Benefactor: A Greenbridge Academy Romance

by Knox, Abby

  I pause, expecting someone else to claim it.

  But no one does.

  I turn back, and all I can see is a silhouette of broad, male shoulders. He is tall, sophisticated, and definitely not one of my high school classmates. I move closer and I see his face. I gasp. Him?

  This must be a mistake. After all, the richest man in town doesn’t just show up to my performances and hand me flowers.

  But he’s looking straight at me. I glance around, and back at him, and it feels as if he’s summoning me with his mind.

  His golden eyes match his skin, no doubt bronzed in tropical sunshine while doing business at one or more of his many resorts over the summer.

  Everyone is clapping and cheering, and I step forward to take the bouquet. It’s so big I have to wrap both arms around it. Thankfully, it’s been wrapped in a large satin bow to keep the thorns from pricking. I smile broadly at him, nod and say, “Thank you.” Surely he notices the confused look on my face, but I try to mask the confusion with gratitude. We stand at the edge of the stage, eyes locked in a moment of wonder and confusion. Does he think I’m someone else?

  I only know him as the enigmatic father of the school’s biggest brat, who also happens to be captain of the swim team. Maybe he’s here on behalf of the school; he is on the board of trustees or something, I think. I’m not sure though. But if that were the case, why would they send him and not Headmistress Moody?

  My smile wavers when I see something else in his gaze. He’s not here on behalf of the school. The way he’s looking at me, he doesn’t resemble the man I know as Ridley Rushmore’s dad: the mysterious, super-wealthy father of the meanest mean girl who ever meaned at Greenbridge Academy.

  He’s just…a man, a man looking at me the way movie stars look at their leading ladies. The force of his gaze makes my ankles wobble in my shoes.

  Mr. Rushmore’s expression turns to concern as he notices me losing my balance, and he reaches out a hand to steady me. When his firm hand touches the outside of my leg, it’s such a shock that I forget where I am for a moment. I completely lose my equilibrium and tumble off the stage, dropping both bouquets of flowers as I go. The audience and the cast let out a massive, collective gasp of fright. But no panic shows Rushmore’s face.

  He’s got me. In front of God and everybody, Mr. Rushmore catches me. His arms circle my waist. From this position, I can’t help but notice his face is eye level with my breasts. My cheeks burn through three shades of red.

  Mr. Rushmore sets me down onto the grass gently with a slight smile that’s so tender I could weep. “All right, precious?”

  If he hadn’t taken my breath away, I’d have to laugh. He’s looking at me in precisely the way the director has been trying to compel the actor playing Freddy—the character with a crush on Eliza—to look at me on stage for months. Rushmore is looking at me with Freddy feelings. Maybe they should have cast him.

  Except he’s not acting. I don’t understand it. He doesn’t even know me, but he’s looking at me like I’ve changed his entire life.

  His own daughter Ridley has known me since kindergarten, but half the time she barely remembers we’re on the same team.

  This is so strange, I think to myself.

  He bends and picks up the bouquets that tumbled to the ground. As I take them with both arms, his hand brushes against the back of my hand that grips them from underneath. An undeniable heat prickles my skin. The energy in his touch crackles with an unmistakable charisma. In fact, it radiates off him from head to toe.

  You know how people say certain politicians have a way of making you feel like you’re the only person in the room with them, even at a crowded event? That. That is what he’s doing to me right now.

  Rushmore’s hand lingers and it’s not an accidental brushing of skin against skin. He somehow has loaded this touch, this caress invisible to the rest of the world, with such pleasure that I gasp. My mouth goes dry.

  This is without a doubt the wildest moment of my life.

  I’ve never felt attracted to anyone with silver in his beard and at his temples. But Rushmore is churning something up inside me that makes me want to explore this pleasure some more. The thought astounds me. Mr. Rushmore has never taken up any real estate in my teenage brain. Any crushes or fantasies I might have entertained have been always focused on boys I know.

