Chapter 19
CHASE
Pippa perches on the counter, putting us at eye level. I assume this is a teacher’s lounge with its kitchenette, a couple of tables for six, and a few sofas in a sitting area.
She gently presses her lips together as if testing my work.
“Don’t fuss with it.”
She raises her hand to her mouth. I brush it away, but I twine my fingers around hers for a beat before releasing. My usually robust breath has taken on a staccato rhythm since coming in here and tending to Pippa’s lip.
Even though they look nothing alike, I force myself to think about Freddie because I can’t maintain distance from her right now. I can’t cross the line with my best friend’s sister because, more than anything, I want to kiss her boo-boo...kiss her, fat lip and all.
Clearing my throat, I say, “The butterfly strip will help the blood do its job to coagulate and then you’ll have a natural bandage. It’ll be healed in a few days.”
“But it’s—”
“Accidents happen.”
“Mostly to me.”
“What’s your worst scar?”
Her eyes bulge and she gently taps the space under her lip. “Is this going to scar?”
“No. Stop fretting. You make a terrible patient. But seriously, name your scars.”
“Um, I skinned my knees a few times.”
“Broken any bones?”
“I twisted my ankle in junior high.”
I tilt my head. “I’ve broken nine bones, torn both ACLs, and let’s see, at last count I have—” I mentally add the scars on my legs and torso to the ones on my arms. “Oh, and this one from last season was brutal.” I start to lift my shirt where I was swiped on the waist during a tackle by a sharp piece of helmet that somehow got under my gear.
“No, you don’t have to show me.”
I lean back. “It was gnarly. It healed and kind of looks like a lightning bolt.”
“In that case, you could magic it away like Harry Potter.”
“If powers like that were real, I’d heal your lip like that.” I snap my fingers.
“Thanks for helping me out.” She wiggles her lip ever so slightly, like she can’t resist fiddling with the bandage.
“Hands off. Doctor’s orders.”
“Fine, but we’ll need a cloak of invisibility if Cateline finds us both in here. This is a restricted section.”
After a quick clean up, I follow Pippa to the hallway where I catch my reflection in a large mirror.
“I’m not a beast like the other coach said about Grey, so why’d I have to go through with that makeover?
I shave almost every day. I’m not a feral animal,” I say, shaking a few loose hairs from my shoulders.
“It’s part of the program. We offer comprehensive top-to-bottom, inside-and-out guidance so you can present the best version of yourself to the world.”
“I guess I was overdue for a haircut. Shonda trimmed it on the sides and along the nape of my neck.”
“You’re admiring. You know what Dumbledore said about the mirror.” Pippa arches her eyebrow.
“That was the mirror of Erised or Desire if you read it from right to left, but who’s admiring who and what do they desire?”
“Your charms don’t work here, mister.” She pokes me in the upper arm and meets rock-hard muscle.
“Ow. Oh.”
“Did you sprain your finger?”
“Ha ha. Very funny. But speaking of muscles, you have a workout with the trainer.”
“Who said anything about muscles?” I ask, playing coy.
Whether she tries to resist or not, the effect I’m having on her is visible. Pippa’s cheeks are a pleasant shade of pink and her lip is puffy, but we’re so close I could lean in and kiss her forehead right now.
But I don’t. Nope, there’s the playbook. However, if I wasn’t following the rules, I’d draw this out a little longer until it was about to break. If only so she’ll admit there’s something between us.
Continuing down the hall, the backs of our hands brush, sending a tingle through my fingers and landing like a bolt of lightning in my chest.
It fuels me through a killer workout with one of Concordia’s top trainers. Pippa sits on a weight bench and takes notes, probably on the cut muscles of my abs and arms.
As I build up a fine sheen of sweat, I catch her staring a few times. Flirty comments come to my lips, but I won’t say them to Freddie’s sister. I can’t. She’s a lady and deserves a gentleman.
I volunteer to be that guy.
When the session is over, she abruptly gets up and exits to the hallway, where she waits, facing in the opposite direction.
“What’s next, Coach?”
“You can shower, then please meet me in the same classroom as this morning.”
I give her a little salute because I do my best thinking in the shower, and it’ll be about how to win over Pippa Thompson.
Thirty minutes later, I’m sitting at a table with a pen and paper in hand. No, I’m not writing a love note. I wish. Rather, it’s a letter of apology to Elyse Starkowsky, the commissioner’s daughter.
“Do I really have to do this?”
For the third time, Pippa explains the importance of a formal apology and the power behind a handwritten letter.
“Can’t I text her? Write an email?”
“No and no. It’ll be handwritten. Postage paid.” She flutters an envelope.
“Fine.” I make a sincere apology and when I sign my name, a nagging question repeatedly bumps into me. “Would a verbal apology be better?”
“Yes, but unless you plan to see this woman in the next few weeks, this will have to do.”
I lean back in the chair and think about the person I most owe an apology to...and she’s sitting in this room.
She writes a list and I wonder about her rules.
I fold the letter in thirds and pass it to her.
Pippa asks, “Can I trust that you didn’t write any bum jokes?”
“Do you mean buns? As in my muscular backside?” A chuckle rolls off my lips before I remind myself this isn’t the locker room and as it is, I’m facing punishment for locker room behavior.
“Buns are dinner rolls,” Pippa says.
“Bums are street beggars.”
“Bums are butts.”
“Buns are butts.”
“You put butter on buns.”
