Page 52 of Pure Abandon

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.”