  But now, with our hands touching and our eyes locked…I get it. He’s got something women want. Something I want, which boys my own age do not possess.

  I blush and back away, repeating “thank you” to him. I nervously ascend the stairs at the side of the stage and take my final bows with the rest of the cast, keeping a smile on my face even though my whole being is shaken.

  The encounter probably lasted less than two seconds, but I know already that the heat radiating through my body in the wake of this confounding moment will stay with me for days to come.

  4

  Rushmore

  I sip my single malt alone on my deck, mercifully separated from mosquitoes by a mesh screen.

  Searching the internet for information about Hunter Rydell may not be the wisest move on my part. I’ll have to be discreet. I don’t want to ruin Hunter’s senior year with rumors and innuendo, though I should have thought of that before giving her flowers. And before breaking her fall while gazing at her like a lovestruck teenager.

  I also have my daughter Ridley to think about. She will no doubt lose her mind at the first hint that her father has an interest in a relationship with someone her age.

  The house is quiet; Ridley must still be out with her friends. She doesn’t stay out this late when she’s bunking with her mother. I suppose this is exhibit A in the warehouse full of evidence that I’m too permissive of a parent.

  I sigh and down the whiskey. Bianca, my ex, would have a field day, wouldn’t she? Probably use her sway with the PTA and the headmistress to have me ejected from the school board if she knew I’m crushing on student. A Greenbridge student.

  The school seems to overlap every area of our lives. But this kind of overlap? The school’s biggest benefactor and board president dating a student? Likely no amount of money for the theater arts program or the robotics team would make this kind of scandal go away. Am I willing to make these kinds of sacrifices for a woman I don’t even know?

  Slow your roll, old man. No scandals yet. Nothing unseemly about me giving my phone number to an 18-year-old woman, after all.

  Worrisome? For some people, I suppose.

  Will it hurt anybody? As it’s nobody’s business but mine, I don’t see how.

  I brush my fingers over her cast photo in the playbill for the seventeenth time tonight. She’s grinning sweetly in the professional headshot, her pouty lips begging to be kissed.

  I’ll have to strike a delicate balance to protect her from ridicule. Hell, I don’t know her parents; they might kick her out of the house over this. I’ve seen it happen for much more trivial reasons.

  The conflict is not lost on me. The best thing I can do to protect her is to leave her alone. But the thought of that only makes me need her all the more.

  5

  Hunter

  Addie fingers the petals on the enormous bouquet of pink roses that I’ve plopped on the kitchen island.

  “Who gave you these?” My best friend cocks her head curiously at the blooms while I busy myself gathering paper plates and napkins. The smell of the pizza in the oven makes my empty stomach roar.

  I pause before telling her.

  Why do I pause? What am I hiding? He did it right out in public, so she’ll find out eventually anyway.

  “Mr. Rushmore. How weird is that? What do you want to drink with your pizza?” I ask, opening the cupboard to retrieve glasses.

  “Ridley’s dad? Why? That’s so random. Just water for me, thanks.”

  I shrug and pour two waters from the filtered water spout on the door of the fridge. “I don’t know. I guess he’s a fan of the theater. Maybe that’s going t
o be his pet project this year at Greenbridge. You know how he is, he ping pongs from one thing to the next. Two years ago it was the activity buses for the swim teams. Then the next year he got the school board to approve all organic and local food in the cafeteria.”

  Addie meets my eyes as I hand her the glass of water and I study her for any hint of suspicion. I see none there, to my relief.

  A good time to change the subject.

  “And thank you for your flowers too, by the way. I’ll take wildflowers over roses, any day.”

  “Unlike Rushmore, I don’t try to dictate what people like,” she says with a smirk.

  The oven timer beeps and I remove the delicious, piping-hot veggie pizza from the oven and serve it up to my best friend. The aroma helps me forget the nervous quivering in my gut.

  We take our overloaded plates and our cups over to the nearby sectional sofa and fire up the massive TV.