“Fresh out of the oven? What about cinnamon buns?” I pat a circle on my belly, and to sweeten the moment, I lick my lips.
Pippa takes a short intake of breath as if she thought of something or the comment scandalized her all over again. She clears her throat. “We’ll be meeting again for a formal dinner at six.”
“What do we do between now and then?” I ask.
“You have some free time. Do as you please,” she says efficiently.
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to take a walk around the property before dinner.”
“What kind of walk? A brisk one to cool off?”
“I didn’t say you were hot,” she blurts.
“Hot bums out of the oven?”
I can’t quite make sense of the banter, but only that it works and makes me feel electric inside. Like there could be a future between us...a near future.
“What if I want to talk to you? Do I have to make an appointment or—?” I ask.
The tips of her eyebrows form a deep V. “What do you mean?”
Here we go. Game time. I run my hand through my freshly cropped hair. “I do my best thinking after working out...and showering. It’s time you and I have a little chat before this goes any further.”
“Chat? Before what goes further?”
“I want to talk about us,” I say, catching on the word us. There is something more to it than two letters, one syllable.
She swallows. “Okay, um, I don’t have an office, but we could go to the library or the garden.” She points vaguely.
“I’m all about getting back to nature.”
“Please don’t say anything about being au natural.”
“I do like freshly baked goods. Buns, rolls, especially the kind with butter and cinnamon.” I emphasize the last part because when I mentioned cinnamon buns a few moments ago, it tripped her up and I want to know why.
Pippa hurries ahead of me as if in desperate need of fresh air.
We step outside into the lovely spring late afternoon. Our hands brush again and I want to take hers like I did when we danced, but first, she needs to hear my apology.
“It’s beautiful here. What made you move to Concordia?”
“I’m not like Freddie.”
“Definitely not.”
“You say that like it’s a good thing.”
“I’d be concerned if you were stubborn, loud, and what I once heard a Brazilian woman call a tomcat.”
“Sounds like my brother. But I’m more of an introvert. Not a big fan of crowds and soirees.”
“So the party wasn’t your cup of tea?”
“Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy dressing up and I’m British. I love tea, but a few years ago, the winter in London was long and dark. I needed a little holiday, so I bought a train ticket.”
“If my geography serves, England is south of here, so you traveled north at that time of year?”
“No, I bought a ticket south to visit the south of France.”
“But you ended up here?”
“This is me we’re talking about. I still can’t figure out how it happened because the conductor took my ticket, but I was taking an overnight trip, so it was an obscene hour. I ended up here.”
“And fell in love,” I add, slowing down and seeing the scenery and Pippa as if for the first time. Something inside of me shifts, opens, and catches the fading light of day.
“Anyway, as you can imagine, summer arrives late in Concordia because of the northern location. But the spring thaw, followed by the rain, had ushered in a lush carpet of green along with countless flowers in full bloom.” Pippa stops and smells a vibrant pinkish-orange rose.
I admire her.
“I discovered my love of scent.” She exhales.
I lean close and inhale the flower. The tension in my neck and shoulders vanishes. “It reminds me of the sunsets in California. In the fall, the winds blow, painting the sky over the water impossible colors.”
Her eyes sparkle in the dwindling light of day. “It reminds me of firelight on a cool night. What about this one?” She points to a purplish flower with white streaks.
“Hmm. This one is cozy and slightly sweet.” It smells remarkably like Pippa.
“It’s the plum rose.”
She continues walking along the path, stopping every once in a while to smell the flowers.
A memory floats to the surface. “My grandfather used to always say, ‘Life is better when you stop and smell the roses.’”
“I agree.” She smiles.
“Cap, my grandfather, had a saying for every penny in his purse—that was another one of them. He had one about boys who did stupid things, too. But he didn’t have one about sponges.”
Pippa straightens from where she’d leaned over to smell a rose. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t have a saying about that either, but I do have something to say. Something important and a long time coming.”
Even though we’re stationary, Pippa wavers on the well-worn pebble stone path as though she wants to escape.
“Senior year. Springtime. Dining hall. You were strolling by with your tray.”
Her expression tightens with the kind of nervousness that sometimes zips through me. “Chase, I was distracted.”
I nod. “You tripped.”
“And shot a miniature cup of salad dressing at you.”
“Accidents happen. Then what?”
“You helped me up.”
“I asked you to sit down with me.”
She gazes across the meadow behind the manor.
“Please don’t think about making a run for it. One, I don’t want you to turn an ankle. Two, I’m not above tackling you. Three, I want you to hear this.”
“You mean you want me to relive the humiliation and mockery of senior year?”
I gently pinch her chin and adjust her to face me. “I think you’ve misunderstood something that happened that day. I want you to look into my eyes so you really, truly understand that I never meant to embarrass you or hurt you.”
She droops like a wilting flower in need of water and sunlight.
“I want to make an apology. I’m sorry, Pippa.”
“You don’t need to—”
“I do.”
“Chase, it’s fine.” She continues walking like it’s no big deal, but it was. It would be if it had happened to one of my sisters. For once, I can understand where Freddie was coming from.
“Please listen to what else I have to say.” I pluck a vibrant pink flower from a nearby blossom and hold it under Pippa’s nose.
Her eyes dip as she inhales. “Peony. One of my favorites.”
“I’m sorry I ruined my opportunity to find out what color dress you were wearing to prom so I could give you a rose that matched.”
From behind her glasses, Pippa’s eyes widen with shock.