Текст книги "Pure Abandon"

Автор книги: Jeannine Colette

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

We drive up the west side highway as I listen to Snow Patrol sing about love and forgiveness. I don’t know where we’re going, and for the first time in a long time, I don’t care. I don’t care about having a plan or list to follow. I feel like I’m a teenager again. Carefree and wild.

The lesson lasted an hour and he stayed almost as long afterward talking to the families. He invited everyone to the concert on Labor Day weekend and is even giving them prime seating. With a theater of over two thousand seats, you’d think he’d only leave the house seats for the high rollers, but I guess, to Asher, those kids are the high rollers. They are why he’s hosting this event.

It never dawned on me why we’re doing this concert. I know Gabriel said the company is making money, but there had to be more to it than that. Erik said this was an Asher Family event. What he really meant was this is an Alexander Asher event.

The afternoon sun gazes down on us and the wind from the Hudson River cools my skin. As we drive north, I feel removed from the city, but we’re very much in it. We’ve been driving around on the motorcycle for quite some time, yet we haven’t gone far at all. We drove through Central Park and stopped to survey the area where the other concert will be held. Asher wanted to get a feel for where everything would be and look at the layout. I stayed back and gave him some time as he made a few calls. One was to Erik to let him know of a few concerns. I tried not to eavesdrop. Instead, I just hung back and enjoyed the sun on my back. After the park, we took a drive across town and onto the highway.

Asher exits and drives up to a place I haven’t been since I was kid on a school field trip, Grants Tomb. Devon, his driver, is waiting for us with a large plastic bag from the gourmet market, Citarella. Asher takes the bag and we walk side by side down the corridor of trees that lead to the glorious stone monument. It’s amazing how a mausoleum can be so ethereal.

Taking my seat at the top of the grand staircase leading up to the museum, American flags hang over me. I place my hands around my knees, looking out at the harbor. It is beautiful in the afternoon light. The day has been stolen away from us, yet with the promise of a summer sunset, there’s still plenty of time left before we have to go back.

Asher places the bag down and takes a seat beside me and leans back on his elbows. His long, lean legs stretch down the stairs as he looks up into the trees. My eyes trace his frame from his toes to his fingers that were recently playing the most soothing melodic chant I’ve ever heard.

“You play beautifully,” I say. It’s the first thing I’ve said in over two hours.

His eyes meet mine as he tilts his head to the side and grins. “Thank you.”

“Who taught you?” I ask, running my fingers through the front of my hair and tucking it behind my ear to gather it back in place. There’s a slight breeze and wisps of my hair are lightly blowing in front of my face.

“My mother.” He pauses as if drawing back a sweet memory. “She was a concert cellist. Studied at Julliard.”

“Did she play professionally?”

Asher tilts his head down and lets out a sad smile. Shaking his head slightly, he replies, “No.” He raises his head and looks back out to the river. “No. She gave up on her dream, but she never stopped loving to play. She made me practice every day. She instilled the love of music and culture into everything she did.”

“Then I take it she would approve of your choice of meal locations.” I chide.

Asher lets out a light laugh. “Yes, yes, she would. My mother was somewhat of a historian. She loved history, the arts, museums, and fine food.” Asher lowers his head away from the sunlight and trees. “Not a bad role model to have I suppose.”

“It sounds like she’s a wonderful woman. Does she get to see you play often?” The question was innocent, but as soon as I asked, I knew the answer.

“No. She passed.”

Spasms of remorse cross my face. Do I know anything about this man? I have the deepest desire to grab my phone and start Googling, but I know it’s impossible. Is it inappropriate if I ask him about her? He’s the one who wanted to be friends. Friends can ask questions about their friend’s past. Even if their friend is their boss.

“How old were you when she died?”

Asher looks at me as if debating to answer. I can see he doesn’t talk about this often. Bending his right leg, Asher places his elbow on his knee. His hand travels to the back of his neck and plays with his collar. “Ten.” He sighs. “My mother died on my tenth birthday.”

