Chapter 8 Cateline
CATELINE
Working with Connor is going to be like herding cats, only he’s a wild dog, a wolf if there ever was one. I have my work cut out for me.
“Shall we begin the interview?” I ask.
“This isn’t a job.”
“Have you ever had one of those?” The snarky little question pops out of my mouth before I have a chance to stop it.
My life is a finely tuned balance, like moving across the floor in pointe shoes.
I can’t let the likes of Connor Wolfe throw me off or cause me to stumble.
I won’t let him see a ripple of frustration.
I’ll carry this off with the poise and grace with which I was trained.
He barks a laugh. “I’ve had many jobs.”
“Given your arrogance, cockiness, and rudeness, I find it hard to believe you’re employable.”
“I didn’t say I kept the jobs.”
“Figures.” A furrow tries to crease my brow, but I resist it.
He leans back and folds his arms across his chest. “I didn’t say I was fired either. Rather, I made myself an asset, worked my way up, and then moved on to something bigger and better.”
“Sounds like tenacity.”
“I have it in spades.”
“I don’t doubt that. To take a beating on the field and keep going back for more...”
“I give the beatings, babe.” He speaks with the confidence of ten men.
“Well, there will be none of that here.” He doesn’t intimidate me, but I trip over the word intimidate all the same.
He talks a big game about women, but I wonder if he actually dates.
If he’s the kind of guy looking for a life partner.
Not that I should care. It’s none of my business, but I need to get into his head to best figure out how to approach our lessons.
With an annoyed little harrumph, at myself for such frivolous thoughts, and at him for being so difficult, I open his file and the interview questions. “Date of birth?”
“April fifteenth.”
I tuck my chin. “When is your actual birthday, Mr. Wolfe?”
“I just told you.”
I try not to laugh because he’s obviously messing with me.
“There’s nothing funny about Tax Day. As I said, I come to collect.” He chuckles low.
I continue to resist the furrow trying to dig into my brow. “That’s your real birthday?”
He pulls out his license and slides it across the table. Sure enough, he’s telling the truth.
“I’m surprised you know about Tax Day, given we’re not in the US.”
“I don’t. That’s my birthday too,” I say plainly.
His lip curls with a smile and he points his finger at me. “Ha! You got me. There’s no way we share a birthday.”
“Well, we do. Moving on. You’re from North Carolina?”
Tucking his license away, he nods. If I’m not mistaken, a shadow crosses his features.
“That explains the southern accent.”
“Appalachian accent,” he corrects. Then mutters, “Which I thought was dead and buried deep in those mountains.”
“Perhaps it comes out when you’re under stress?” Like how my eye twitches? That’s something I do my best to ignore, much like the way he looks at my lips when I speak.
“Or when I get ticked off,” he mutters, as though wanting to have the last word. Noted.
“Brown eyes, brown hair, six feet—?” But if I were painting a picture, it would be tan skin, copper eyes, and hair the color of a chocolate hazelnut spread. And let’s not forget well-built and with a swagger that can take over a room, bringing less sensible women to their knees.
“Six,” he says, drawing me from my thoughts.
“Six what?” I ask.
His eyes narrow like we’ve switched roles and he’s concerned that I’m the one not paying attention. “I’m six foot six.”
“And will fill in a tuxedo nicely.”
Connor does a double-take. “What was that?”
That’s a very good question. One, I will not answer.
I’m in charge here, except apparently over my thoughts and the nonsense that comes out of my mouth.
Brushing past that blunder, I jump into the rest of the interview, asking him numerous questions, mostly about his education, career, and lifestyle.
The purpose isn’t only to get to know him, but to determine his personality type as well.
My conclusion is swift. Connor Wolfe is an alpha male, through and through.
I set down my leather folder on the table between us, preparing to outline what to expect when he reads my title embossed in gold across the front. Or tries to.
“Cat Burger. Headmistress. Ew. That sounds gross.”
“Juvenile, to be expected.”
He drops his palms onto the table. Fortunately, I don’t startle. I trained myself to remain calm during Gaston’s mercurial moods.
“We’ve been at this for what? An hour. It’s taken everything in me not to ask what your problem is,” Connor asks.
I make a show of jotting that down in my notebook. “Demonstrates ability to exercise restraint.” Then I level him with my gaze. “For the next thirty days, you’re my problem, Mr. Wolfe.”
“I resent that, thank you very much.”
“Ah, I see you do know that phrase. In French, it’s merci beaucoup.”
“So you speak French and your birthday is April fifteenth. I’d say you’re older than me by a couple of years.”
