Chapter 18 Cateline
CATELINE
It takes me a long moment to process that Connor said that I look cute in my pajamas and not something rude that rhymes with or sounds like the word cute. I don’t know what that would be, but it’s what I’ve come to expect. My cheeks heat and match my pink bunny slippers.
My voice practically shaking, I say, “Mr. Wolfe, you’re so hateable.” That makes me sound like I’m the meanie, but I have to push back against the way he’s making me feel.
“Hateable?” He steps closer, towering over me.
I eke out a nod. “Yes, hateable.”
“Am not.”
I tilt my head up. “Are so.”
“Am not,” he repeats, brushing the thumb of his massive hand across his lower lip, revealing a sneaky little smirk that I want to wipe right off that handsome face with my...with my mouth.
My face grows hotter. No, no, I do not. I did not think that.
Instead of continuing this juvenile game of back and forth, he says, “Ninety-nine percent of women in the world would disagree, if that’s what you really think.”
“That you’re difficult, disagreeable, and hateable?”
Wearing an infuriating smile, Connor says, “I’m enjoyable.”
“Going to an amusement park is enjoyable. Watching the sunset is enjoyable. Eating chocolate cake is enjoyable.”
“What about looking at selfies of me online?”
I open and close my mouth, unable to lie but not willing to tell him I saw the last few, including the one with the meow caption and my sticky note handiwork. And fine, I also looked at photos dating back a few years in his feed when I couldn’t sleep.
“As I said, I’m enjoyable,” he gloats like he snared my bunny-slippered feet.
“Enjoyable is not the opposite of hateable.”
“No? What is then?” he asks slowly, enunciating each word because we both know the answer.
I struggle to inhale and my heart does some ziggy, zaggy thing, probably because it doesn’t like being cornered.
Holding the door open for Connor to exit, I lock my office and hold my palm open for the key. He sets it against my skin, fingers lingering there like he did earlier over dinner. His copper-eyed look is on me and it’s long, stretching well past the seconds that tick on the grandfather clock.
Like I’m cute.
As if he likes what he sees.
Like I’m as delicious as chocolate cake.
I cannot stand this man. Much. I mean, maybe I can stand him a little. His selfies aren’t bad bedtime stories and he looks good, freshly shaven in the morning with his haircut. And I wasn’t lying about men of his stature when dressed in a tailored suit.
Meow indeed.
But I have a lot on my plate, including the urgent mail from the embassy about my work visa and having to find over thirty thousand dollars, so there remains a job to keep.
Connor’s pranks continue for the remainder of the week, which really doesn’t help matters.
Though I can’t claim complete innocence.
To retaliate for the googly eyes, once again, I sneak into his room.
The man is a heavy sleeper because I manage to paint his toenails pink.
It’s not a salon-quality job, but there is no mistaking the shout I hear the next morning.
The guys tear him apart, which is rather enjoyable after having to spend hours getting the googly eye glue off the surfaces in my office.
To get back at me, he planted some dye in the bath faucet that dissolved when I ran the tub water. I’m still mildly green, but thankfully, it didn’t get in my hair.
My next move was to wrap his soap in nail polish so it didn’t lather and I traded out his shampoo for mayonnaise—I got that idea from Declan.
But then Connor changed the clocks in my office, flipping the screen on my computer monitor upside down, and for good measure, he covered the sensor on my computer’s mouse with a photo of himself—the one he took after his makeover.
He also attached an air horn to the bottom of my desk chair so that when I sat down, it honked.
That nearly gave Arthur a heart attack.
It takes me a while to devise my retaliation. Meanwhile, Connor struts around like he’s the grandmaster prankster.
Two can play this game, buddy.
I bide my time, letting him brace for the worst. He’ll assume I’ve given up and relax. I let him think it’s a victory.
When the meet and greet comes around, I offer Connor the opportunity to demonstrate what he’s learned during our lessons in real time. I wear a fitted blue dress, black stockings, and black heels. To change it up, I leave a few pieces of hair loose from my bun.
His throat bobs when we meet. “You, look...good, Shorty. I like the Bruiser blue and black.”
“Shorty?”
A lopsided grin grows on his lips. “Yeah, because I’m taller than you.”
“You’re taller than most people, Mr. Wolfe.”
