I would love to kiss her, but that might be pushing it. “Beverly was just about to tell you to return to class.”
Beverly looks up from the screen, her complexion a sheet of white. She doesn’t cry or rage or freeze up. I suspect she already knew her husband cheated. But given her strong need to maintain an image that captivates and impresses everyone around her, she wouldn’t want anyone to know her marriage is a steaming pile of shit.
I imagine right about now she’s mentally shitting herself as she thinks through the fallout if those videos were ever made public. Her career as dean? Fucked. Her husband’s face on all his car commercials? Forever associated with the money shot on Deb’s ass. Prescott’s connections to other colleges? As worthless as his musical ability.
With a look of defeat, she powers off the tablet and sets it down. “What do you want?”
I squeeze Ivory’s hand. “I already told you.”
Beverly sets her jaw. “I can’t allow this…” She waves a hand between us. “To go on in my school. End things with Miss Westbrook.”
Like hell. But I’m willing to compromise. “Ivory stays. I’ll submit my resignation immediately.”
Ivory flinches beside me. “Emeric, don’t—”
I cinch my fingers around her wrist in a tight shackle, reminding her to trust me. I have her.
My unwavering gaze narrows on Beverly. “Tell Ivory to return to class.”
Beverly stares at me from across the desk, her eyes deep cauldrons of hatred. “Miss Westbrook, return to class.”
I wake the same way I do most mornings. Drowsy, happy, horny. Except today is different.
Today, I’m a drowsy, happy, horny Le Moyne Academy graduate.
Yesterday’s ceremony was held in the campus theater. The very same theater that almost cost me that diploma. Stogie and Emeric’s parents were there. The dean demanded Emeric not show his face, though I’m certain I glimpsed his fedora in the crowd. When I asked him about it, he kissed me into a warm, gooey stupor. I’d love one of those kisses now.
I reach behind me, expecting to bump into warm skin. Instead, I encounter cold, vacant blankets.
Blowing out a breath, I sit up and glance at the clock. 7:13 AM.
Damn him. He told me the morning workouts would stop. I hate waking up alone.
I climb out of bed, wrap a robe around my nude body, and set off to find him.
Ten minutes later, I come up empty and check the garage. The GTO is gone. Maybe he’s picking up breakfast?
As I shuffle into the kitchen, something moves in my periphery. “The hell?”
I spin just as a tiny streak of black darts across the floor and disappears around the island. Is there a rat in the house?
Cautiously, I tiptoe around the corner and gasp. “Oh my… What?” I cover my smile with trembling fingers.
One look at those bright yellow eyes turns my vision into a wet blur.
A kitten. He brought a kitten home. My throat closes up.
Coal black fur covers the cat’s body from the peaks of the ears to the tip of the tail. I press my lips together as a sob rises up.
In the next heartbeat, I’m fucking crying. A damn mess of soggy snivels, runny nose, and noisy hiccups for no reason that makes sense. I did the same thing when my dad gave me Schubert.
I wipe my cheeks with the backs of my hands and slowly lower into a crouch, careful not to scare… Him? Her? Knowing Emeric, he’d want another male in the house.
Excitement races through me when I spy two charms hanging from the black collar.
I offer my hand in greeting. He sniffs my fingers, marks them, and makes me his. I melt.
Scooping him up, I nuzzle him against my neck and sink into the vibrating purr. I missed this so much.
With shaking fingers, I examine the silver charms. The first is a round ID tag with a name engraved. Kodaline.
The Irish pop band I played at my audition.
I shake my head, grinning. God, I love that man of mine.
The second charm is a heart-shaped locket with a raised treble clef on the front. I open the latch and a tiny folded note falls into my palm.
Sliding into the nearest stool, I set Kodaline on my lap and unravel the teeny piece of paper.
It’s an address in the French Quarter. Scrawled beneath the street name in his sexy male penmanship is, Don’t keep me waiting.
What has he done now?
I smile as I shower, fix my hair, and slip on a casual black rockabilly dress with gray rose print. The strapless bodice seductively hugs my cleavage. A flirty bow ties at the waist, and the skirt flares at the knees. I pair it with comfortable red pin-up pumps—as comfortable as heels can be anyway. The flats would be more practical, but I want to look good for him, for whatever he has planned.