Chapter 5
CATELINE
After a meeting with Everly, one of my new coaches, who I feel confident will do great after she gets over the preshow jitters, Pippa joins us in my office.
I expect her to be refreshed from some time off and ready to get back to work, but she was late and wears glasses today, which is unusual. But she settles in like a professional.
“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,” Pippa says.
Everly sits up straighter, as if preparing herself for the task.
“We’ll have our hands full, that’s for sure.” I pass them their introduction packets because it’s showtime.
Everly gazes at hers and once more, I notice the ring glinting on her finger. Her expression washes with sadness, then just as quickly disappears.
But there’s no time for thoughtful reflection. I have to rally the troops if we’re going to survive these new students who are sure to be arrogant, bad-boy, playboys. I reviewed their case files and it’s not pretty.
My jaw already clenched, I say, “Ladies, I’ve heard the term insta-love, but I never experienced insta-hate.”
“Never?” Pippa asks with surprise and gets us sidetracked with a story about a ghastly-sounding woman dressed up in designer clothes and a sugary sweet smile that was sour and rotten on the inside.
I take a deep, fortifying breath and go further off track because Pippa always smells good, reminding me of the lavender fields back home.
I snap my head back into focus. “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.” Pippa shakes her head sharply.
“No, ma’am, madam, er, should we call you Miss Berghier, Cateline, or—?” Everly asks, as if suddenly nervous.
I straighten the papers on my desk. “You can call me Cate.”
“Does anyone call you Cat?” Pippa asks.
“Just my enemies.” My one and only enemy is Gaston, my ex, but not even he dared call me that.
After wishing Pippa and Everly good luck, I go about my daily duties, fortifying the manor for the arrival of the Boston Bruisers, and by fortifying, I mean warning everyone to watch their backs and watch out for backsides.
The moon-gate stunt is not amusing.
I spend the afternoon doing paperwork and preparing lesson plans and a week-long itinerary for each of the coaches and their clients.
They’re like boys in need of reform, but it’s our job to transform them into dignified gentlemen.
In the old days, learning the art of chivalry and having good manners was a given.
Now, people simply accept a lower standard. Bargain basement-level stuff.
Not me, and apparently not their commissioner. Then again, he was rather rude on the phone.
Arthur quietly slips two pieces of mail into the basket by my office door.
“Thank you, Mr. Fitzgerald.”
“You’re quite welcome, mon cher.”
Arthur is as proper as they come and is like a grandfather to me. Although he isn’t French, he uses that little term of endearment, my dear, to indicate that, although he’d like to stay and chat, duty calls. I know the feeling, yet I appreciate him even more for everything he does around here.
I retrieve the mail. One of the envelopes bears the same return address as the one that poked me in the side. My visa is a matter that I’ll attend to, but not now.
Believe it or not, I’d rather deal with the manor’s overdue bill notices and our new cavemen.
I spend the evening trying to find ways to cut costs around here. Even though we’ll receive a sum for the four new students, that won’t come close to digging us out of the red.
And what a deep hole it is.
The next morning, my hair is pinned in its usual bun and my shoes are polished. Mercifully, I’m back on schedule. However, my new student, Connor Wolfe, is late. Typical.
On the way to my office to find out if he’s stranded on the side of the road or took a detour and got into more trouble, I meet Maggie, Giselle’s friend.
She’s from the US, like Everly and as bright and bubbly as a can of soda pop.
Even if a little disheveled and damp, she’s a breath of fresh air, eager, and friendly.
I quickly discern she had a close encounter with Declan, her pupil. My eye twitches slightly, and not because of emotion this time. No, it’s the tug of stress. Without time for proper training, I can only hope we can corral these guys into gentlemen rather than ball-playing barbarians.
I tell Maggie, “It’s our mission to make celebrities, prominent figures, and even football players classy again.
There was a time, not long ago, when people would get dressed up for dinner, board an airplane, or just to take a trip to the post office.
There, they’d hold the door open, greet strangers, and use proper manners.
Now, we have a bunch of zombies, hobbling around the world with crumbs in their beards, sitting while a pregnant or elderly woman stands on the bus, and ignoring social graces. ”
“It’s unacceptable,” Maggie says in a scandalized tone.
I like her already, even if she seems a little nervous during our conversation, especially when she talks about her client. If the fact that she’s all wet is any indication, he got her good.
Tapping my chin as I try to figure out what happened, I say, “Let me guess, a bucket of water over the door? Water pistols?”
Her nod is sheepish. I tell her to report to me if his behavior worsens, just as the grandfather clock chimes. So much for staying on schedule.
Before I excuse myself, I tell her that on the commissioner’s orders, we’re preparing the team members for The First Annual Boston Bruisers Charity Ball.