My eyes widen as I try to bite back the tears building behind my eyes. My mind immediately goes to Jackson. Picturing my sweet blue-eyed baby all alone. It’s hard to imagine a golden child left broken from the loss of his mother. I push the thought into the back of my mind. I cannot get emotional.

“And your father?” I pry.

With his eyes fixed on the scenery below, Asher nods his head in affirmation that he too passed on. I feel like the air has been wiped from my chest.

“Don’t look at me like that.” He’s not looking at me, yet seems to know exactly what I’m thinking. “I’d hardly call myself an orphan. My grandfather wouldn’t stand for it. His motto is never look back, only forward. Take no prisoners. Run the empire. That’s what I’ve done.”

When Malory told me about Alexander Asher weeks ago, I pictured a disingenuous, spoiled kid who didn’t know what it was like to live in the real world. While Asher may not have wanted for anything material in his life, he has certainly known pain.

“It sounds kind of lonely, being your own empire.”

His eyes dart back at me, and I know I’ve hit a nerve. Both his and my own. His eyes do something to me whenever they look at me. While I know nothing about him, he acts as if he can see right through me. My emotions are transparent and he’s breathing them in.

“You are an enigma, Mrs. Monroe. You are the only person who doesn’t seem to know a thing about me. How is that?”

“I suppose I’ve been preoccupied.”

“I suppose you have… With your husband?”

I blink at him. “Asher, my husband is not the punch line or your defense for everything I say to you. You have to stop doing that,” my voice says in a scolding manner.

He winces. “My apologies. I didn’t know it bothered you so much.”

“And I see I’m back to Mrs. Monroe.” I lean in to him. “How many defense mechanisms do you have?”

He looks dumbfounded, and I know I’ve just hit the bull’s eye. For a man so powerful, he has enough tells to ruin a game of poker.

Steeling away from my glances, Asher opens the Citarella bag and starts to unpack a simple lunch. Simple as far as what I would expect from someone of his wealth and position.

From the bag he produces two prosciutto, eggplant, and mozzarella sandwiches on baguettes, an apple, an orange, and two small bottles of Pellegrino, each with its own cup.

Holding the apple and orange in each hand, Asher gestures for me to pick one. I choose the apple and take a bite out of it immediately. The fruit is crisp and the juices run down my chin. I raise the back of my wrist to my face to quickly retrieve the mess. Someone thinks this is amusing.

Seeing the mood is lighter, I try to broach the subject again.

“How do you ever get to know someone, then? If every one knows everything about you, then there’s no reason to have a conversation.”

“When I get to know someone, particularly women, there is no conversation involved.” Asher winks as he pours sparkling water into one of the cups.

“Calm down there, Casanova.” I take a cup from his hand, “What do you do when you’re not entertaining the women of New York?”

Bringing his legs up a step closer, Asher turns away and places the bottle on his other side. With his cup still in his hand, he turns his body back toward me and rests his elbow on his knee. “Well, you already saw my true passion, the cello. I also play the piano, but that is for very private audiences.” His smile is enigmatic, and I’m pretty sure I just saw that diamond glisten in his teeth. Man, this guy has a great smile.

“I’m sure.” Rolling my eyes, I take a sip. “What else do you do? Do you play any sports?”

“Ahh. No.”

“Why not?”

“Group sports are not my thing.”

“So you won’t be playing on the company softball team?”

“That’s a definite no.”

“Snob.”

“Nosey.”

“Narcissist.”

“Nar…?” Asher takes the rest of his wine and finishes it in one gulp. “Do you want me to tell you about myself or shall you continue to berate me with foolish names all day?”

I can’t help but show my grin. “Fine. What do you do in your free time?”

“Well, I work… a lot.” He lifts the orange and begins to peel away the skin. “My grandfather, as I’m sure you do know about…” he says with a wink.

I cringe at the notion that I’m the worst investigator in the world.

He continues. “My grandfather believes in hard work and only hard work. He takes these large companies, buys them for cheap, rips them a apart, and sells the pieces to the highest bidder.”