Then I get an idea. A diabolical one. As I consider executing the plan in a way that would make Marie Antoinette reconsider her life choices, another idea comes to mind. Don’t worry, I wasn’t going to actually cut off Connor’s head. Just in the photos during the meet and greet.
I quietly plot his demise as we walk toward the event site in the village.
But when I see him interacting with kids and old folks, my higher nature gets the better of me. Instead, I make sure to capture some really good photographs, especially of him with the adoptable dogs. Women love pictures of hot guys with dogs.
After the meet and greet event, I say, “Mr. Wolfe, that was exceptional. You were a wonderful host. I was going to have the last word, or image, as it were, in our little prank war. But then I had another idea.”
He leans in as if eager to hear what I have to say. This close, I try not to breathe in his aftershave and clean cotton scent.
My surroundings blur slightly and my heart picks up the pace, forgetting that I’m a slow cooker, a Crock-Pot.
“You were saying?” he asks as if realizing that I’m suddenly intoxicated by his scent, if such a thing were possible.
The man tests me, and not only my patience with the prank war but also my resolve to put out the little fires he sets ablaze all over my skin.
I start walking down the cobblestone street in the village by the school and he catches up with me. Our arms and hands brush, which only fans the flames.
From the manor, the city stretches in every direction—to the harbor and toward the royal castle at the foot of the majestic mountains before ending abruptly by the forest that stretches as far as the eye can see.
Steadying myself, I say, “I was going to cut off your head in all of the photos, but then I had another idea. How would you feel if I compiled them into a calendar, especially the ones with the dogs, to raise some money for Blancbourg?”
He hesitates.
I instantly feel silly and needy. “Actually, never mind. Forget I asked. Something like that would be better to go to your cause, for the animals.”
He’s silent for a long moment. Walking through the little village, an older pocket of the capital, works as a buffer. Every turn is enchanting. Ivy grows on the sides of the sandstone and brick buildings, little boutiques contain treasures and sweet shops with delicious treats line the lanes.
An ever-present smile blooms on my face anytime I’m here because it feels like home. In fact, my grin matches the one Connor has worn since we met this morning, wearing his team colors. As they say, when in Rome...or with a Boston Bruiser.
Finally, the man speaks. “I’ll forget about your intended prank for now.
You’re welcome to create the calendar. But I’d be willing to help in a greater capacity if you tell me why the school needs the additional funds.
” All sense of suave rascal gone, Connor speaks deliberately and powerfully, like he’d be happy to help and all I have to do is ask. Er, change my mind.
“We’ve hit some snags. Advertising costs are up. Revenue and enrollment are down. It’s just business, I suppose.”
“Is that all it is?”
“I don’t know what you mean?”
“Have you carefully reviewed the books?”
“Regina, I mean, Mrs. Harrow keeps them, so yes, I believe they’re in order.”
He grunts as the salty scent of dough fills the air and I push the calendar idea from my mind. I’ve always pulled myself up by my own pointe shoe ribbons. Always will.
I slow my pace outside one of my favorite bakeries that specializes in giant twisted pretzels. I rarely pass without picking one up, but typically it isn’t during work hours.
“Smells good,” Connor says.
We watch through the big front window as the master baker rolls the dough into a long log, picks up both ends and then in one effortless motion, he twists it to form a perfect pretzel shape before placing it on a tray.
“What’s your favorite flavor?” Connor asks, pointing to the display with plain pretzels, traditional with salt, and one with cinnamon and sugar on top.
“I’m a traditional kind of girl.”
“What about the dipping sauce? The spicy honey mustard sounds good.”
“I’ve never tried it.”
Suddenly, Connor’s hand grips mine and he drags me through the door.
The place where his palm meets mine and where his fingers twine tightly around, sends a flare of warmth through my arm and into my cheeks before doubling back to my belly.
My heart ticks out an unusual rhythm—though it’s been doing that a lot lately, especially when under stress.
A bell jingles when we enter and Mrs. Gilbert, behind the counter, greets us. “Hello, Cateline. I haven’t seen you in here in a while.” The older woman, wearing an apron, looks Connor up and down from head to toe. “And who’s this handsome gentleman you brought to visit me?” She winks.
“This is Connor Wolfe. Meet Hildie Gilbert. She and her husband, Hans, own the shop.”
