Chapter 18 Pippa
PIPPA
Frantic and fangirling, I hurry from the classroom at the end of the introductory lesson. The one where I forced myself to forget about my crush, the dance debacle, and how Mum’s most recent choice for suitor sat across the table from me.
I don’t have a list for how to deal with The Crush coming back into my life—not at the Smythe’s and not his appearance at my place of employment.
The place where he’s my new client, I’ll have to work closely with him on etiquette and behavior.
I’m not sure how I’ll survive the next thirty days with Chase.
I thought I left my crush behind in high school and hadn’t looked back.
Okay, I occasionally look online when people post about the star quarterback, number four, aka the Lion, for the Boston Bruisers.
And it was hard to ignore #BruiserButt splashed all over social media.
But I’m not about to kindle my crush again at etiquette school, especially not after what he did to embarrass me.
New mantra: “I won’t let Chase work his charms on me.”
What else was it that he said about himself? I won’t acknowledge that he’s attractive, intelligent, or irresistible.
And I’ll completely forget about how, when his dimple pops, I get all fluttery inside.
Or how his voice causes me to lose all rational thought.
And his flirty charm?
“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. I quit! I quit this crush on Chase Collins!”
Slouching into a chair in the teacher’s lounge, thankfully, I’m alone. Though I wouldn’t be surprised if Arthur heard me. Somehow, he finds out everything.
Chase wasn’t wrong about me going from toasty warm to ice queen, but what’s the alternative?
Should I pull out The Crush List and go line by line, telling him how each of the things he did made me fall for him—in much the same way he took note of things I did during senior year?
Also, for the record, it was Marlow who pulled the fire alarm, interrupting Dad’s presentation about publishing on career day.
And it didn’t help that during the introductory lessons, I was distracted by Chase smelling like soap and man and something slightly spicy.
I still can’t figure out that last component, but let’s just say, combined, he smells like heaven and I’d like to bottle the scent, er, candle it.
And I’d be lying if I denied that I was also trying to determine if this is another joke being played on me.
“There is only one solution,” I mutter. It’s time to crush the crush. I have to institute Operation Anti-Crush.
I dial Phoebe because this is the kind of situation that only a sister can solve. It goes to voicemail.
I pour tea and help myself to a chicken salad sandwich with cranberries, along with a bag of chips.
While I debate between pink and yellow lemonade using the eenie, meanie, minie, moe method, Everly, wearing a bright and sunny smile, joins me, but the sigh that escapes as she sits suggests a change in the weather.
I pass her a glass of pink lemonade. “How’d it go so far?”
“You mean with Grey the Grouchy Viking Beast?”
I nearly choke on the yellow lemonade. “Is he that bad?”
“I keep asking myself if this is real or if I entered some alternate realm.”
“Strangely, I can relate.” I tell her about how I knew Chase in high school.
Despite my determination to forge an anti-crush crusade, why do the fluttery, heart-fluffy feelings I get around him persist?
“Have you ever had a crush on someone?” I ask.
“Of course. It’s been a while, though.”
“Have you ever had a crush that you didn’t want?”
Everly taps her fingers on her jaw. “That would be a no.”
“Hmm. Was there ever something you wanted, couldn’t have it, found a reason not to want it, and then it plowed back into your life full steam, running frontward and backward over all the progress you made at not wanting it?”
Her eyes widen. “That sounds complicated. When I need to simplify things, I usually make a pros and cons list.”
“A list is kind of what got me into this mess. But you gave me an idea.”
“Is this about a guy?” she asks.
Hinging forward, I tap my forehead against the table. “Isn’t it always?”
As if she understands that “a guy” refers to my client, she says, “Cate wouldn’t swap you? Then again, it sounds like you got the best of the bunch. Did you see Maggie this morning? Declan is little more than an overgrown toddler.”
I wince. “I’m sure I’ll hear about what happened to the former Disney princess later.”
“And poor Cate. She has Wolf, the worst of them.”
“Yikes.”
“I’d say you’re the lucky one.”
I squawk a laugh. “Luck? What’s that? If you have some, I’ll take it.”
Not knowing how very serious I am, Everly laughs.
“The only thing I could do to get through the introductory interview was to pretend that I didn’t know Chase. It was nearly impossible to keep my face impassive, not revealing the effect he was having on me. I should’ve won one of those golden award statues for my performance.”
“Was it frustration because he wasn’t cooperative or—?”
