Chapter 14 Cateline
CATELINE
As I stride from the dining room, I’m one of those old-timey cartoons with steam coming out of my ears.
The hair on the back of my neck lifts. From somewhere nearby, a wolf howls—there are plenty of them in the mountains.
Likely, it’s probably Connor being immature. He really knows how to rile me up.
With that handsome face.
Those copper-brown eyes.
The lazy grin.
His commanding presence.
I feel like a cat who found a ball of yarn and tied itself up in knots instead of being the stiff-backed, square-shouldered headmistress who untangles problems.
Never has someone twisted me up like this. There is something dangerously attractive about him, but equally obnoxious. I shouldn’t play his games, but I cannot say no to a challenge.
That night, as I settle into my suite, the pile of unanswered mail sits on my table, hollering at me in an authoritative voice about my visa. The financial woes here at Blancbourg whisper from the offices below, and yet all I can think about is Connor.
Despite everything else going on, I’m going to focus on what I can control, and that’s not letting the cocky and stubborn football player slip through the cracks because he only wants to play games that he knows he’ll win.
Connor will learn the rules of engagement when it comes to etiquette and successfully pass the program.
Then I’ll deal with everything else.
When it comes to him, that’s all I’m thinking about, promise.
Not his smolder or the way his eyes shine with amusement.
Not the attraction that hammered between us in the dining room.
Not how we come at each other in waves of hot and cold, hot and cold, leaving me feeling like I can’t decide between the sauna or snow.
I grab a piece of paper and write Hate List. That sounds too harsh. Feeling bad because I don’t actually hate the guy, I start over and replace it with The NOT Love List. Using bullet points, I write:
He’s scruffy
Towers over me
Has big hands
Is uncooperative
Very stubborn
We’re incompatible (in every way!)
I underline that last part, then realize the bullet marks look a lot like hearts. Biting the pen cap, I think about the way he took control and planted my hand on his strong arm. I force myself to look beyond his appearance, trying to figure out why he rattles me so badly.
To my chagrin, I see a partial reflection of myself (not the hands, height, or hair—though we do both have buns). Rather, I see things about him that I thought I’d left behind in France.
Growing up, all I had known was dance and my ex, Gaston.
Dance, I loved. However, the harder my mother and coaches pushed, the less it gave back to me.
Gaston, I thought I loved, then very quickly realized I loathed. Mother forced me to be with him because of her aspirations for us to become ballet celebrities.
Connor’s massive figure pushes Gaston from my mind. It isn’t love or hate I feel for the football player. It’s something else that I can’t quite define. Interest? Attraction?
I get ready for bed and peel off my clothing, leaving it in a heap on my floor along with all my other outfits. I change into pajamas.
Restless, I lay in bed for hours before checking the time on my phone.
It’s well past midnight. I get the weather for the next day and then review my schedule.
My finger slides to the official Blancbourg social media account—Gemma set it up as a free form of advertising.
I don’t think Regina has ever logged in.
I scroll through the feed and land on a photo of my cousin Giselle with her latest catch—Garrison, a football player for the Miami Riptide. I give it a like.
Without giving myself a chance to talk myself out of it, I search for Connor Wolfe. Then I remember his username is @ChicksDigWolves. I roll my eyes.
“He is so self-absorbed,” I whisper in Franglais.
His latest post has a timestamp of less than an hour ago.
It’s a selfie of him on a bed with a wooden headboard—an antique I recognize from his suite.
He cradles his head in the crook of his elbow, propped behind him.
His biceps pop. The smirk he wears is downright delicious.
Dark lashes lower partway, revealing the same gaze from earlier.
It’s as though he’s looking right at me through the screen.
I shiver even though I’m warm. My breath catches and I drop my phone onto the bed as a smoldering feeling heats my blood like lava. The boats are on fire.
The grin Wolf wears suggests he’s already won the war. Little does he know that I’m made of tenacity, fortitude, and resilience. And that I’ll fight to the end, even with someone as aggravatingly and agonizingly handsome as he is. Then my finger slips, awarding the photo a heart.
No, no, no!
Everyone knows that the cardinal rule of snooping on someone’s account is to keep your fingers where you can see them. No sneaky swipes or accidental likes. My pulse pounds in my throat as I tap the heart to remove the like.
I spend the next ten minutes convincing myself there’s no way he saw it.
