contact and I am offered a kind smile and a shrug in apology.
Asher follows my gaze and lands on the not-so-innocent giant.
Without a word, he turns from me and makes his way toward Devon. I use the opportunity to rush inside and get my head together.
By seven o’clock my head is a flurry of new faces I will soon come to recognize and a sea of kind words from the many parents who walked through the door with their children in tow.
Since the media was here, I strolled the halls with them, showing the various classrooms and the teachers conducting lessons. Whenever someone asked for a quote on camera, I politely pointed them toward Frank.
I sat in on a violin lesson given by Lisa to seven students, a guitar introduction with one of our teachers, and the twelve teenagers who are dreaming of being the next Taylor Swift or Ed Sheeran or whoever their current idol is.
It’s been a hectic day I’ve been looking forward to it for six weeks. Problem is, I wasn’t expecting it to start the way it did.
With everyone gone for the day, I take a seat in one of the chairs in the corner of Crystal’s empty classroom. My small office doesn’t have a window so I come in here to enjoy the view. The sun is setting as I sit idly in the corner going through the schedule for tomorrow when the door swings open.
The sound of leather Oxford loafers echo in the empty room causing my head to rise and take in the figure walking in.
I swallow, hard, at the sight of him.
Six feet tall and absolutely stunning.
Asher walks into the room, each step controlled, commanding, and with purpose. He is wearing a black suit that frames his broad shoulders perfectly and is tailored to showcase his lean, narrow torso. His white shirt and silver-gray tie make him look like a man in charge. And he is. Because right now I couldn’t lead a moth to a flame if I tried.
His skin is still golden from his many months in the Mediterranean sun. Those gorgeous highlights are brushed back, accentuating the masculine structure of his face. And those eyes? Gone are the honey wheat, kind eyes. These here are so dark, I fear the Asher I know isn’t there anymore.
Maybe he never really existed.
I take a deep breath and steady myself in my seat. I am suddenly very nervous. Very much like the first time we met.
He takes in the classroom. His hands deep in his pockets as he looks over the decorations on the walls and the various seats and stands that are in place for the students to learn. The tick of his jaw is tight but his brows are closed, sloping at the ends; his lips are pursed as if he’s trying to put the pieces of a puzzle together.
It’s uncomfortable watching someone from a dark corner in the room. Part of me wonders if he even knows I’m here. He doesn’t say a word, nor does he look at me.
Still I can’t open my mouth to say anything.
“You’re not teaching?” he asks and I startle at the question.
Okay, so he does know I’m here.
I clear my throat and look for the right words. “No. I still can’t play.” My hand flexes out of habit, and I feel the burn in my palm, up through my fingers.
Asher’s attention turns to me. He doesn’t look angry like he did earlier. Instead he looks . . . God, I wish I knew what he was thinking. I gather my papers off my lap and grab my bag off the floor.
“Why didn’t you come find me?”
I halt putting my papers in my bag. My eyes scrunch together in confusion. “What?”
Asher is standing on the far side of the room. His feet are spread wide apart, his arms now crossed in front of his body. His chin rises and he stands as if prepared for a duel. “You’ve been here for two months. Why didn’t you track me down?”
I shake my head in disgust at his bold attempt to assume I’d even want to see him. “Why would I look for you in New York when you didn’t have the decency to stay for me in Capri?” The hair on the back of my neck stands up, as nervous energy takes over. I’m unprepared for this conversation.
Studying the pattern of the hardwood floor, I wait for him to answer me. Silence fills the air and I have the need to fill it. With a shaky hand I swing my tote over my shoulder and start to move. “Guess I was just another one of your playthings, Asher . . . or Alexander. Whatever the hell your name is.”
My feet are mid-stride when he steps in my direction, coming to a stop in front of me. “You would know all about that. Some actress you turned out to be.” His hands rise in front of his body, palms up. For as jittery as I am feeling at this moment, he is exuding complete control. “Don’t play dumb. You knew who I was the entire time.”
My mouth opens in a huff and I breathe out an expletive. “I know nothing about you. Just some pathetic made up stories.” I brush past him with my shoulder and make my way toward the exit.
“You had me followed.” My feet come to a screeching halt. What the hell is he talking about? “My boat was pinged, my information gathered.”
I turn my head to the side, peering over my shoulder, and look at him out the corner of my eye.
Asher takes a step toward me, his presence close yet so far away. I wish my body wasn’t so aware of him, sensitive to him, even if it is screaming with fury and pain. My heart is pounding out of my chest, and it’s not only because of anger or hurt—and that makes me angry and hurt all over again.
“Why was Adam Reingold researching me?” It’s not a polite question. It’s filled with accusation and judgment.