“Sounds like Pretty Woman.”

“Yes… like Pretty Woman but without the call girls,” he says with annoyance.

“No call girls?”

He looks up from the orange peel and gives me a hard stare. “I don’t pay for sex.”

I don’t doubt the man.

Tilting his head to the side, he leans his body toward me. “Shall I add ADD to your file when I get back to the office? I don’t talk about my personal life often, and you are making it very difficult.”

Fine, I’ll behave. “I’m sorry. Continue. So all work, no play.”

Asher pops an orange slice into his mouth. His lips glisten with the juices in the sun. “Yes, all work, no play has been the way since I was ten years old. Aside from the office, I work toward funding music programs and helping kids.”

“Why?”

He takes another slice and furrows his brows as if he doesn’t understand the question. “Why all the work?”

“Why the music and the kids?” I bite my lip, thinking of how to deliver my next statement. “You don’t seem like the caring, giving type.” I wince.

He bites back. “That was mean.”

I smile sweetly. “That was honest. You said you liked honest.”

He peers down at me. He’s only inches beside me yet feels like he’s mountains above me. “I do, but it doesn’t mean I like to hear it.”

Asher may not like it, but I may not get this opportunity again. “So why the music programs, the grand concert in the park to raise money for music education programs? Is it a big tax write-off?”

A frown creases his face. I know I’ve hurt his feelings.

“I’m sorry,” I say quickly.

“Don’t be. I know that’s how my grandfather sees it, but the motivation behind all of it is completely personal.”

“Can I know the reason?”

Alex thinks about this for a moment. “No.”

“Why not?”

“I have spoken entirely too much about myself today. We’re done talking about me. Now about you…”

Slowly unwrapping my sandwich, I look down at my lap and try to think of something interesting to say about myself. I don’t play any instruments or have my own charitable foundations. I don’t own a company, nor am I well versed in culture, history, and the arts.

Asher notices the expression on my face. “You are fascinating to me. You know this. I want to know you better.”

I take a bite of my sandwich and ponder what I could possibly talk about. The truth is… “I am so boring I can’t think of a thing to say.”

Shaking his head again, Asher places his fingers on my chin and raises them to meet his gaze. “Fascinating.” A singular word departs from his lips. I could answer that comment with a single word myself—mesmerizing.

“Okay, then.” He chides, “If you aren’t going to freely give up any information, I will ask the questions.”

I open my mouth to begin to protest, but Asher answers my concern in time. “I promise not to ask a single question about your husband.”

My shoulders relax and I nod in approval.

“Since being friends seems to interest you so much, who are your friends?”

Ugh, a dreaded question. “Well, Malory is probably my best friend, although I don’t see her that often or talk to her as much as I’d like.” Come to think of it, she’s a weak excuse for a best friend. Lately, every time I’m around her, I’m either insulted by something or uncomfortable with one of her comments.

“Malory is your best friend?” This time Asher is shocked.

“Yeah, well, I guess. I don’t have a lot of female friends. I mean, I do, but as a kid, I grew up all over the country, traveling with my dad, and then I went to college in Maryland and all my sorority sisters went on to live in Virginia, California, Florida… Not too many came to New York, and the ones who did, well, they lead a different lifestyle than the one I wanted.”

“Park Avenue princesses?” Asher nods in understanding. “I know a few of those.”

“We tried city living, but I guess I just don’t fit in. I don’t have the clothes or the attitude to keep up. I always felt inferior in some way. I wanted the house on Long Island, kids, vacations… something simple.” What am I saying? “Am I rambling?”

“No, I just didn't take you for the maternal type,” Asher says. “So what about the women of Long Island? Do you have any friends there?”

“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.

My favorite is the messy eater. I’ve had four other meetings with Asher since our first official one in my office. All have been in his office and all have been over takeout. The man wasn’t lying; he ruins a lot of ties. I only get an hour or so of his time and the shame is we spend so much time talking about everything other than the event, I leave without getting any work done.

The good news is I haven’t had a single dream about him in weeks.

