The band is currently playing a Brian Setzer tune, but I can only hear Beethoven’s Eroica playing in my head. It’s a structurally rigorous composition of great emotional depth, just like the man who inspired the song to play in my head.
He looks around the room, taking in the event. A man approaches him and shakes his hand. While they talk, Asher’s eyes continue to roam. Another man comes up to him and he carries on a conversation with him, as well. In between words, his eyes still look about the gala . . . searching . . . for something.
It is when those golden eyes find mine and the full, luscious lips curve up slightly that I realize what he was looking for.
Me.
Asher courteously excuses himself from the men he is chatting with and walks toward where I’m standing with my feet frozen on the black and white tiles on the floor. I wait for him like I am the bull’s-eye about to be struck by an arrow. When he approaches, he stands in front of me looking directly into my eyes. Taking a moment, he gives me an adorable half grin and extends his hand.
“Hello. My name is Alexander.”
I place my palm in his and quiver at the memory of what it feels like to have these hands on my body.
“Emma Paige,” I say, shyly. I laugh inwardly at our little exchange.
Asher releases our hands, our palms skimming as they pass, our fingers lingering just a little too long. He raises his left hand lacing his fingers through my hair and curls a strand behind my ear. “You changed your hair.”
I nod and blush at the fact he noticed. My head wants to fall into his hand but I keep it upright.
“You look beautiful,” he says, his voice smooth like caramel.
I accept his compliment and offer him one in return. “You look very handsome, yourself.”
And, by God, he does.
“I’ve missed you.”
I wasn’t expecting him to say that, so I don’t know what to say in return. We are a ball of electricity, the two of us, standing here in the middle of a crowded reception surrounded by hundreds of people yet feeling like we are the only two in the room. He looks down at me and takes a small step forward and speaks in my ear, his words almost a whisper. “Dance with me.”
My hand instantly finds his as I allow him to walk me over to the dance floor. The band is playing a slow melody, the lead singer now crooning to an Adele ballad. His right arm snakes around my waist and pulls me in tightly. His left hand encloses my right, delicately, as if he might reinjure it if he’s too rough.
He pulls our hands into his chest. His eyes on me as we dance.
I follow his lead, dancing slowly, but with rhythm and purpose. Being this close to him again, it triggers every feeling I have for him. From the moment I fell in love with him in Italy to the day he shattered me into a million pieces.
Walking hand in hand through the streets of Capri I got to know him. On a boat in the middle of the ocean I let him into my heart. Playing the strings of a cello I fell so deep for him I have been trying to claw my way back to the top ever since.
Looking up at him, flecks of brown dance in his honey-wheat eyes. My tongue absentmindedly skims my lower lip and his pupils dilate.
“I have been dreaming of this.”
I blink back at him, unsure of his meaning. “You dream of dancing with me?”
“I dream of holding you.”
His strong hand places pressure on my back, pulling me in tighter so we are virtually melded together. His other hand raises mine and his lips skim my scar. He is so beautiful and his words are equally as gorgeous . . . but they are just words. And he is just a man.
“Asher—”
“Alexander.”
“What are you doing?”
“Dancing.”
I push away from him but he pulls me in, holding my tight. My voice takes on a serious tone, low and questioning. “No. What are you doing with me? The roses and the songs are perfect. The man who you are pretending to be, right now, is perfect. But you are not perfect. Why are you acting this way?”
Asher stops moving, our bodies halt, and he loosens his hold on me, although we’re still touching. His jaw squares, sharper on the sides. “Emma, I’m trying to tell you that I want you. I want what we started in Italy. I don’t know how to make you see that I’m sorry.”
“Then show me,” I say. “Prove to me something more than the lyrics of someone else’s song and roses of a different color. I fell for a guy on a boat who spoke honestly and deeply; who showed me how to be free. Did he ever exist or was he made up?”
Asher’s brow furrows in as he takes in my words. I use the opportunity to free myself from his arms and step back. The band is ending their song and the people clap.
My eyes still on Asher, I speak the one thing I have been asking from him from the very beginning. “I need something real.”
The cool disdain of Asher’s body language shows me he is wary of what I am asking. I want to know who the real Alexander Asher is but I don’t think he’s willing to let me in. I want to know more about the man I met months ago. Instead, I am face-to-face with a man who is a hardened imposter.
Our moment is broken when Frank takes the mic and asks everyone to find their seats. We stand on the dance floor a beat too long as I wait for Asher to give me something, anything. When it is clear he has nothing to offer I walk away, leaving him there. When I’ve gotten to my seat at the table, Crystal and Lisa are instantly on me, asking questions about dancing with Asher.
I ignore them, because I must look over the speech I worked on with Frank. It’s heavy on statistics and a diatribe on how learning an instrument teaches skill, purpose, and raises the IQ. It’s interesting and it’s insightful. It’s also boring as hell but it’s what the two of us worked on together and what the Juliette Academy needs these people to hear.
When Frank calls my name, the crowd offers a polite applause. I rise to my feet and try not to trip as I walk to the podium. My hands are shaking from nerves. I haven’t given a speech in front of a crowd this size before.
