by Noree Kahika
He frowned in confusion.
“You know…the author John Gray: Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus.”
He shook his head. “No, can’t say I’ve heard of him. But I’m a Jonathan, not a John, so there you go.”
“Oh…okay. Sorry. I’m Charli,” I awkwardly replied, not wishing to give him my surname for some reason.
“Where you headed, Charli?” He smiled again, but his eyes were as cold as his hand had been. I tried to suppress a shiver.
“LA. And you?”
“New York. So what brought you to Italy, Charli, or Venice, I should say more precisely?”
I bit my lip, trying to think of an answer that sounded vague enough. “Um…a short holiday and some sightseeing.”
“Hmm,” he murmured. His forefinger ran across his lip while he stared unnervingly into my eyes. “Do you often go on holidays alone or”—he glanced around the lounge, as if assessing whether I was with someone and then returned his gaze to mine—“are you with your boyfriend?”
“What makes you think I have a boyfriend? I could be with a friend or my husband.”
His gaze narrowed and his teeth bore in what was probably meant to be a grin but it was just plain old creepy. “No ring for starters.” He nodded to my left hand. “And forgive me for observing, but I couldn’t help notice you when you came into the lounge. You’re a very beautiful young lady, Charli.”
Okay—it was official—this guy creeped me out. It wasn’t so much the words he said but the tone he said them in and that cold steel glint in his eyes that raised the hairs on the back of my neck.
“Thank you,” I muttered, and then checked the departures screen on one of the two televisions that hung from the ceiling in the lounge.
Oh, thank God—the screen indicated my plane was preparing to board. I stood and began to collect my things. “I’m afraid I have to go now. My plane is about to board.”
From my peripheral vision, I saw him stand as well and when I raised my head to say good-bye, his hand shot out and grabbed my wrist. “He’s not who you think he is,” he said bizarrely. The tone in his voice was laced with aggression and bitterness.
The word who came to my lips, but I didn’t ask; instead, I yanked my arm from his grip and turned on my heel, praying silently he didn’t follow me. It wasn’t until I was finally seated on the plane, buckled safely within the confines of the seatbelt and taking a sip of the complimentary champagne did I wonder whom Jonathan Gray was referring to.
“Up and at ’em sleepyhead.”
Courtney’s singsong voice crooned in my eardrum; her breath fanned across my cheek. Rolling across the bed away from her, I snuggled deeper under the blankets.
“Oh no. No, you don’t. Wake up, Charli!” she admonished, rolling with me into a spooning position.
“God, Court, your breath stinks.”
She huffed out another puff of air that fanned across my face and I held my breath until the odor passed.
“Argh! I mean it. Your breath is rank. Seriously, Court, go and brush your teeth.”
“I will as soon as you get your brooding ass outta bed.” She tugged the covers off my shoulders with an almighty jerk and the cold air instantly pierced my skin.
“What the hell, Court!” I yelled in frustration. “And for your information, I’m not brooding. I’m still jet-lagged.” Which was a lie, of course. I was pretty sure jet lag only lasted a couple of days—not two weeks. Reluctantly, I heaved myself up to a sitting position against the headboard of my bed and glared at my best friend.
“Newsflash, Charli: jet lag doesn’t last for weeks, maybe twenty-four hours tops. Admit it—you’ve been brooding and moping around here ever since you got back from Italy.”
My mouth snapped open, then closed and then opened again. My hands flailed around in the air. I most likely looked like a guppy fish with deformed fins but I had to show a little face for the sake of my pride. “Have not!” I protested indignantly. “I’ve been job hunting, sending resumes off left, right, and center for every teaching position out there and I’ve…I’ve…” I floundered like the fish I apparently was.
“Yes, and when you’re not doing that, you’ve been holed up in your room listening to sappy love songs or sleeping like the dead.”
“Have not!” This time my voice came out whiny.
“Have too,” she retorted. “You haven’t been the same since you got back from Italy and you know it. Now, what I would like to know is what in the hell happened between you and him over there?”