Adam was worried his future wife and sister-in-law were being taken advantage of. He feared we’d be hurt while gallivanting with some billionaire on his yacht. He cared for our safety.
Is it so difficult for someone like Asher to assume a person cared so much about his loved ones he went out of his way to keep them safe? Does he always think someone has an ulterior motive? Are we all untrustworthy?
After everything I shared with him. In seventy-two hours I laid my soul bare to him, gave my body to him. In return, he’s accusing me of something so heinous, it’s as if the moments we shared meant nothing.
He takes a step closer. His jaw is clenched, his arms flexed in agitation. He’s mad. I can see that. But I can also see something else in those golden eyes.
He’s scared.
Of what, I have no idea and I’m not going to stick around to find out.
With my back to him, I cast my words over my shoulder; he doesn’t deserve my full
attention.
“You’ve been looking for a reason to walk away from me since the moment we met. Let me make this easy for you.”
I turn my head back around and walk out of the room and out of the building, my feet not stopping until I’m back, grounded on the pavement outside.
Despite what Leah thinks, I do not, have not, and will not google Alexander Asher. Call it sheer will, call it strength, or call it the fear of falling off the wagon . . . whatever it is, after that one night in Capri, I refused to look him up.
I learned all I needed to know about him that night. He is insanely wealthy, from a family dynasty that spans generations, and he’s known as a playboy and ultimate bachelor.
What I didn’t read anywhere was his connection to the Juliette Academy. I could kick myself.
Let me see if I actually can.
Standing in my kitchen, I’m literally bending my knee and kicking myself in the ass over not even attempting to see a correlation between Asher and the Juliette Academy. He said his mom’s name was Juliette. And here I was thinking it was a pun on the school Julliard.
Argh.
My butt hurts now.
I walk over to the kitchen drawer, take out my tension ball and do some hand aerobics per my occupational therapist’s instructions. Leaving Ohio meant stopping my therapy sessions. Even though I don’t have someone telling me what to do, I make a point to spend ten minutes, two times a day doing my exercises.
Eating with my left hand is fine. Writing is a project. Thank God for computers or else everyone would have to read my chicken scratch.
I have this special pen that’s supposed to help me write but I don’t care for it. It has the same shape of a hole puncher laying on its side. The two arms sit by my thumb and middle finger while my pointer rests on the pen. I use it sometimes but it’s uncomfortable. My dad made his own design using a pen inserted through a rubber ball, fashioned so my hand doesn’t have to squeeze tight around it. I don’t use that one either. It reminds me of when Asher had me rest my hand over his to play the cello.
I blow air out my lips, causing them to vibrate.
He thinks I knew who he was when we met—some gold-digging whore pretending to not know who he was in order to win his millions. Or billions: apparently he inherited the world.
Asher may not have said all those things but I can read the writing on the wall. The guy has serious trust issues. But for him to insinuate that I wanted anything to do with his money is unfathomable.
It’s as if he was goading me all those days in Capri. He could have just said his name was Alexander. Instead, he said it was Asher—the name known for gluttonous wealth and power. At least to everyone but me. I’m from a small town in Ohio and have been living in Pittsburgh. Sorry, Alexander Asher, but the whole world doesn’t know who you are. Narcissistic jerk!
What am I doing here? Maybe Leah’s right. A part of me was intrigued by New York because I knew it’s where he is from. There is that small part of me that wanted to see him and, now that I have, I hate him more than I did the last time I saw him.
Maybe it’s time to go home.
I pick up the phone and call my parents. I need a reality check, fast. My mom picks up on the first ring.
“Emma? Emma? Are you okay? Did you get mugged?” I can picture her grabbing hold of the cross she wears, tugging it until the chain makes an indent in the back of her neck.
I let out a sigh at my very loving yet overly concerned mother. “Yes, mom. I’m okay.”
“Why are you calling? You never call. You can come home any time, honey. Daddy and I have your room ready. We won’t change it like we did when you went to college.”
I sink into the chesterfield. I’ll give it to the end of the week.
“Thank you, Miss Emma. See you next week.”
“See you next Friday, Madison.” I wave off the little girl who started flute lessons today. Fourteen and full of life, Madison is a girl whose parents can probably afford lessons on their own, but deserves to be here like everyone else.
Standing at the door, I watch as Madison and her mom walk to the corner. Her mom was a sweet woman who asked for a tour of the facility. Part of me is hoping the family will make a donation to the school. I cross my fingers and watch as the two get into a cab.
“Can I have a word?”
I turn my head to see Frank standing on the stairwell.
“Sure.” I say, wrapping my cardigan around me. The afternoon chill is coming in through the open door. I close it and walk over to Frank.
“Good first week?”