I climb the step to the podium, holding the speech in my hand. I unfold the paper with my jittery hands and offer the crowd a smile before I begin. I start by thanking everyone for coming and explaining what an honor it is to be a part of the Juliette Academy. Light clapping is heard throughout the room.
I am halfway through the first part of my speech when I look to a table on the right hand side of the dance floor and see Alexander looking at me.
He introduced himself to me. It was a moment that seemed so ordinary but was it? That was him being real. Giving me something real. It was small, but it was there, and I passed right by it.
I look down at the paper in my hands. These words are as generic as the ones I accused Alexander of saying to me. There is no heart and no soul. They are just figures, numbers, and information. They are not real. And by real, I mean, they’re not true to me. They are not why I am here, not why I started to play music in the first place, and not why this little school in the heart of Manhattan has meant so much to me in a short amount of time.
When I look back at the crowd, I realize I must look silly. I’ve stopped talking mid-speech, and everyone is staring at me, waiting for me to speak.
Feel, Emma.
Be real.
Burn.
“I was ten years old the first time I saw someone play the violin,” I say, my words unsure at first as I’m going off-book, but I continue anyway. “I’m sure I’d heard a violin before but I had never seen someone play. As I watched the woman play, I was moved by the look of her. She wasn’t just playing a song. She was feeling the music. I wanted to feel what she was feeling too.
“For fifteen years the violin was my life. I studied it, pursued it. It wasn’t just my career. It was my life.” I look down at my scar and flex my hand feeling that sting that reminds me why I am here today. “Earlier this year I lost my brother in a horrific car accident, and my world was over. I couldn’t feel anything. I also lost my ability to play
that day and I have the scar to prove it.
“Then I met a man and I fell madly in-love with him. He taught me how to feel the music again. And when that love was lost, it was music that got me through the pain.
“You see, teaching someone how to play an instrument is all in the mechanics. You can show a child how to push down on the key of a piano or bang on the head of a drum. But feeling the music? That comes from the heart.
“Most of the kids we teach, they won’t ever play professionally. Many will give up before they get to college. But if we can instill the love of song into every child that walks through our doors we are giving them a greater gift. We are teaching them how to feel. We are showing them how to connect. And we are making them better human beings for it.
“I lost everything, yet I still have something. I have passion. I have the beat in my soul to carry on and the strings in my heart to play it forward. The Juliette Academy is more than a building on Rivington. It is a place of love.
“Isn’t that why we’re here today? It’s not to get dressed up or drink and dance. There are children out there who have lost more than I have. Many will grow up and realize we live in a cruel, harsh world. Yet if we can give them an ounce of the passion and feeling and love we have to offer . . . well, we may be able to save them.” I smile at the thought. “And we may, just may, be able to save ourselves.”
The audience around me begins to clap and a few people rise to their feet and then a few more and a couple more. Soon, the entire room is on its feet, applauding for me. I say a quick thanks and depart the podium quickly. On my way to my table, I glance over at Asher’s table and notice that he’s not there.
I guess I should be used to him disappearing on me.
My taxi pulls up to the curb of my Mott Street apartment. The night was long and my feet are hurting. After my speech, we enjoyed a delicious dinner and then we danced until the event was over. I decided dancing with Crystal and Lisa was the best way to keep from having to answer their questions about Asher.
Asher—who, by the way, never came back. I saw Frank looking for him a few times and I can’t deny I glanced around, but to no avail. He did what he does best. He left.
I pay the cabbie and get out of the cab. I see the familiar figure of a man, huddled in the doorway, and I worry about poor Mattie, who must be freezing in the early December chill. It isn’t as cold as some of my Ohio nights, but it’s not the kind you want to be locked out of your apartment on.
But when he raises his head, I see it is not who I thought it was.
Asher stands up, brushing the gravel off his pant legs. He is still wearing his tuxedo. His bow tie is undone and hanging around his neck. Other than that, he still looks as perfect as he did when I last saw him a few hours ago.
I stop in my place by the curb and approach him tentatively. “What are you doing here?”
Asher’s eyes are sullen and leaden with emotion. He takes a deep breath and when he lets it out I start to hold my own. “My name is Alexander Gutierrez. My mother was Juliette Asher and my father was John Gutierrez—”
“You don’t have to—”
“No, Emma, I do. You asked for something real.” He holds out his hands to the side, open as in offering. “This is me. This is real.”
“Okay.” I pull my coat in, protecting myself from the evening chill. “Go on.”
Asher takes a beat to start, as if the weight of his words are hard to lift off his tongue. His red-rimmed eyes look deep into mine and I know what he is about to say is going to be potent with meaning.
“When I was ten years old, my parents took me to a hockey game. The roads were a mess. We had no business being out that night but they wanted to take me for my birthday. It was the first game I’d ever been to. It was also my last. Our car rolled off an embankment. My parents, they were both crushed on the impact. We were in the middle of nowhere and we didn’t have cell phones. There was no one to call for help.
My hand rises to my mouth as I let out a gasp. I don’t say a word, though. I let him speak.
