Chapter 21 Connor
CONNOR
Cat stumbles in her bunny slippers over shoes, clothes, and who knows what else littering her bedroom floor.
“Give that back.” She’s all terry cloth arms and legs as she pushes against me, trying to get the list.
“Not a chance, Shorty. Or should I call you Shortcake?” I ask, holding it out of her reach.
She pouts. “I thought it was Cat.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Hmm. Shortcat? Nah. It doesn’t have a ring to it. Shortcake right now. Cat later. But put your claws away.”
“Give back the list,” she demands.
I wave it around. “You mean this Not Love List? Why should I?”
Arms crossed in front of her chest and the towel wrapped around her hair slightly askew, she’s so adorable I work hard not to crack a smile.
“That’s mine and it’s private. You’re not even supposed to be in here.”
“The first thing you learned about me is that I’m a rule breaker...and if I understand what I’m looking at, I’m not the only one.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks with an indignant pout.
“It means someone, ahem, wrote a Not Love List and the subject is yours truly.”
“You have no way to prove that.”
“Let’s see. The first little heart-shaped bullet point says He’s scruffy. Then Towers over me. And Has big hands.” I make a show of tapping my chin. “Now, who could that be?”
I look at my hands, run one through my now not-so-scruffy hair and then step closer, so close I realize she must use lavender body wash.
Cat swallows thickly. “Yeah, well, it’s about Arthur.”
“Fitzgerald? Isn’t he married? A little old for you? Have some standards, Cat,” I tease. “It says Is uncooperative and very stubborn. I’d argue Arthur Fitzgerald is the opposite. He does not fit the profile.”
“Just give it back, Connor.” She reaches for the paper and our limbs tangle as I make a fuss, playing “Keep away.” It’s like taking a bath in a field of lavender and sunshine and never has anything made me feel so good.
Then Cat stumbles over something and her arms windmill.
She tips backward. I reach for her waist, attempting to stop her, but grab hold of the tie around her robe, drawing her toward me.
Unfortunately, the momentum sends me backward.
Not letting go of Cat’s robe, we both pitch toward the floor.
I break her fall, providing her with a soft landing, but what feels like several of her shoes stab me in the backside.
After pulling them loose, we’re face-to-face.
Cat’s chest rises and falls. Her eyes are dark, lids low. My breath is somewhere else entirely. All I can focus on is Cateline’s proximity. Her beauty. How I want her this close, not just to get some jollies today, but tomorrow and the day after that. No, not jollies. Joy.
My voice is gravely when I say, “The last item on your list. We’re incompatible (in every way!) I beg to differ, Cateline. It seems we’re quite compatible.”
She bites her lip. I wish I knew what is going through her mind. Her head lowers a measure. Our eyes dip together. Mine floats to her mouth. If there were ever a moment, this would be it.
“Just give me back the list.” She rolls off me and gets to her feet.
The bubble bursts as we both spot it lying innocently on the floor, partially spiked on a black high heel.
My lightning-fast reflexes come in handy and I get hold of it first. Like a football, I hug it close.
“I’ll give it back after you explain yourself.” I push to sit, surrounded by a mess of dresses, skirts, pantyhose, and some silky-looking things. Ooh la la.
She glances away. “It’s none of your business.”
“Considering I seem to be the subject, au contraire.” I intend to lighten the mood slightly but butcher the French pronunciation.
She marches toward the door as if ushering me out.
“There’s no denying I’m right.”
“You shouldn’t have been in here snooping around.”
“I wasn’t snooping. There is a lot of paper on your shelf.” Scrapbooking materials? “And this caught my eye.” She did too, coming out of the bathroom, fresh from the shower, but this list made me curious. More curious than a cat.
“I should’ve added to the list that you mumble,” she mumbles.
“Do not.”
“You most certainly do. Sometimes.”
“So you admit your not love list is about me?” I tuck it into my pocket for safekeeping.
“I admit nothing,” she says in her smoky accent.
“Should I make up a hate list of my own?” I grab a piece of paper from the shelf. There are a lot of albums and little packages of embellishments.
“It’s not a hate list.”
“Hmm. I’ll use this red piece of paper. The color most often associated with love. Or should I say anger and hate?” I look for a pen and find a pack in an assortment of colors. “Do you scrapbook?”