“We’ll get these boys out of their sweats and into three-piece tuxes.
” At that notion, I’m suddenly warm all over.
“Have you ever seen a man of stature in a tuxedo? It’s a sight to behold. ”
“I know—I can imagine,” Maggie replies as if catching herself from saying more.
Giving my head a little shake because I will not be envisioning anyone in a tuxedo anytime soon, I add, “That said, personal interactions with pupils are not tolerated and result in immediate termination.”
With a nod, I bid her adieu and brace myself for these jokesters, then hurry to my office to find out why Connor is delayed.
The driver who’d met him at the airport doesn’t answer. I check emails and hope he didn’t get lost in transit or is gallivanting around the village and mooning passersby. Can you imagine? Actually, don’t. The poor city of Boston already saw that sight. From what I’ve gathered, it wasn’t pretty.
I stand at the broad window overlooking the town and the city beyond.
Technically, Blancbourg is in a little village on the outskirts of Intherness, the capital of Concordia.
Intherness is a city, but I’ve been to plenty of cities and this one has an old-world feel with quaint buildings along with modern structures.
The royal castle in the distance gives it a fairy-tale feel.
This village is straight out of a storybook.
The manor itself is modeled after a famous castle in the Bavarian Alps.
Concordia is relatively small compared to most nations, but has everything—the sea, mountains, lakes, rivers, and a vast wilderness to the north.
I rarely think about life beyond the borders because I’m perfectly content here, but the new piece of mail about my visa, and what it would mean to leave, flickers and then fades when the phone rings, startling me.
Arthur’s voice is low when he says, “I’m pleased to report the plumbing has been repaired. Slightly less so to inform you that a rather large man with a shaggy beard and a mouth like an ox is prowling the halls looking for you.”
Sounds like a real beast.
Arthur hesitates, then adds, “Oh, and Miss Berghier, my apologies for bringing this up now, but you asked me to remind you about my request for the day off next week. You said you needed to check the calendar.”
I’d forgotten that Arthur has to bring his wife to the hospital for a procedure and requested time off for that and to look after her as she recovers.
“My apologies.” I glance at the calendar on my desk.
“Yes, you certainly can. I should’ve told you yes right away.
Family first.” At the time, I’d been trying to balance the schedule and regret not telling him that, of course, he could have the time off.
“Please tell my new client that I’ll be right out. ”
Mr. Wolfe demonstrated that he doesn’t respect my time, so he can wait while I study the calendar and try to cobble together a solution for who can cover for Arthur while he’s gone.
The school is short-staffed and Regina Harrow, the bursar responsible for the school’s budget, informed the Board of Regents that we’re operating at a deficit. We’re already on a shoestring and after the most recent meeting, there’s no more liquid to squeeze out of the sponge.
I already had to let go of my assistant, Gemma Nelson, because of funding.
But before that, she and I had been devising a plan to create an auxiliary online school of etiquette affiliated with Blancbourg to generate more revenue.
When we’d presented it to the Board of Regents, Regina had been the only one to turn it down, leaving the proposal dead in the water.
Maybe because the Boston Bruisers are high-profile sports stars, if we produce a positive outcome from the Blancbourg program, perhaps more athletes, celebrities, and other businesses will use our services.
Unable to think of a solution to the school’s financial woes, I stride down the hall to finally meet Connor Wolfe.
Outside the door, my pulse races and I draw a deep inhale. Standing outside the threshold, I catch my breath and collect myself. Pushing away the stress, I tell my heart to calm down.
When I enter, a man with a shock of wild, long brown hair, tan skin, and who is at least three times my size, sits in the chair with his feet kicked up on the table while scrolling his phone. He doesn’t glance up.
My heart resumes its rapid pace, as if cautioning me against a dangerous animal, a beast of a man.
I step fully into the room, but he still doesn’t acknowledge me.
Rounding the table, I glimpse over his shoulder to see that he’s looking at images of himself on social media. His handle is @ChicksDigWolves. He then taps the screen and checks out content under #BruiserButt.
He lets out a low, lupine laugh—probably at a comment someone left. It’s the kind of sound that would send shivers across my skin if I were in the woods. There are plenty of wolves in the forests of Concordia.
I clear my throat to get his attention.
He doesn’t flinch or look in my direction.
I reach over his massive, broad, muscled shoulder and pluck the phone from his hand. Our skin brushes, sending a flame of warning through me.
He knocks his feet from the table and spins around to face me. Brown eyes that are almost copper, a perfectly proportioned nose, and the smuggest set of lips I’ve ever seen flash a wolfish expression that isn’t quite a smile.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think my heart skipped a beat.