Despite the long day, I’m unable to sleep, so I decide to make productive use of my time.
Still in my pajamas, I slide on my slippers and creep down to my office.
Living in the same building where I work has its benefits and drawbacks.
I can catch up on things whenever I want, but that also means I tend to work more often, since there isn’t a distinct line between home and office.
Given what appears to be a dire financial crisis faced by the school, I’d better get cracking.
While in the hall, I pause as a shiver dips down my spine. For a moment, I think I hear murmuring toward the kitchen, but it’s probably the wind or the old building shifting.
Once, a student was convinced the manor was haunted and slept with all the lights on.
Arthur tried to assure the woman that it wasn’t, but once the idea was planted, from time to time, I have thought that someone, or rather something, is sneaking around.
Then again, I wouldn’t put it past one of these football players to pull a late-night prank.
As usual, my office door is unlocked—locks won’t keep ghosts out, anyway.
I flip on the light and when I sit down, my computer comes to life.
Strangely, a tab is open to an account used for reaching out to Blancbourg alumni.
I haven’t logged in lately. Typically, I send the invitations in early spring for the annual alumni luncheon—although, given the circumstances, I’ll probably have to postpone it until we have more funds.
I sigh and after checking my email, I flip through the stack of papers Regina gave me.
We both have access to all the accounts related to the school’s finances, even though Regina primarily takes care of them.
I’m determined to find where we can cut the budget to come up with that thirty-four-thousand-dollar number Regina indicated we need without eliminating any more employees—especially Arthur.
I’m drowsy the next morning, after staying up late and going over the bookkeeping.
Tangled in the sheets, I practically fall out of bed. As my feet hit the cold wooden floor, I stumble over yesterday’s clothing (and some from the day before and the day before that). I’ll make time to go to the dry cleaners soon.
I get ready and put on a flattering pair of trousers, a blouse, and heels.
After closing the door on my bedroom chaos, I glance in the mirror. My bun is perfect today, which brings to mind the last few days of stress.
A heaviness forms in my belly as I think about the past and the decision I made to leave the ballet company and go to college.
Usually, I’m certain it was the right one, but a pointy thought digs into my ribs.
What if it was the wrong decision? Unlike the Blancbourg program, there isn’t an evaluation to complete, a form to fill out, or a letter indicating I’m passing or failing at life.
I should trust my gut, but what if it’s my heart I’m supposed to listen to?
When I get downstairs, Connor is waiting there already, standing at attention and with his hands clasped.
His hair is a bit wild, like he didn’t bother to brush it—then again, the standard look of the Boston Bruisers is rough and masculine like they’d just as likely be found on a football field as they would in the woods, doing manly things.
They all have facial hair in various stages of development—mostly beards—unkempt hair, tattoos, and wear jeans, T-shirts, and hoodies with the team’s logo.
Connor focuses on something out the window, highlighting his stature. He has a peaceful expression on his face as he turns toward me when the clicking of my heels on the granite floor stops at his side.
“Good morning, Mr. Wolfe,” I say.
“Good morning, Ms. Berghier.”
I dip my head back, surprised at his perfect pronunciation. “Well done. Have you been practicing?”
His lips curl with a smile. “I trust you had pleasant dreams.”
I force myself to look away. “Actually, no.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Yourself? This old building has been around for a long time and with that comes plenty of ghost stories.”
He shifts his weight. “Is that so? May I ask what you do when you can’t sleep?”
“A hazard of this job is that my office is located downstairs from my suite, so oftentimes I work.”
“You don’t go online, scroll social media...watch cute videos about dogs?”
I shake my head slowly, catching his meaning. He wants to know whether I saw the photo he posted on his account @ChicksDigWolves. “Nope.” My lips pop on the last letter P. I’m a terrible liar and, as a rule, never do, but the word just, well, popped out of my mouth.
He raises and lowers his eyebrows as I turn to lead him down the hall, indicating he saw the split second when I’d accidentally liked his photo. Probably. Or not. Could’ve been a coincidence.
Then why are my cheeks warm?
We pause outside a wooden door with a brass sign that says Salon. Collecting myself, I take a deep breath and hold it open for Connor.
Like a picture-perfect gentleman, he gestures for me to go first.
Perhaps we’re making progress.
Then again, I get the feeling that I, too, am being watched and that this man with wolf-like eyes knows something I don’t.