Chapter 15 Pippa #2
Biting my lip, I double back. It’s Monday, and I can’t start the week in a frenzied tizzy, nor should I be late, but the scent calls. I’ll get a whole box of pastries for everyone, including one of Cate’s favorites, palmiers.
Promise, I’m not trying to curry favor with the headmistress. We’re friends and she’ll understand that pastries took priority today. Probably. You never know with Cate. All the same, I don’t want to show up empty-handed...or with an empty stomach.
While standing in line, I think about bakery scents and candles, wondering what I could whip up that would be fresh, yet familiar.
Vanilla is overdone. Same with buttercream, all things apple, and birthday cake.
I love all those scents, but I want something that captures a more unique essence.
A fragrance that will take someone back to a particular moment in time. A memory.
Food is such a key part of our olfactory experience, but no one would want a garlic bread or French fry candle. Okay, some people would. I’ve done a survey and had some unique custom scent requests.
My mind rushes with ideas as the line creeps forward and my phone beeps. In the flurry with Cecil hunting for the lizard in the hallway, I forgot someone called.
Adjusting my glasses, I don’t recognize the number. I tap the text icon. The message says:
Hey, sorry if things were awkward the other night. My mom can be intense. And I owe you an apology about something else, too. Hope you made it home without crashing any weddings.
My jaw lowers because I think it’s a message from Chase. It has to be. Only he knows how I literally crashed a wedding, er, the cake.
“Next,” the gal behind the counter calls.
I point to a buttery, flakey, crescent-shaped pastry in the case. “I’ll take a crushant.”
Her brow wrinkles.
“I mean a chaseant.”
Her eyebrows pinch together.
“I mean a croissant and an espresso. Sorry, I was thinking about something else, erm, my crush.” I finish my order and now have cheeks that are about the same shade after overdoing it with the blush earlier.
Officially and criminally late, at least according to Blancbourg Academy d’Etiquette standards, I rush up the front walk, clutching the box from the bakery like a peace offering before I even know if I’m under fire.
I greet Arthur, the doorman, butler, and fast friend to everyone he meets, by opening the box and offering him a pastry. Stiff-backed and white-gloved, he politely passes on the pastries.
“I’ll leave one for you in the breakroom,” I say before hurrying inside.
I find Everly, the newest etiquette coach, and Cate are already in her office.
I quickly settle in and then open the pastry box. “Anyone care for something scrummy to start off Monday?”
Cate looks at me for a long moment, likely never having seen me in glasses.
I adjust the frames and then say, “Lost my contact on the way out the door this morning. Sorry that I was running behind.”
She moves right past my apology and gets down to business. “Ladies, I apologize for not offering you more training time, but it turns out we’re getting four new students. Athletes who have bad boy reputations.”
“Sound like rascals,” I say, knowing about those all too well.
Everly sits up straighter as if preparing for the task ahead.
“We’ll have our hands full, that’s for sure.” She passes us their introduction packets with background information and the standard questionnaire.
Everly takes hers and the ring on her finger flashes. Looks like she already found her Mr. Right. Cecil’s comment about getting married echoes in my mind along with Lady Libby the Love Liasson’s quest for me to land a husband and her request that it be Chase.
But I can’t get lost in my thoughts right now. During stressful times, the rule is to remain focused. New students arrive today and I have to be on my toes.
“Ladies, I’ve heard the term, insta-love, but I never experienced insta-hate.”
“Never?” I ask, then give them a quick bio on Marlow.
Cate nods like she’s come across mean girls before. “As I was saying, I have a feeling working with these boys is going to cause widespread insta-hate. Keep your wits about you. Be on alert. They’re pranksters. Don’t let them—”
“Don’t worry, I can promise we will not be experiencing insta-love.” I shake my head. “Or confusion about crushes.” I’m only twenty minutes into my workday and already lost my brain-mouth connection. I must not have recuperated from the weekend.
“No, ma’am, madam, er, should we call you Miss Berghier, Cateline, or—?” Everly asks as if suddenly nervous.
She organizes a stack of papers. “You can call me Cate.”
“Does anyone call you Cat?” I ask.
“Just my enemies.” The words have force behind them, and I’d venture to say a story too, but that’s for girls’ night, next time Gemma sends her kids to their grandmother’s house.
