Reckless Abandon(52)

“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.