“What does he have… yellow eyes?” Gwen asks.

“They’re a deep gold. Like the color of honey.” The words come out of my mouth before I realize it.

Gwen turns around and gives me an inquisitive look. “I didn’t think you would have noticed”

I back away from the magazine. “They’re hard not to notice, but they’re nothing compared to Gabriel’s.” I smile over at Gabe. Hopefully, he didn’t catch my comment about Asher’s eyes.

Gabriel is looking over at us indifferently.

“That’s right, Gabriel. You have the market cornered on beautiful eyes.” Gwen looks up from the magazine and gives me a wink. Nice save. “I’m especially grateful you passed them on to my grandson.”

Thank you, Mom.

With the spatula still in his hand, Gabriel saunters over to Gwen. He stops to look over her shoulder, appraising the man in the photo. He knows more about the Asher family than I do. Clearly, he knows what Asher looks like.

“He’s not too bad.” Gabriel walks back to the grill, shrugging his shoulders. “And Photoshop does a lot.”

“Are you jealous?” Gwen asks, swinging her body around to gauge Gabriel’s expression. She turns to me and says, “That’s good. Very good.”

Gabriel laughs off Gwen’s comment and returns to cooking. He knows he has nothing to worry about. Doesn’t he?

“Pay no mind to her. My mother loves drama,” I tease.

“Say what you will, but it’s good for a couple to be a little jealous.” Gwen looks up from the magazine. “You know, when your father was touring in the majors, I would hear all these stories of women throwing themselves at him. Was I jealous? You bet your ass I was.

“But instead of getting all worked up…” She continues. “I just made sure your father had something to remember me by before he left the house.”

“Like what?” As I ask the question, I look over at Gabriel, who has his head tilted to the side with his hands thrown up in the air as if asking me, What do you think she gave him?

Realization dawns on my face. “Gross!” I got it. “Seriously, Mom. Keep these comments to yourself.”

Gabriel laughs and plates the burgers on the buns for lunch.

Gwen reluctantly puts down the magazine and walks over to the table. “So what is on the agenda for this afternoon? When Jackson wakes up from his nap, I thought we could go to the mall. I need some new clothes and the one up in the sticks has the most hideous choices.” Gwen takes a seat across from me.

I load my plate with chicken and salad. I should pass on the burgers.

“Mom, your Macy’s has the same crap our Macy’s does.”

“Oh, rubbish! You have more department stores here and there’s even valet. Trust me, your mall is nicer.” Gwen takes a sip of the apple martini Gabriel prepared. “Oh, Gabriel, this is delicious.”

“That’s why you love me, Gwen.” Gabriel picks up his beer and the two of them cheers glasses.

“If you get sloshed, then there’s no shopping for you,” I say, condescendingly pointing my finger in her direction. “I hate the mall as it is. The last thing I need is a lush of a mother falling into the clothing racks.”

She waves me off. “Oh, hush! You’re so high-strung. When did you stop knowing how to have fun?” Gwen takes another sip.

Me? I’m a ton of fun! Aren’t I?

“You two have a great time at the mall. Besides, Kat needs to pick up something for the gala.” Gabriel takes a seat next to me, draping his arm around the back of my chair.

Shit! Ever since Malory told me I had to wear something formal, I’ve sort of been blocking it out. So not me. I can’t just wear any old thing. It may be a big production, but the concert is, indeed, a gala, and I’ll be representing Asher. I have to wear something spectacular.

I nod in agreement. “Let’s go to Bloomingdales.” Yes, they’ll have something there that will be perfect.

Gabriel whistles through his teeth. “Breaking out the big guns.”

Oh.

“No. I’m kidding.” He places his arm around my shoulder and kisses my hair. “You two have fun. You deserve it, baby. My working girl.” He can be so sweet sometimes. “Just don’t spend too much.”

And there it is.

Does the man realize he’s sending me shopping with Gwendolyn Grayson? The woman was born to shop.