Nuh-uh, I was not going to go there. Ever. The last thing I wanted to admit to anyone, let alone my best friend, was that I had fallen for some arrogant, rich playboy who had left me in the dead of night in a foreign country. I was not that girl. I was supposed to be tough, independent, intelligent, and focused on my career one hundred percent—not some heartbroken heroine from a sappy romance novel. The idea of having any kind of relationship—and especially with someone like Roman Knight, who definitely and unequivocally was not relationship material—should be the farthest thing from my mind. Just the thought of me grieving over him was beyond embarrassing and plain old pathetic.
But the sad fact of the matter was, I really missed the damn jerk. In less than a week spent with him, he’d really gotten under my skin. And no matter how many times that I told myself it was nothing more than an impulsive holiday fling and to snap out of it, I couldn’t get the arrogant ass out of my head: The sound of his deep, authoritative yet sensual voice. The formal way he held himself, which was too rigid and stuffy. But underneath those layers of carefully constructed control was a gorgeous man with a wicked sense of humor. The memory of how my body responded to his touch, to the taste of his firm yet soft lips and his earthy scent was more than I could bear sometimes—it honestly hurt just to think about him.
Ugh!
I sighed and banged my head against the headboard. “Ugh! You’re right. I have been brooding.”
“Ouch, stop that. You’re going to hurt yourself, Charli.” Courtney pulled the end of my ponytail to thwart any further head banging.
“Ow! You stop. You don’t need to pull my hair so hard.” I rubbed my scalp and frowned at Courtney.
Courtney fisted her hands on her waist. Determination settled in on her features. “So are you ever going to tell me what happened between you two?”
“No.”
“Why not?” She pouted.
Exhaling, I shook my head once. “Nothing really to tell, Court. We had a couple of great days together touring around Paris and Venice, we had sex, and then we went our own separate ways. No promises, no strings—it was what it was. End of story.”
Courtney’s eyebrows shot to her hairline and I had to stifle a giggle. When her lips thinned and she initiated the evil eye, I couldn’t help the peal of laughter that tumbled out of my mouth. After a few seconds, Courtney joined me until we were both in fits of giggles.
That’s why I loved Courtney so much—she knew, of course, that I was lying through my teeth but Court also knew I was stubborn by nature and if I refused to share anything personal about myself, then no amount of nagging, pleading, or coaxing would work. It was the equivalent to flogging a dead horse.
When Courtney, with Jake in tow, picked me up from the airport, they had both given me the third degree all the way home. My response from that day until now had been pretty much the same: Roman had to fly home earlier because of some business crisis and that’s the reason I flew back alone on a commercial flight. No, he did not hurt me and yes, we parted amicably. No, I won’t be seeing him again and for fuck sakes, for the last time yes, he treated me like the perfect gentleman.
Jake, always the big brother, of course didn’t believe a single word I’d said and I figured if Jake ever saw Roman Knight again, his fist would be doing the greetings. Courtney, however, was the hopeless romantic of the three of us; she just gave me a small, sad smile and a long hug.
When our giggles subsided, I gave C
ourtney a pointed stare. “Now can you please let it go?”
Courtney studied me for several long minutes. Her eyes scrutinized mine as I sat perfectly stoic and allowed her scrutiny. I had the feeling she genuinely needed to know whether I was going to be okay.
“Okay,” she finally replied and I exhaled a long, grateful breath.
“So apart from making sure you’re really okay, I have another reason for waking your lazy ass up so early.” She waved a thick cream envelope with a gold crest embossed on the upper left hand corner in front of my face.
“You’ve got mail, my friend.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a letter, dummy.”
“I can see that,” I deadpanned. “But who’s it from?”
“According to the gold seal, it’s from some Whitfield Academy in New York City, so I’m guessing it might be a reply to one of the job positions you applied for. And, I have a good feeling about it.”