“Something like that. He wanted to stroll down memory lane, and our parents have all but arranged our marriage. Give my mother a credit card and thirty-six hours and she can do a world of damage. She’s probably already selected the flowers, place settings, and the cake.”
Cake reminds me that Chase showed me his true colors that day in the dining hall and he’s not someone I’m going to marry.
“You have a situation on your hands.”
“That’s what I’ve been saying.”
“I’ve learned that striving for something I’ll never have keeps me in a safe space of familiarity instead of pushing me out of my comfort zone to go after what I really want. Just something to think about,” Everly says as an afterthought.
“You’re onto something and you gave me an idea for a list. I’ll make one with all the things about Chase that gross me out, that are icky, yucky, repulsive. Let’s see, he ruffled my hair, called me kiddo and Pippag Thomzeg.”
She frowns. “Harsh. What else?”
“Um, he’s somehow tan even though it’s only spring.”
“He probably spends a lot of time outside playing football.”
“He’s buff, brawny—”
“Pippa, those don’t sound like icks.”
I tuck my chin back. “Are you kidding me? Ew. Who’d want a guy that’s in amazing shape, athletic, capable, has a dimple, swagger...?” A fluttery sigh escapes as I try to lie to myself.
Had Chase really gone to the infirmary to listen to me read to Liam Finnigan? He was behind in English class (and behind in growing as the smallest kid in our class). I didn’t want him to fail.
Not only that, but the way Chase had described his legacy moved something inside of me.
He’d always hold open doors for others in high school, raise his hand politely to not interrupt the teacher, and help out after class. Chase was a rugged, ruthless player on the rugby team who also cheered on his teammates.
Except for the sponge cake prank, he’s a good person underneath the charm, bravado, and the football star face, er, backside that he shows the world.
Or at least he was, because the fact of the matter is that he’s here at Blancbourg.
“Where is he now? Hopefully, not getting into trouble,” Everly asks.
“No, he’s with our very own Shonda, learning proper grooming and having his makeover.”
Everly goes still. “I fear the day Grey gets his. I think he wears his shaggy hair and beard like armor and will fight tooth and nail not to be rid of it.”
“Thankfully, Chase is really good-looking.”
Everly seems to stifle a giggle. “You mentioned.”
“I mean, he trims his nails and brushes his teeth.” I stuff a big bite of the sandwich into my mouth to keep myself from saying more.
“And buff, brawny...” Everly teases.
“What I meant to say is that he’s relatively well-kempt. I mean, he—” There I go, rambling again.
For so long, I deemed myself a poor judge of character after the sponge cake prank.
I’ve spent years scolding myself for picking Chase as my crush—as if I had much of a choice in the matter.
I chastised myself and denied myself dates because I feared I’d be humiliated, since I was obviously awful at picking out decent guys.
I reprimanded myself for being so silly as to get my hopes up that he’d notice me, ask me to prom, we’d fall in love, and have a happily ever after.
I know, I know, the last one is childish, but the others weren’t completely ridiculous.
Seated next to me, Everly scrolls on her phone, hopefully looking for supporting evidence of my claims. Like poorly lit, unflattering, and awkward angle candid photos of Chase, so I can get my ick on.
“Wait, what was that?” I ask, craning to see the image.
“Another #BruiserButt post.” She shakes her head.
“Sorry for looking over your shoulder at your phone, but what was that post two back? No Bruisers and no butts. I think it was an advert.”
She thumbs backward on the screen. “Looks like it’s for a dating coach. She’s one of the producers of the new show, Crush or Cupid. Oh, you should be a contestant.”
Everly goes on to describe the new reality show where they choose twelve contestants to go on dates with the bachelor stud.
Viewers vote whether the chemistry between the pair is just crush material, which eliminates them from the contending, or Cupid, which would be more like a long-term love match. ”
“I don’t think I’d be a good candidate. My social battery could never tolerate that many cameras, but I wouldn’t be opposed to private coaching.”
“Considering you are a coach, it fits.”
I smile because maybe my mantra, My luck is bound to change, worked! I let out an excited squee and take down the coach’s information. Lucky for me, she’s located in London.
My phone pings with a message from Shonda.
“Chase’s makeover is complete.” Then I remember his comment about being my lucky charm and slouch into the chair.
“I should take that as my cue to go and make sure my client hasn’t raided and plundered the village,” Everly says, but doesn’t get to her feet as if she needs another moment to recover.