“Younger by one year, but we will be together for thirty days.”
“And that’s a month too long.”
“I regret that you feel that way. Instead, you could think of this as a wonderful learning opportunity.”
“Listen, I’m used to women flirting with me and being more than willing to have a good time.”
“When we are done here, you can have all the good times you want.”
His lips ripple with amusement. “Is that a promise?”
It takes me a moment to realize what he did there and I fight the pink that threatens to shade my cheeks. Instead, I glower. A good, solid glower.
His lips quirk as if he knows exactly the effect he had on me.
Lengthening my spine and enunciating, I say, “By the way, my name is not Cat Burger. It’s Cateline Berghier.”
“Sounds fancy when you say it. Say something else in French.”
He’s really trying to get under my skin. The furrow in my brow digs in and won’t let go.
The moment stretches longer than is comfortable. If I’m not mistaken, once more, we’ve entered a staring contest. His eyes are impossibly bright around the iris. They are eyes that could mesmerize a weaker woman.
In a voice just above a whisper, I say, “I’m a professional, Mr. Wolfe. You can play all the games you want. I will not fold.”
When he replies, his voice is a growl. “I’ve been conditioning for years. As far back as I can remember. My singular purpose was to endure. That’s what makes me so good at football. I am persistent. Relentless.” His eyes swim in mine as he punctuates each word.
I won’t let myself go under the surface of their copper hue or his intoxicating scent, peppered with aftershave and clean cotton that’s been in the sun.
“I can out-lift, out-press, and out-run any of the other guys—even Grey, who is the most focused on the field. He can catch a pass with his eyes closed—it’s like he and the ball are one.
Chase, the QB, is a faster runner, but only for relatively short sprints.
Declan has the agility of a mountain cat.
He’s big, strong, and can turn on a dime.
As for me, my strength is endurance. You’d do well not to forget it. ”
“In that case, it will serve you well during the next thirty days.”
“In that case, I’m looking forward to showing you what I’m made of.”
If I were a ceramic ballerina, I’d have lost my balance and cracked because I blink, losing the contest.
Remembering that I’m in charge, I ask, “What position do you play, Mr. Wolfe?”
“Safety.”
Unfamiliar with the term, and feeling anything but safe in his presence with the way those wolf-like eyes follow me, I lift my eyebrow. “Please, explain that to me.”
He leans his forearms on the table and folds his hands like he could talk about football all day. Perhaps that will be my strategy. “I run the defense and lead the team in tackles. In other words, no one gets by me.”
“Interesting.”
“Are you a football fan? Usually, women are more interested in the players than the game.”
“A fan? Not in the slightest.”
“How honest of you.”
“Always. Dishonesty is for weak minds.”
“What about white lies?”
“There’s a difference between being insulting and being straightforward.”
“Seems like a fine line.”
“The finest.” I pinch my fingers together. “But when done properly and with grace, the truth is the kindest gift you can offer someone. It frees them from enslavement to falsehoods.”
The space between his eyebrows pinches like he needs to think about that concept. Not to worry, I will be demonstrating it throughout our time together.
My gaze slides across him, not sure where to pause—his penetrating eyes, quizzical lips, the dreadfully long hair, or beastly beard?
“Like what you see?” he asks.
I hardly stifle a huff. “No, but I invite you to change my mind.”
“It would be my pleasure. By the way, will I still be able to do my workouts while I’m here?” he asks.
At that, my gaze lands on his massive arm muscles, prominently displayed in his fitted black T-shirt. They’re chiseled and rock-hard. I press my lips together to keep my mouth from betraying me.
Yes, a man of his stature will look mighty fine in a tuxedo.
Connor snaps his fingers. “Ah ha. Did I just discover your kryptonite?”
I almost gasp. “My what?”
He points like he caught a bandit. “You know, Superman, kryptonite. Yours is man muscle. You were admiring me.”
I cannot tell a lie, so I remain quiet enough to practically hear the gears turning in Connor’s mind. He’s going to maximize his assets and use them against me.
“To answer your question, yes, you will still conduct your workouts.” My voice a little husky, I clear my throat. “Typically, we will have lessons in the morning and workouts later in the afternoon. Coach Hammer arranged for the premier trainer in the country to meet with you.”
“I expect you’ll be observing my workouts and taking notes, professor?” Dragging his tongue across his teeth, he wears that wolfish grin again.
I may not be familiar with Superman, but I am no Little Red Riding Hood and will not let myself be fooled by this Big Bad Wolf.