“But I didn’t apply to any Whitfield Academy and I certainly didn’t apply to any schools in New York City. Do you know how much it costs to live in Manhattan?” I seized the letter out of Courtney’s still waving hand and turned it over in my fingers to examine. Courtney shuffled closer to me and peered over my shoulder.
“The only schools I applied for on the East Coast were both in Boston,” I mused, examining the envelope.
“Impressive school crest, isn’t it?” Courtney nudged my shoulder. “Open it.”
Sliding my nail under the flap of the envelope, I withdrew a single page of matching parchment and read.
“What’s it say?” Courtney asked after several seconds, bouncing in excitement on the bed.
“It’s a…conditional job offer…on the proviso that I meet their criteria in a face-to-face interview.”
“Ohmigod! When? Where?” Courtney snatched the letter from my fingers and scanned the contents for herself. “Ohmigod. They want you to fly out this Monday. That’s, like, in three days. Oh, and they are willing to pay for your flight. All you have to do is reply via email by noon tomorrow.”
“I haven’t even heard of a Whitfield Academy, so how in the hell would they know me, let alone be offering me a position?”
“Look, Charli.” Courtney pointed halfway down the page of the letter. “The position is for first grade. You always said teaching grade one was your first preference.” Her eyes swung to mine in open curiosity. “Are you going to go?”
“I don’t know, Court. This all seems kinda…weird.” Simultaneously, we both turned and looked suspiciously at the letter, as if it would magically tell us something more.
After a long pause of silence, Courtney said, “Well, if they’re willing to pay for your ticket out there, then you’ve got nothing to lose by going to the interview. At least hear what they have to say.”
Reluctantly, I relinquished the nail I’d been biting, and exhaled. “I guess. Maybe.”
“Okay, well first, let’s check this Whitfield Academy out on the Internet, see if they’re legit or not before you decide anything,” Courtney said.
I nodded my head in agreement. She jumped off the bed in search of her laptop.
Chapter Fourteen
Whitfield Academy was in Lenox Hill, on the fringe of the Upper East Side of New York City. The pre-war five-story ornate building stood proudly on the corner of 3rd and East 73rd streets, four blocks over from Central Park. With its aged limestone facade, internal dark solid oak wood floorboards, grand sweeping staircases, and vaulted ceilings, Whitfield Academy depicted a distinguished portrait. I could hardly believe this place was an actual elementary school. But as I stood in the middle of the grand foyer of the ground floor, children ranging in various ages buoyantly bustled past me—the proof was right before my eyes. This very old, dignified building was indeed an elementary school—an elementary school for the very wealthy apparently, going by the surrounding décor and the matching monogramed school uniforms the children all wore.
Nerves swirled like a whirlwind in my stomach as I walked anxiously toward the door marked Administration. Whitfield Academy was not the kind of school I had ever envisioned myself working at, that’s for sure.
“Good morning, dear. How may I help you today?” A portly older lady with short curly gray hair, green friendly eyes, and a warm smile greeted me. Her nametag introduced her as Mrs. Miller.
I returned her kind smile. “Good morning. I’m Charlotte Gilmore and I’m here for an interview with Mrs. Henderson.” I unfolded the letter from Whitfield Academy and held it up for her to read. “It’s for the teaching position,” I added.
She glanced at the letter briefly and then typed something on her computer. “Yes, here you are, my dear: ten thirty appointment with Mrs. Henderson, our deputy headmistress.” She came around from the desk and pointed to an open doorway. “If you would like to go through that way, Mrs. Henderson’s secretary will show you in.”
“Thank you.” I folded the letter back up and slipped it into my purse.
She gave me another warm smile. “Good luck, my dear.”
After introducing myself to Mrs. Henderson’s secretary, I was asked to wait in the deputy headmistress’s office. According to her secretary, Mrs. Henderson was running behind schedule. Politely declining the offer of refreshments, I sat down in one of two olive-colored wingback leather chairs that were positioned in front of a large mahogany desk. As I looked around, I saw several diplomas lining the walls, along with a series of framed photos that depicted the school’s building over the course of a number of years.