  This is my happy place: in my pajamas, eating pizza and ice cream, binge-watching saved-up episodes of The Bachelor with my bestie. We laugh, make snarky comments, and eat. And eat some more.

  Butterflies flutter uncomfortably in my stomach when it’s time for this season’s bachelor to hand out roses at the end of the episode. The activity on the screen is cheesy and not in the least bit romantic. I find myself thinking of Rushmore’s eyes when he handed me those flowers. He, unlike the bachelor, looked real and unrehearsed. Unguarded. Something I did on stage touched him, I could tell. God knows what it was in that silly musical, but something in his face was so serious and sincere, it left me shaken.

  This is wrong, I tell myself. You’re only eighteen and he’s, what, in his forties, probably? I’m not sure. God, what am I thinking?

  Focus on the here and now, Hunter, and stop dreaming.

  I clear my throat and tear my eyes away from the TV. “Did I mention how grateful I am for you? How sad it would be to come home to an empty house after closing night?” I say to Addie.

  Addie turns to me and blinks at me sweetly. “Oh my god, are you drunk? You’re not going to kiss me, are you?”

  I laugh, but I meant all of it sincerely. “Ever since Mom began agreeing to speak at medical conferences, and Dad’s law practice started attracting some big-wig clients, I see them less and less. This whole summer you’ve been a godsend. I hope we can keep doing these sleepovers all through senior year. Who knows where we’ll end up after graduation.”

  Addie looks at me with concern. “Of course we’ll keep having our sleepovers. And I’ll come visit you when you’re a famous movie actress someday. You can hire me to take care of your pets when I can’t find a job. Everything is going to work out perfectly―you’ll see,” she says, holding up her glass.

  We clink our waters together.

  “To besties,” I say.

  “To besties,” she repeats.

  I down my water and pad back to the kitchen to refill our cups. Salty pizza and bowls of ice cream make us drink down tons of water.

  I pause at the kitchen island to look at the roses again. I consider putting them in a vase. Should I? What will my mom and dad say when they come home and see them? I’m sure I can pass it off as a random gift from the audience or the stage crew. Although, truth be told, I doubt either of my parents will ask.

  I pull out a crystal vase from the curio cabinet and fill it with water, then set about cutting the rose stems to fit.

  When I unwrap the flowers from their paper holder, a small card falls out onto the counter. It’s not a proper card inside an envelope like one normally gets from a florist, but a small, gray rectangle. My stomach performs a backflip when I pick it up. It’s Mr. Rushmore’s business card.

  “Rushmore Hospitality Group. A. Rushmore, CEO.” Underneath his business phone number, highlighted in yellow marker, is his personal mobile. My breath catches.

  He wants me to call him.

  And then I turn the card over.

  When I read what’s written by hand on the back of the card, my whole body lights up. Heat prickles from my toes all the way up my spine. Parts of my body throb that should not be throbbing at this moment.

  This can’t be real. He didn’t. He wouldn’t.

  But what do I know? I don’t know this man. And…he did.

  “Oh my god…” I breathe.

  “What is it?” Addie replies from the sofa.

  “Uhm, nothing… I just, um, nearly cut myself trying to trim these flowers, that’s all.”

  But that was the wrong thing to say, as now Addie is rushing over to me. “I’ll help!”

  I have to make this card disappear. I can’t let her see it. But damn these pajamas. No pockets, and I’m not wearing a bra. I don’t want to throw it away, even though I should. Without thinking, I surreptitiously stuff the card down the front my undies.

  Addie sees nothing, but insists on taking over the trimming of the rose stems and arranging the bouquet in the vase for me.

  We continue chattering about the silly drama on The Bachelor.

  But all I can think about is the fact that something Mr. Rushmore touched—his card—is now resting against my skin, down inside my undies. And the fact that it’s so hot down there, it might spontaneously combust.

