How did he do? Amazing. He was kind and interesting and a truly exceptional teacher.
I won’t tell him that. Instead, I turn my cheek letting my voice travel over my shoulder. “You should have submitted a lesson plan for approval.” And then I walk into my office and close the door.
I stay in my office until I am positive Asher has left the building. When the coast is clear, I rise from my desk and walk into Crystal’s classroom.
Halfway through the door, I stop short at the sight of an exotic-looking woman standing in the middle of the room.
I fall back and straighten myself, trying to emulate the composure of the woman standing in front of me. She is tall, with jet-black hair and matching eyes, wearing a blood-red wrap-around dress. Her shoulders are back, and she has a stance so fierce I want to ask how she does it.
Her irises enlarge when she sees me. “You.”
“May I help you?” I say, straightening out my cardigan.
She offers me a wicked smile and assesses me in a way that makes me uncomfortable. “You work here?”
I hold out my hand in greeting. “I’m Emma Paige, the assistant director.” There are many beautiful women in New York so it shouldn’t surprise me there is something familiar about her. “Have we met?”
She doesn’t shake my hand. Instead, she looks me up and down with a knowing look. “I’m looking for Alexander Asher.”
Of course she is. I narrow my eyes at her. “May I ask what this is about?” I may not like the man but, apparently, he is somewhat important to this city. She could be a deranged fan or a scorned ex-girlfriend. On second thought, maybe I should send her his way.
“His office told me I’d find him here . . . teaching.” She says the word teaching in mockery.
With my shoulders pushed back, I answer her as honestly as I can. “His class ended thirty minutes ago.”
The dark-haired woman looks at me again the way a feline looks at catnip the moment before it pounces. Her eyes linger on the scar on my right hand.
I turn in my injured hand, hiding the scar. Something about the way she is looking at it—at me—makes me feel like she knows more about me than I’d like. Though I know it’s impossible.
“Did Asher bring you on board or did you make your way here on your own?”
It is not any of her business but I feel compelled to let this woman know I am not at the beck and call of Alexander Asher.
“Frank Leon contacted me.” I pause a beat and then add, “How do you know Mr. Asher?”
The tip of her tongue is riding along the underside of her teeth. “Interesting. Hundreds of people applied and you get a phone call.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stand straight. “I’m sorry but I didn’t get your name.”
“If Asher comes back, tell him Malory Dean was here.” Her heels click on the hardwood floors as she walks to the doorway.
“I will,” I say, even though it’s a complete lie.
Over the next three Fridays, I sit in my office and listen in on three more of Asher’s sessions. He continues his lesson on listening to the music. They listened to “Rolling in the Deep” by Adele, a popular song about giving your heart to someone and having it “played, to the beat” and the week after it was “Apologize” by One Republic. The man has a tone for the melodramatic.
Today, they’re listing to “Wonderwall” by Oasis and I’m bemused he chose a song about a man needing saving.