As I studied the photos, I couldn’t believe I was actually here in New York City, interviewing for a full-time teaching position. More unbelievable was the fact that this affluent school contacted me in the first place. Now, that was the real mystery.
Once the initial shock of receiving the letter wore off, Courtney and I researched Whitfield Academy over the Internet. We read all about the school’s history, their mission statement, the curriculum they offered; however, when I saw the student tuition price for a year, I almost had a heart attack. But the school itself, including what they had to offer their students, sounded incredibly amazing and I got excited at the prospect of possibly being a part of that.
Quickly responding to the letter via email, I’d received back confirmation of an interview date and time, along with a return plane ticket to New York City within the hour. In their email, they also offered to pay for a hotel while I was in the city. I politely declined the offer of accommodation just in case I wasn’t successful in actually getting the position. The entire proposition still felt kind of bizarre and more than a little mysterious to me, so I ended up booking a cheap hotel in Times Square.
Courtney was practically beside herself with excitement for me but hey, that was pure Courtney. Jake was another story altogether. As I’d expected, he was more than a little skeptical at the series of events surrounding the job offer, but I also suspected a small part of his disapproval was due to the fact that Jake didn’t want me to move away from him and Courtney, period.
However, the fact of the matter was I needed a permanent teaching tenure and they were hard to come by. I’d already been prepared to move just about anywhere in the country for the right position, so if this interview was successful, then New York City it was going to be. Besides, as a rule, I was a realist among the three of us, so when it came to major life-altering decisions, I knew I would always make the right one. Typically pragmatic, I was usually the cautious one out of Courtney, Jake, and myself, and not generally known for being impulsive—with the exception of my week with Roman. Europe and Roman Knight were my brief bout with temporary insanity.
Sure, moving to a city where I didn’t have any family or friends would be difficult, but it’d also be one heck of an adventure. And I didn’t know a single soul who lived in New York. Well, almost no one with the exception of…him, but in a city of over eight million people, the chances of running into Roman were practically zero anywa
y. Thank God! Just the thought of seeing him again was disconcerting.
Thinking of all things disconcerting—I was still flummoxed as to how a private, exclusive, New York City elementary school had come by my resume and contact details in the first place. I’d applied to a lot of schools both in California and other states over the past several months but not one application had been for a school in Manhattan. Perhaps one of the other schools I’d applied to had forwarded my resume to Whitfield Academy.
The sound of a door closing followed by the clacking of heels against the wooden floor pulled my attention back to the room.
“Miss Gilmore, I presume?” A mature, slender woman whom I instantly recognized from the school’s website as being Mrs. Henderson, the deputy headmistress, rounded the room’s large mahogany desk. She was dressed conservatively in a gray woolen pants suit with a white buttoned-down shirt and sensible shiny black pumps but there was no mistaking the quality of her ensemble as anything less than designer. Her rich brown hair was peppered with flecks of silver and swept back in an elegant chignon.
I rose from the seat and offered my hand across the desk toward her. “Yes, hi. I’m Charlotte Gilmore.”
“Nice to meet you, Miss Gilmore.” She smiled; her fawn eyes warmed slightly as she took my hand and shook it with a firm shake. “I’m Rita Henderson, head of the lower elementary school. I’m so delighted that you could come at such short notice.
“Please have a seat.” She gestured to my chair, and then sat gracefully down on her own.
Nervously, I bit my bottom lip as she shuffled a set of papers on her desk and then scanned the documents while she tapped the fingers of her right hand on the tabletop. As the awkward silence stretched, I debated whether I should speak, but she seemed so engrossed in what she was reading, I was hesitant to interrupt.
Then finally she cleared her throat, raised her head and leveled me with her gaze. “I see you graduated from UCLA with honors and according to your resume, you’ve held several temporary teaching positions since graduating.”
