“No.” I swallow another bite of my sandwich. “I don’t fit in there either. I’m not built to be a coupon-cutting, high-waist jean-wearing woman who stays home all day.” I take a breath. “Truth is I never felt more displaced in my life. It’s like I’m riding on the border of two countries yet have citizenship in neither. It’s a terrible feeling.” One that up until this moment I hadn’t realized.
Asher takes in what I just said and digests it. He also seems to understand I’m evaluating these feelings as well. Thankfully, he changes the topic. “You said you traveled a lot with your dad. What did he do?”
“He was a baseball player,” I say matter-of-factly.
“Like a major league baseball player?”
“Yup,” I say, taking a final bite of my baguette.
I watch Asher’s face out the corner of my eye as he studies me, and I can see the wheels in motion. “Is your dad Catch Grayson?”
I swallow and nod at him.
“Really? This entire time I’ve had Catch Grayson’s daughter working for me and I didn’t even know it?”
“Since you’re not a sports guy, I would have assumed it didn’t matter if my dad were Mickey Mantle.”
“I may not like to play company softball, but I am definitely a baseball fan. I am a red-blooded male, you know?” He chides. As if I hadn’t noticed his maleness.
“Dad played in Texas and then for the Reds before we settled here in New York when he played for the Mets. He was… amazing.”
“And your mom?”
“Gwendolyn? She’s flighty and immature yet quite possibly the most charismatic person I’ve ever met.”
I look up to catch golden eyes staring into mine.
“She sounds like her daughter.”
Little does he know I am nothing like my mother. I feel really uncomfortable and unbearably shy at this very moment. Turning my head away from his, I rest my face in my hand and look out over the harbor. I respect that he doesn’t try to pry more about my story as I did to him. There is something very natural to this relationship. There’s a level of understanding that we so easily have for one another.
Turning my head back to face him, I ask one more question for the day. “Tell me something no one knows about you.”
He arches his eyebrows. I believe he’s intrigued by my question. He takes a moment before answering.
“I don’t like sleeping alone.”
I raise a brow.
“Not in that way.” His voice is condescending. Asher runs his hands through his golden hair and clarifies. “I don’t like to be alone.”
I redden, thinking of how I have so clearly misjudged this man. Perhaps I can help him, guide him. He doesn’t have a woman in his life and maybe he needs a motherly figure. He hasn’t had one since he was just a boy. My stomach sinks at the thought.
“Don’t read too much into it. I am a successful man because of my past. I’m okay with it.” He says in an authoritative voice. It’s not a recommendation. It’s an order. And because he said it, I can’t help but want to read way too much into it. For someone who portrays himself to be confident and controlled, he has a vulnerability that is masked by a dark suit and handsome face. Alexander Asher has just peeled away a layer of himself and I want to know what else is beneath the skin.
So of course I need to know. “Why did you tell me that then?”
Asher’s eyes search my face as if trying to figure out the answer. “I don’t share my feelings with anyone. I can’t trust anyone. But I trust you. I don’t know why, but I trust you and I like talking to you. This is new for me, so please don’t make me regret opening up to you.”
“I won’t. I like spending time with you.” I mean it. “I’m glad we’re friends.”
“Me too.” He stands and holds out his hand to help me up. “Now let me get you home before your husband starts to worry.”
The ride back down the Henry Hudson is slower on the return. Asher seems to be savoring the last moments of our perfect day. Sara Brightman sings of Eden in our ears. I wonder if his iPod is on shuffle or if he purposefully picked this song of best friends and enemies and never trying to go too far. I decide not to analyze and enjoy the sweet operatic.
We pull up to Penn Station so I can catch the train home. Asher offers to bring me home, but I can’t bear the thought of my neighbors seeing me on a motorcycle, not that I know any of them. And getting dropped off at the office is out of the question. Lord knows the gossip I would endure. I don’t want anything to ruin my good mood.
I climb off his bike and thank him with a nod. Asher thrusts the throttle and with one smooth action, he has the motor running and sets off down Seventh Avenue.
So much for not analyzing everything in my life. I now have forty-five minutes of train ride to think about… everything. Asher was amazing with the kids. I could tell they loved him. The way their eyes lit up when they saw him, I felt honored to be there with him.
And then there was the personal side. Alexander the man. I can’t help but recall how natural the afternoon felt. The way he shared stories of his childhood. An orphan. It all sounded so sad. He admired his grandfather and took the tools he was born with and skills he acquired to amass his fortune. It was just beautiful. Yet, something in his words let me know he was substituting his grandfather’s approval for love.
I want to know more about Asher and I’m no longer worried about what that might insinuate. Alexander Asher can have any woman’s heart. He doesn’t want, or need mine. He dates models and famous actresses. He is seen with the daughters of the wealthy, and I’m sure he has a few prospects lined up. He’s probably dating someone right now. What could he possible want with me? I’m a wife and a mother. I’m old news. Used. I have nothing to offer him. No, this is merely a new friendship I am more than happy to have. It pays to have friends in higher places.
“This is your boss?” Gwen looks at the cover of New York Magazine and opens it quickly. Ever the dutiful grandmother, she came over to spend time with Jackson. And by spending time with Jackson, I mean she’s lounging on my outdoor chaise, reading a magazine, and drinking a martini.
“Yes, Mother,” I feign indifference.
We’re in our backyard on yet another beautiful summer Sunday. So far we’ve had gorgeous weekends this year. Makes up for the crappy winter we had. On days like today when everyone is outside, you can hear the laughter and the noise coming from other people’s backyards.
Gabriel is standing at the far end of the stone patio at the barbecue, wearing khaki pants and a pale-blue button-down.
“Oh, honey, he is… he’s just so…” Gwen is at a loss for words.
“Dreamy?” Gabriel teases while flipping burgers.
I roll my eyes at him. “He is not dreamy. That term should be reserved only for fourteen-year-old girls talking about AC Slater or anyone in Teen Beat.”
Walking over to the grill, I hold the plate as Gabriel takes chicken off the metal racks.
“Asher is…” I look for the words. “He’s…” Exotic, mesmerizing, Apollo-esque… “He’s… okay-looking, I guess.”
Gwen doesn’t even look up from the magazine. “Oh, honey, this man is what fantasies are made of.” I think I see a little drool seeping from her mouth.
I walk the plate of chicken to the table, and as I pass behind Gwen, I catch a glimpse of the two-page spread of Alexander Asher. I stop in my tracks.
He looks good. Really good. Who would expect him not to?
On the left is a photo of him in his office. From the window, you can see all of Manhattan with a spectacular view of the city. He’s standing in front of the glass, wearing a black pinstripe suit with a crisp shirt and black tie. I’ve seen this look on him before. It must have been taken the day I trapped him in the elevator.
He’s standing with one hand in his pocket and the other on his lapel. He looks commanding, pensive, and smoldering. It’s the exact Asher I thought I knew at the beginning of the summer. Now I know so many more sides. The sad Asher who lost his mother, the grandson who lives his life to win over his grandfather’s attention, the man who was once in love with a girl who wanted him for all the wrong reasons, the giver of music, the teacher, the smartass, and even the nice Asher. There are so many sides to him you can’t see beyond this picture.