“I wanted to take it up as a hobby. Turns out that I don’t have many recent photos.”
“We should do something about that.”
“Don’t tell me you’re going to print out all of your @chicksdigwolves selfies?”
“Maybe.” I wink.
“Listen, some people just don’t get along,” Cat says, taking the pen and paper from my hand. My skin scorches at her unintentional touch.
I step closer, avoiding a leather boot. “I don’t think you truly hate me. I think there’s interest. Maybe even affection.”
“Not so.” She shakes her head, loosening the towel, but catches it before it tips off her head. I’d love to see her hair down.
“It’s like we’ve been playing a cat-and-mouse game, back and forth, back and forth, bouncing between tolerating each other and wanting to—”
“Butt heads,” she finishes.
“Bruiser butt. He he.”
With a huff, she says, “You’re like a goat.”
“You mean the GOAT.”
“Is that like a guinea pig?”
“No, G-O-A-T. The Greatest Of All Time. Glad you finally realized it.”
Cat squishes up her face in frustration.
The corner of my lips tilt with an impish smile. “Let’s see. The first thing on my list: When she gets mad, she’s adorable.”
“Conn—Mr.—Just please.”
“I know, I know. You want me to leave. The path to the door is a treacherous obstacle course worthy of spring training. What happened in here?”
Arms crossed, Cat gazes at the ceiling.
“I see socks. Lots of socks. All singles. Looks like you need a fairy sock mother.” I start to clean up, tossing all the socks in a pile. Then, I straighten the shoes and find their matches.
“Stop,” she says in a small voice.
“No. Not until I feel confident you’re not going to break an ankle.”
“I’m not—”
This time, I interrupt. “You have to pack for tomorrow. That’s why I came back here. I’m going to be your fairy sock mother because you’ll need socks.”
“I can do it myself.” She reaches for the delicate black and white striped sock with a gold toe, run through with sparkly thread in my hand.
“I know you can do it. I’m helping. You’ll need to pack comfortable clothing. Things you don’t mind getting dirty. Plan for lots of time spent outdoors. Do you have anything like that?”
“Probably.”
“Think rain, mud, cold nights.”
“Where are we going?”
“To a wedding and—”
“Mr. Wolfe—”
I cock an eyebrow. “I’m Mr. Wolfe again?”
“You’ve always been Mr. Wolfe, even when you barge into my room uninvited.” Her accent slays me.
“You called me Connor before.”
She frowns. “I most certainly did not.”
“But ya did. In fact, you said, and I quote, ‘Thank you for everything today, Connor.’”
“I don’t sound like that.”
I give a half roll of my eyes at how stubborn she is. “As I was saying. First, we’re going to a wedding, then we’ll be spending some time outdoors. Think of it as a honeymoon. From the groom.” One I will desperately need after spending more than thirty seconds with my brother.
“We’ve established that my English is very good, but you’re not making sense.”
“It’ll make sense when we get there. Here, pack this.” I pick up a red satin dress.
“You want me to wear that to a wedding? It’s so formal.”
“I’ll be in a tux.”
Cat’s lips form an O, but words don’t come out. Her cheeks tint a shade that’ll accent the gown quite nicely.
“Yes, we’ll be fancy and proper and all that. Then we’ll get some dirt under our nails. Some time in nature. Trust me, it’ll be just what the doctor ordered.”
“You think we’ll need to order a doctor?” Her lips quirk. She’s messing with me and my use of the expression.
“Ha ha.” Unless Cain gives me trouble, but I find that highly doubtful given it’s his big day. How he found a woman to tolerate him, I’ll never understand.
I let out a long sigh and brace myself for what I’ve always considered the biggest challenge of my life, bigger than a pro ball game. But I’ve had it wrong. Cateline is my biggest challenge. Keeping my hands (and mind and the other thing that supposedly lives in my chest) off her.
But I’m a Boston Bruiser through and through. I won’t stop until I win.
Win what? Her affection.
Playbook or not, I’m in trouble.
“See you in the morning,” I say and hurry from Cat’s room.
When I get to mine, I study her handwriting on the list. The bullet points that look strangely like hearts. The word love is at the top.
If I cross out one little three-letter word, it could be a love list.