  6

  Rushmore

  Feeling like a lovelorn teenager, I stare at my phone, waiting for her text. Major difference: I’m not in a school uniform and I’m not mooning over a girl from across the library.

  Last night was closing night of the summer theater program and it’s now Sunday afternoon. Still no contact from Hunter.

  I’m starting to feel pathetic.

  And no Rushmore is ever made to feel pathetic.

  What grown-ass 39-year-old man in a bespoke suit who runs the top hotel and resort company in the nation spends this much mental energy trying not to think about a woman? It should be easy to keep someone out of my thoughts.

  I’m currently sitting in my family’s flagship hotel, in the top floor conference room, which overlooks the city. The board chairman called a special meeting of the directors—on a Sunday, no less—so he can make a pitch about why the company headquarters should be moved to New York City. It’s the same boring push every time I see his face. I’ve heard it all before, and it holds no interest for me.

  He begins his speech theatrically, even bringing out charts and graphs. “I called us here today because a situation has come up. The Chinese investors who’ve approached me are ready to pour massive amounts of resources and virgin waterfront land into our company. We could build so many new properties from the ground up and do everything our own way, rather than mess around restoring old musty resorts on the decline.”

  Enough members of the board understand my and my father’s commitment to this city and the people we employ.

  “Mr. Rushmore’s family founded this company here, and it stays here. This company is practically the lifeblood of this town,” says one board member. I don’t register which one because I’m so preoccupied by my phone screen. My eyes keep cutting to it, waiting for a response.

  Is it possible she didn’t see the card yet?

  Maybe she saw it and was so scandalized, she tossed it in the trash? Burned it?

  I thought I’d struck a balance between provocative yet earnest with what I had written on the card. Some might call it cute, even. But what do I know; I don’t do cute.

  I need to calm down.

  One thing is for sure, I’m out of practice. Ridley’s mother wasted no time before hopping back into the dating world. As much as we’ve grown to detest each other’s personality, I wish her the best. I wish I knew her secret to being so carefree and happy.

  Maybe those monthly child support and alimony checks help with that, I think ruefully.

  Hunter’s text lights up my phone and immediately whips me away from thoughts of where I went wrong with my life. I grab it up and have to twist my lips to keep my mouth from grinning broadly.

  Thanks for the flowers.

  I pause an
d reflect on what it feels like to hear back from her for the very first time. Like I’ve done something right. My life is a series of correct and awesomely profitable business decisions contrasted with astonishingly bad interpersonal decisions. The only thing I’ve done right on the relationship front is have a daughter, and I feel like I’ve been doing a fairly shitty job at being her dad.

  But this feels right. I know I’m overthinking this, attaching too much meaning to all of it, but it feels like the beginning of my second chance at life.

  It sinks in that everyone around the conference table is staring at me because I’ve forgotten to silence my phone.

  The chairman smirks. “Urgent business on your phone, Rushmore?”

  My eyes refuse to look away from Hunter’s text but I reply, “Rather urgent family business, yes. Will you excuse me?” It’s not a lie; Hunter is my future family.

  He tries to stop me with a huff of displeasure and some words about priorities, but I glance up and hurriedly remark, “Fine, you don’t need me for a vote, Peek. By all means, go on and call for one and good luck. Otherwise, we’re done here. And next board meeting, all of you be ready to talk about ideas to make money, not waste it, and let’s try to avoid meetings on Sundays so people can spend time with their loved ones. Deal?”

  I push out onto the balcony and leave the harrumphs mixed with chuckles behind. I hear one or two comments about my surprising new interest in family time.

  Silly, I know, but I run my fingers over the screen and commit the number to memory before creating it as a new contact in my phone.

  How do I respond? I don’t want to come on too strong.

  This is not like writing down a price and sliding it across the table.

  Certainly women are not acquisitions, but honestly I don’t know how else to get what I want.

  You’re very welcome, Hunter.

  I read your note. Too sweet, she texts back.

  I meant it.