A Diva in Manhattan: HarperImpulse Contemporary Romance. Aubrie Dionne
she fell for was an Italian tour guide. And she could guess how much he made.
What mattered was their chemistry, and with this guy, they were way off the charts.
***
Brett collapsed onto the orange plaid couch he’d found by the garbage dumpster. He wished he had something with access to the internet. Where the hell was he going to take someone who’d just paid for a twenty thousand dollar date?
Mrs. DeBarr gave him a limitless credit card and told him he could buy whatever it took, but she didn’t give him any advice on what to buy. Sure, he could take Alaina to some fancy restaurant downtown, but he wanted to show her a little of who he was and what he liked. Only then would he be able to discern if it was worth sticking around and telling her the truth.
If he decided to pursue a relationship, then ultimately he would have to tell her. And not just about his vocation. He’d have to tell her about the fire, open up like he hadn’t been able to do in the past.
Brett walked to the fridge and opened a beer. He was getting ahead of himself. He had to play it one day at a time. She may not even like the same things he did. Heck, she was an opera star and he was a logger from Maine. What could they possibly have in common?
For now, all he had to worry about was which restaurant to choose and getting to bed on time for an early shift tomorrow. He couldn’t be caught snoozing on a fancy china plate at dinner.
He took a sip, trying to calm himself. He had the whole day tomorrow to come up with something. Maybe some of the guys had an idea.
He thought of Phil’s comment about the flagpole up her ass.
Now I know I’m getting tired.
Phil would probably tell him to go out for beer and chicken wings.
Which wasn’t far from what he was used to. But, he had to find some middle ground. No caviar. But also, sadly, no chicken wings.
Up in Maine, he used to go to a family owned steakhouse. It was a nice sit-down restaurant renovated from an old train station. The old wooden pillars gave the dining room a rugged, rustic feel of Maine. He loved it.
Maybe he could find something like that here in New York?
Brett threw his bottle in the recycling bin.
Tomorrow he’d get Phil to go on his fancy iPhone and do a search. He’d find a nice restaurant which also challenged her cultural perceptions. Her reaction would give him the information he needed. She might hate it and he might crash and burn. But, he wasn’t willing to open his heart to just any woman. Failure was worth the price for the truth.
The alarm blared in Alaina’s ears. She stuffed her head under her pillow and moaned. How could anyone get up at this ungodly hour?
Most of the world did. Teachers, nurses, TV anchors, bakers, businessmen like Lance. If they could do it, she could.
Slamming her hand on the alarm, she pulled herself out of bed. If she wanted that role, then she’d better get her butt in gear. Alaina threw herself in a scalding hot shower to wake herself up. The last time she’d gotten up this early was back in her Julliard days for music theory, and she hadn’t always made it on time. Or at all.
Now more than a grade rested on the line.
She slipped on a pair of navy pants and a blouse and twisted her hair in a bun, to make her best teacher impression. At least she looked the part.
So maybe she’d never taught anyone in her life, or talked with high school kids. She could act like no tomorrow, and act she would.
She hailed a cab and rode to the crummy part of the Bronx, where she wouldn’t be caught dead walking alone at night. Or more like, she would be dead if she did. She paid the cab driver extra to pull up right to the door, then grabbed her purse and entered the building feeling like it was her first day of school all over again.
An older, worn out looking woman in the office told her she’d be subbing for a teacher on maternity leave and directed her to room three fifteen.
Her heels clicked on the linoleum as she paced quickly to the room. Her school had polished floors, brand new lockers, and reproductions of Monet’s works hanging on the wall. This school had scuffed floors, beaten in lockers with graffiti scrawled in all manner of curses, and bare walls. Her heat raced, and her throat constricted. If she’d tried to sing anything, it would have come out as a cracked whisper.
When she opened the door, a girl with purple hair sat on her desk picking at holes in her racy stockings, while a guy dressed in black with black eyeliner played Candy Crush on his phone. Three other hoodlums with saggy pants and baseball hats pulled sideways over greasy hair wrote profanities on the chalkboard. None of them even looked up at her entrance.
Alaina clutched her purse tightly to her chest and walked to the front of class. “Good morning students. My name is Alaina Amaldi, and I’ll be taking the place of your teacher today.”
They didn’t look impressed. Alaina was used to getting standing ovations, and these students barely stayed awake or made eye contact. She had an urge to tell them just who the hell she was, but somehow she didn’t think that would impress them either.
“Take your seats and shut off your phones.” She gave the goth guy a steady glare. The previous teacher had left her a book on the desk, and she opened it to a page with a substitute lesson plan on Bach.
Thank god. She’d sung enough Bach to teach a whole semester.
“Take out your books and turn to page twenty seven.”
Three kids dug into grimy backpacks, while the rest of them just sat there.
“I said, take out your books.”
A gangly boy hiding half his face under his hood raised his hand. “I don’t have a book.” The rest of the class laughed.
Alaina started erasing the profanity on the chalkboard. “Share with someone next to you.”
When she turned around, half the class still didn’t have a book. She glanced at the girl with the purple hair. “And where’s your book?”
The girl gave her an I-don’t-give-a-shit kind of look. “I left mind at home.”
“O-kay.” Alaina resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “No matter. I’ll read the chapter out loud.” She cleared her voice. “Bach was a German composer, organist, harpsichordist, violist and violinist of the Baroque Period.” She glanced up. “Now, who can tell me when the Baroque period was?”
Purple hair raised her hand. “Can’t we study some great music legend of today, like Justin Bieber?”
The whole class burst out laughing. Alaina closed the book. Looks like the traditional method wasn’t working. At all. “I happen to like Bach. I’ve sung many of his cantatas and oratorios. They are beautiful staples of vocal literature.”
“What are you, some kind of opera witch?” A boy grumbled while writing on his desk.
Again, raucous laughter erupted.
Alaina fought a rising wave of panic. She wanted to run from the room and back to her safe apartment on the east side where people had manners. How dare they talk to her like this?
But, if she gave up, she’d be reinforcing exactly what the president of the board thought of her- a pampered rich socialite who wasn’t capable of holding down a volunteer job, never mind expressing compassion or unrequited love.
She was stronger and smarter than that.