Once at the mall, we valet in high fashion and saunter into Bloomingdales. Gwen is well ahead of me as I stroll Jackson through the racks of clothing. Gabriel wanted me to leave him home, but since being at work all week, I cherish as much time as I can get with my sweet angel on the weekends.

I find Gwen in the women’s section, looking at a table display of sweaters. She’s holding up a powder-blue crewneck sweater against her chest.

“Aren’t these gorgeous?”

“Mom, it’s the middle the summer. It’s a little warm for cashmere.”

“Honey, it’s never too warm for cashmere.” She admonishes. “I’m buying two!” she exclaims, picking up a blue and a green for herself and then grabbing another.

“Who’s the grey one for?”

“You, dear. You need a little luxury,” she says, tossing the grey piece of lux at me.

I spin Jackson’s stroller and meander through the racks.

Gwen stops at every rack, remarking on how gorgeous each outfit is, and “look at the cut on this,” and “isn’t this color just gorgeous?” When I said the woman was born to shop, I meant it. How she affords it all I’ll never understand. My dad had a lucrative career, but she shops like she’s a Rockefeller.

Grabbing one item after the next, Gwen takes her armful of clothes into the dressing room, and I take a seat on a bench, waiting for her to come out.

Gwen tries on a series of ensembles. If she tried on twenty, she didn’t try on enough. After forty minutes, Jackson gets antsy.

“Mom, I’m going to push Jackson around a little. He’s tired of sitting still.”

“Okay, dear,” she calls from inside the dressing room. Grabbing my purse, I stand and start to move.

“Just real quick.” She interrupts my departure. “What do you think of this one?” She’s standing in the doorway, wearing a black, short-sleeve, cowl-neck top and leopard-print pants. As wild as they are, the pants are tasteful. The gold belt, on the other hand, is a bit… much.

“It’s perfect. Definitely get that one.”

I push the stroller out of the women’s department and browse through the makeup section before stopping at one of the jewelry counters. I enjoy looking at the gemstones under the twinkling lights. As I admire a beautiful bangle bracelet, a scent permeates my senses.

Tobacco… and vanilla.

I freeze in place.

He’s here.

Hastily, I turn around and scan the room for Asher. Turning to the left and right, I look around the room but he is nowhere in sight. Like a bloodhound on the hunt, I follow the delicious scent to see where he went.

“Would you like to try some? Perhaps for the man in your life?” a sales girl calls over to me.

Huh? Go away. Doesn’t she know I’m on the chase?

The pesky sales girl is on a scent-selling mission. “Here. We have these great scent cards.” She takes the fragrance and sprays it onto a rectangular piece of cardstock and fans it out in front of her.

I try to walk away, but she’s shoving the fragrance card in my face. Reluctantly, I take it from her and start to stroll away.

But here it is.

In my hand.

I raise the card to my nose and savor the delicious fragrance.

It’s his damn cologne.

Turning around, I head back to the pesky sales girl and look at the black and gold bottle in her hand. The man wears Tom Ford.

“I’ll take a bottle of that,” I say, pulling my wallet out from my purse. Yes, my own personal Alexander Asher in a bottle.

“There you are!” Gwen pops up from beside me.

“What are you buying?” she asks, scanning the counter. “Oh, cologne for Gabriel. How sweet. Let me smell.” Gwen picks up the tester bottle and sprays it on her arm. She raises her wrist to her nose and takes in that heavenly scent that’s had me going wild all summer.

“This is divine. Smells like an old English gentleman’s club. Very heady. Very male.” Gwen has just described the man more than the fragrance.

“That will be two hundred and fifteen dollars,” the pesky salesgirl chirps.

My jaw falls to the floor. “For two ounces?” Of course Asher would have the most expensive cologne in the whole goddamn store.

“It’s one point seven ounces, but you can’t put a price on this kind of luxury.” Pesky beams.

I hand over my credit card and glance over at my mother.

“Don’t look at me. I just spent four hundred dollars on cashmere!” Gwen saunters off.

With my bottle of Alexander Asher, and mother who now smells like him, we make our way up to the women’s evening gown section.