“I watched my parents die in that car. My father died first. My mother tried to fight but she eventually lost. I sat in the back seat for five hours, staring at them, hoping they’d wake up but they never did.”
Asher takes a step toward me, his eyes wide and red, the beautiful gold gone. In its place is sheer sorrow. “My grandfather hated my father. When I came to live with him, he told me I was no longer my father’s son. I was an Asher now. He didn’t even call me by my first name because it was my father’s name as well. Instead, he called me Sunny. Said it was my hair.”
I can imagine Asher as a towheaded little boy. Although the images on my head are one of a carefree boy, not someone who lost the love of his parents and was shipped off to live with his tyrant of a grandfather he’d never met.
“Edward Asher was a good man. He didn’t know love but he knew how to teach. He trained me to lead. And I have. I am the CEO of Asher Industries, a business he built from the ground up. A legacy he left me when he died last year. I spent the better part of this year traveling around Europe trying to find a place to bury him. When I did, I came home and took over the life I was groomed to live.
“I play the cello and the piano. My mother taught lessons out of our home. She was classically trained before she gave it all up to live with the man she loved. A poor man, but a good man. The reason music is so important to me, the reason the school is the only thing in this world I am proud of is because it is my one connection to them.
“I’ve broken two bones in my life, I hate pickles, and I think soup is completely overrated. I prefer movies to television, Thai is my favorite kind of takeout, I’d rather go to a museum than a ball game, and I only read autobiographies. I don’t know how to do laundry but I can make a great spaghetti Bolognese.”
Asher takes another step closer to me, his breath smokes out in the cold. I look up at him and take in the honesty of his words and actions.
“I have been in love twice in my life. Once to a girl who loved me for all the wrong reasons. Another to someone I loved for all the wrong reasons.”
My eyes well up with tears and I swallow them back, taking deep breaths to keep my emotions at bay. He takes one final step closer to me, his body pressed up against mine. His arms lay outside my arms, holding me gently yet with purpose.
“Right now I am falling for a woman who seized my soul with the play of a piano and arrested my heart with a walk until dawn. And she made me fall for her with the words of lyrics we may not have written but they’re still ours.” His voice is low and breathy. “Do you remember what you said right before I kissed you the first time?”
I thinks back to the day but I can’t recall. I look up at him for the answer.
“You said no one knew what it was like to lose everything, to have it all ripped out from beneath you.” Asher’s body comes dangerously close to mine, too close because I can feel the pain of his words radiating off his body. “I know, Emma. I know what that’s like. That is why I had to kiss you and I have wanted to kiss you every day since. Hell, my lips haven’t touched another since because I can only think of you.”
“I find that hard to believe—”
“Believe it.”
Asher rests his palms on my head as his ice-cold fingers lace through my hair. My cheeks burn at his touch and my heart sears with his words.
“The me you saw in Capri, that was the real me. You’re the first person in twenty years to call me by my name, my real name. I gave myself up to you a long time ago.
“I want to be with you for all the right reasons, Emma. And despite all the wrong reasons there are for you to be with me, I’m asking you to. This is me. This is real.”
Tears pool down my cheeks and I smile at the words he is saying. There are more reasons why I should stay away from him than there are reasons I should be with him. He is broken and scared but he is real and absolutely perfect.
With reckless abandon, I lean in
to his touch and kiss him with every ounce of love and passion I have in my body. His cold lips give way to his warm mouth and I sink into his heat. My hands wrap around his body and pull him in tight as his tongue skims mine and his lips grab hold of my own, desperate with need.
Our mouths move as one, kissing and licking. The cold air is no longer an issue, as our bodies are hot from arousal. I whirl us around toward the front door of the building. Our bodies still connected, he tightens his hold on my face, refusing to break the connection. I remove my hands from him to rustle through my bag, searching for my keys. I give up for a second when his kiss gets impossibly deep, which then reminds me why I so desperately want to take this party of two inside.
Keys in hand, I reach over and blindly navigate the metal into the lock and open the door. Asher spins us around and uses his back to push open the door and pulls me into the hallway. When we are inside, he slams my body up against the wall. He releases the buttons to open my coat and weaving his arms around my waist, pulling my body up against his. When his groin connects with mine I gasp and start fumbling for the keys again.
I release my mouth from his kiss and look down at the keys to find the one that will unlock my front door. My arm has to bend at an awkward angel as I try to unlock it. When he begins to gently suck on my neck I almost drop the key ring.
Finally, the key is in the lock and we hear the telltale click.
“Thank, Christ. I need you inside . . . now.” His words are hot and harsh on my neck.
Asher kicks the front door closed and pushes my coat off my shoulders. His hands lace through my hair again as I back up and guide him toward the couch.
I pull back from Asher, and look back into those golden eyes. His fingers are frozen to the touch. Taking his two hands in my own, I lift them to my lips and gently blow hot breaths onto them to warm them. His breath hitches with each blow, so I do it a few more times for good measure.
When I am sure his fingers are nice and warm, I lift my hands up to touch him in a way I’ve been dying to for months. My palms skim over his strong, broad shoulders, passing over the blades along with the tuxedo jacket. I watch it fall to the floor.
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