I finish my pastry, feeling the fog and fluster from earlier clearing at last. I gather the folder containing the new student profile and head to the appointed meeting room.
I’m going to be punctual and prepared. Ordinarily, I’d have had several weeks to review the case file for a new client and prepare a lesson plan from the core curriculum at Blancbourg, but these guys came last minute.
My lists and rules help me stay organized and on track.
It isn’t that my mind is cluttered, but I’m easily distracted.
Learning about how my mind works has made a world of difference and has the side benefit of realizing that not everyone’s brain is wired the same, so I’m now able to apply that knowledge to my clients when necessary.
I step into the room with clear-headed confidence. Although my glasses are smudged again from my pastry-dusted fingers and everything is slightly blurry. Either that or I need a new prescription.
I’m about to wipe them so I’ll be able to properly see who my new student is when the door at my back creaks open. Too late.
I turn around, a cheerful greeting at the ready, but my words take flight, bringing my thoughts with them.
Mouth silent. Head empty.
Because Chase fills the frame, looking striking in a pair of dark jeans and a Boston Bruiser’s T-shirt. It accentuates the expanse of his broad shoulders. His well-defined chest muscles stretch the cotton.
I blink a few times, wondering if I’m seeing things. I take off the glasses and look toward him. He’s a smudgy outline but remains a familiar figure. It’s definitely still him. I replace my glasses and he comes into focus once more.
My pulse races. “What are you doing here?” I drop my voice a register. “I’m not supposed to have guests when I’m on the clock.”
“I didn’t know you worked here.”
“Then how did you—?” My thoughts fog once again.
“I apologize for not replying to your text. There was a situation with Chompy the Swamp King and then I lost one of my contacts. I stopped at the bakery for fortification. I was starved and running late, so I didn’t have a chance to get back to you.
But I’m really sorry that my mother was being so insistent.
That was embarrassing, to say the least, and I understand if you want to make it clear that nothing—”
His lips hint with a grin. “Pippa, you’re rambling.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t need to be sorry about anything. I like it.” Chase activates his eye-smolder powers.
“Then why’d you point it out?”
“Because people often ramble when they’re nervous and I don’t want you to feel nervous around me.” Now, it’s his lips that do the smoldering.
I frown. “I can never be sure if you’re going to ruffle my hair and call me kiddo—”
“Did that make you nervous?”
“More annoyed than nervous, but—” I start to put down my folder as I juggle my bag, the box, and the lukewarm remains of my espresso.
It balances on top of the pastry box, which I didn’t have a chance to put in the break lounge.
But the bag’s strap tangles in my hair and I falter.
“My parents—Mum mostly—get a little carried away playing matchmaker.” The paper cup teeters, along with me in these high heels—I knew they were a bad idea.
A strong hand grips my arm, steadying me. Chase’s other hand grabs the cup, but I lose my handle on the file and the contents flutter to the ground. Thankfully, no liquid spills in a repeat of the night at the Smythe’s.
Together, we crouch and pick up the papers.
“This seems vaguely familiar,” Chase says.
“Do you mean me crawling around on the floor looking for something? Happens all the time.”
“No, the time in the corridor between classes when we bumped into each other.”
“Oh, right. I try not to remember things like that.” I have a statute of limitations on my most embarrassing moments, even if they involve my high school crush.
Though, of course, I recall the time I exited the library, used a little too much strength when opening the door, and it slammed into Chase.
Apparently, he had a tennis ball in his hand that went flying and then knocked Mrs. Wagner, an English teacher, in the head.
She was ancient and a little unsteady to begin with, and bumped into a cart covered with clay pots from the advanced art class headed for the kiln.
The cart zoomed toward me, knocking all my books and papers out of my hands and into the smooshed piles of clay.
It was like one of those Rube Goldberg machines on the fritz.
As I stack the papers, thankfully dry and not covered with clay or coffee, Chase’s hand brushes mine. Fluffy tingles work their way through me...or they never left me.
Gathering the last of the items from the folder Cate gave me, a photo with a handsome face and a dimple on his left cheek, perfectly tousled hair, and sparkling eyes stares up at me.
“Something has got to be wrong with these glasses,” I murmur.
It’s the exact image of the man crouched beside me. Which only means one thing. Chase Collins is my new client.