“Yeah.” I let out a breath that’s half laugh, half sigh of relief. “We had thirty no-shows, sixteen kids placed in the wrong class, forty-seven missing guitars that UPS claims are in Jersey City, and Crystal just got a gig for the winter playing Friday night weddings, which means she needs to give up her end-of-the-week class.”
“Sounds like a great first week to me!” Frank laughs and I find it refreshing. The thirty kids who didn’t show up have another week to claim their spot or else they lose it. The sixteen kids were properly placed in the right classes and those instruments better be here Monday morning or else I’m taking the ferry to New Jersey and bringing them here myself.
As for the teaching position I have to fill . . . “I placed a few calls yesterday to the candidates we passed on to see if they’re still available. It’s not easy finding a cello teacher for an after-school music program that pays as little as we do.”
“Don’t worry. I took care of it.” Frank says, his feet next to mine as the two of us ascend the stairwell.
“Oh, thank God.”
Frank shakes his head and smiles out the corner of his mouth. “I’m not usually called God, so a simple Thanks Frank will do.”
“Thanks, Frank,” I say, and he laughs again. I head up the stairs, Frank right behind me. “Whatever can I do to repay you?”
“Glad you asked.” Frank opens his padfolio and takes out a few papers and holds them out toward me. “I’d like you to make a speech at the fund-raiser next month?”
The fund-raiser. I didn’t forget about it. I just wasn’t planning on going. Before the school opened, a party had been planned. I can’t really call it a party. It’s a soiree at the Waldorf Astoria in honor of the Juliette Academy. I was planning on going until I realized Alexander Asher was attached to the school and most likely would be there. Seeing him at a party with a gorgeous woman draped around his arm? It’s the exact reason I won’t google him. I don’t think I can deal.
I hold up my hand and ignore the papers. “I’m not going.” My voice is matter-of-fact.
“What do you mean you’re not going? You’re part of the reason these doors even opened. Before you came we were a mess. You got our schedules in order, the instruments placed properly and hired the best teachers. Emma, your knowledge and passion for this school is why we are here. We had the funding but you had the heart.”
I reach the third floor landing and turn around to look at Frank. I had no idea he felt that way. It actually makes me want to tear up. I don’t, of course, but I feel like I should.
“Um, thank you, Frank. That is really—it’s really kind of you to say.” I swallow. How do I reply to that? Thanks for the kind words but I’m still not going because Alexander Asher is a cad? “I have prior arrangements.” Liar.
Frank’s face looks forlorn. “That’s unfortunate. I was really hoping you’d do this.”
My shoulders fall with lament. I hate letting people down. I’ve been doing a lot of that this year. First with all the worrying I put my family through. Now with Frank.
Insert dramatic sigh of defeat. “I’ll see what I can do. What kind of speech did you have in mind?” Frank hands me some notes he has. I listen as he tells me what he’d like me to say.
Just one pass over his copy and I know it is in need of major changes.
Taking the papers in hand, I bid Frank good-bye as he exits on the third floor and I continue my walk u
pstairs. If there is a new cello instructor, I will have to sit in on the class. I’ve been sitting in on many classes, seeing what is working and what does not. Next week, I’ll have a one-on-one meeting with all the teachers and go over the points I have for each of them.
My feet carry me up the stairs to the fourth floor. I swing open the heavy wooden door and am instantly hit with the melody of a cello, obviously Crystal’s. The rooms are soundproof so the door to her classroom must be open.
I take a few steps toward Crystal’s room and see the door is, in fact, open. There are people standing in the entrance, longingly looking toward the front of the classroom, entranced in the melody that is being played.
Tapping someone on the shoulder, I ask if I can squeeze in past him. He moves to the left so I can walk into the room, but there are more people than I thought standing in here, coupled with the chairs filled with students and their instruments. I hope this isn’t against fire code.
Dancing through the people to get to my office, I get to the middle of the crowd and am surprised to see Crystal standing in the back. She catches my puzzled expression and looks back at me as if asking “What?” I look back at her in confusion. If she’s not playing, than who is?
Then I see what everyone is staring at. Asher. He is wearing dress pants and a button-down shirt. The sleeves are rolled up. The tie and suit jacket rest on a folding chair beside him.
His strong thighs are wrapped around the cello. The neck of the instrument is in his left hand as his right strokes the strings with a bow. And it’s not just the beautiful man who is playing the instrument that causes you to stop and stare. It’s the way he plays.
His eyes are hooded, feeling every note his delicate hands are eliciting from the heavy wooden instrument. His body is strong yet moves ever so slightly in a beautiful dance with the instrument.
A wave of chills run up my spine, and my body ignites in a force of electricity I’ve come to expect whenever I’m in the same room as him. I’m sure others feel it too. He is magnetic and intoxicating—the most sinful sight the eyes have ever indulged.
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