Connor extends his hand.
Hildie dusts flour off hers. “Best in town.”
“Oldest in town,” Hans calls from the window by the front, where he continues to twist pretzels.
“Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Gilbert. Cat almost walked by without introducing me.” Now, like at the meet and greet, Connor is all smiles as though an invisible spotlight shines on him.
“You mean Cate?” Hildie corrects.
His smile is charming when he says, “My apologies. Cat is my term of endearment for Cate.”
Hildie leans in and says, “Handsome, polite, and old-fashioned.” She waggles her eyebrows. “I’d say he’s a keeper.”
I’m about to explain that by term of endearment, he means term of belittlement, but Connor keeps talking. “If these are the best pretzels in town and I’m a keeper, that means we have to get one of everything on the menu.”
Hildie starts to laugh and then stops abruptly.
“I don’t think he’s joking, but that just gave me the greatest idea.
” She pulls Hans from the window over to us and then leans in as though in a team huddle.
“What do you think about a mini pretzel and dipping sauce sampler?” She explains creating miniature versions of their signature pretzels, plus sample sizes of each of the various dipping sauces.
She bounces up and down with excitement.
“Now, Hildie, sometimes you get some cockamamie ideas, but this one is marvelous.” Hans smiles at her.
She beams. “What do you guys think?” She looks brightly at Connor and me as if we have a say in their business plans.
“I like it,” I answer.
“Sounds like you have a winner,” Connor adds.
“We have to do what we can to keep business going.” Hildie digs under the counter and pulls out several small ceramic bowls.
“You’re telling me,” I mutter. I know all about the struggle of keeping a business afloat, although Blancbourg is sinking fast.
“I have you guys to thank for the inspiration—you’re our good luck couple—and because of that, you get to be our guinea pigs.”
I wrinkle my nose and my mother’s strict ballet diet races toward me with reprimands about how many carbs I eat—that’s old news and one I’m mostly free of.
But occasionally her voice is in my head, berating me for my dietary choices and comparing me to a certain curly-tailed animal. The one that oinks.
Tonight, I’ll have cake and ice cream, mère.
But back to the matter at hand. Firstly, Connor and I are not a couple. Far from it, in fact. And what does Hildie mean about being a guinea pig?
Before I can answer either question, Connor says, “What’s that face?”
“I’m not a cochon,” I say forcefully.
His eyebrows dip. “A what?”
“A pig. I’m not a pig. Mère used to say—”
Connor interrupts. “Wait, you don’t know what a guinea pig is, do you?” He chuckles like I’m adorable and goes on to explain that the cute furry animal is also a term to mean we’ll be Hildie’s test subjects.
“Now, I have put the sauces in these cups for you to try. Obviously, we can’t make the mini pretzels right at this moment, but next time you come in, we’ll have them ready.
I’m sure that a big man like this can handle a couple of jumbo pretzels on his own, so I’m not worried about them going to waste.
” She nudges Connor with her elbow as she sets everything on a tray.
Connor and I sit at an empty bistro table on the other side of the bakery.
The surface overflows with pretzels and sauces.
Connor’s knees bump up against mine. That same thrilling flare as when he took my hand bursts through me.
There is no escaping the contact because there isn’t anywhere else for him to put his long legs.
So we remain here, knees pressed together.
Does he even realize it? Does he feel the same way I do?
Never mind those questions. More importantly, why do I feel this way?
Hildie brings us napkins. “I’ll have to come up with a clever way to arrange all the items, but in the meantime, I hope you two enjoy these treats as much as you so obviously enjoy each other’s company.”
With a private smirk, as if he ate up her comments, Connor says, “Thank you, ma’am.”
“Hildie, I am not a guinea pig and we are not a couple,” I say politely.
The corners of the older woman’s lips curl up. “Oh, you’re not a couple yet?” I don’t like the way she emphasizes the last word.
Before I can explain, the door jingles with customers.
“See? I am enjoyable,” Connor says with all the swagger of a gentleman and not a caveman.
I exhale through my nose. “I was going to say, who are you and what did you do with Connor Wolfe, but I see you are still here, as hateable as ever.”
His knees press against mine as he stares hungrily—whether at me or the pretzels, I’m not sure. “You keep telling yourself that, Cat.” He lets out a low chuckle and digs in.