Chapter 9 Connor
CONNOR
Ihalf expect Cateline—the way she said it made it sound like a combination of Catelyn and Catherine—to be weak in the knees when she rises from the chair in the meeting room.
Nope. She’s rock solid on a pair of toned legs. I get a little peek when the slit that runs up the back of her skirt to just above her knees shifts as she moves.
Definitely dancer legs. Strong. Lean. Beautiful.
If her reaction to my muscles is any indication, she sees the same in me. Though I’m big and brawny. One woman said my arms are like pythons. I test a flex to see if Cateline reacts.
Her throat bobs in her delicate neck when she swallows. “Mr. Wolfe, I will give you a tour of the school. If you’d please follow me.”
At the door, she passes me my phone. I turn it on and a series of dings, beeps, and notifications erupt in an obnoxious symphony of digital sound.
She spins around with lightning-fast reflexes. I half expect her to bear a set of sharp claws. Cat indeed. My ears heat as I await her admonishment.
“I expect not to hear that again.”
Stuffing it in my pocket, I say, “Yes, ma’am.”
We enter the hallway, and she formally introduces me to the Blancbourg Academy d’Etiquette in Concordia at Blancbourg Manor, giving me a brief historical overview.
“It had once served the royals of the country, then was opened as a private finishing school only available to the nation’s citizens before opening its doors to the global population less than ten years ago.”
While she speaks, I get lost in how her accent caresses the words and highlights the passion behind them. This place means something to her and a moment too late, I realize I’m lost in the hallway, having no idea where we are in relation to the meeting room.
“Are you leading me to a dungeon?”
“No, that’s beneath the west wing,” she says without a hint of irony.
I stiffen, then catch her subtle smile. There she goes again, saying something funny that’s at odds with her serious character.
“We were looking to expand our services, but have since had to consolidate, so it is only your team members and their respective coaches that are here at present—” She hesitates as if wanting to detour from that part of the conversation.
I also realize that even though this is a tour of the place where I’ll be living for the next while, she’s also probably evaluating me. Am I holding open doors? Allowing her to enter rooms first?
She seems like the kind of woman to notice everything, including my slight accent.
I wasn’t joking, I thought it was among the many things I left behind when Appalachia spat me out.
Apparently, I’m drawing out my OO’s and adding R’s where they don’t belong.
I had better get that under control. Don’t get me wrong, I love those smoky blue mountains, but not the memories they hold.
Pulling me from my thoughts, Cateline continues, “Here, we offer image consulting, public relations, and social skills commonly known as etiquette. This will include digital etiquette, dining etiquette, social skills, modern manners, and more.”
My phone pings as if on cue.
“Please silence your device, Mr. Wolfe. When in the company of others, it is important to offer your full attention. You do not need the distraction of your latest like, follow, or update. In this program, I will teach you effective communication, leadership, and—” She pauses in the hallway and her eyes rake over me from head to toe. “Appearance. It matters.”
I’m wearing jeans and a black T-shirt. I left my blue Boston Bruisers hoodie with my luggage. Typical day-off gear.
Holding my hands aloft, I say, “I thought you liked what you saw.”
She blinks, as if forcing herself not to glance at my arms, my chest, or any of my muscles.
She turns on her heel and we reach the end of a hall with doors on either side for various meeting rooms and classrooms. She calls them salons and parlors, along with an actual salon for grooming.
I tug my long hair into a bun. Arguably, it looks like an eagle landed on my head and built a nest instead of the smooth bun she wears. Women typically praise my hair, but I’ve never been with one who also has a bun.
Cateline pauses outside the gym, outfitted with all the latest equipment and regular free weights on the far wall.
Arms crossed and stance wide, I survey the space. “This will suffice.”
“We also have a pool, recreation room, ballroom, and of course, the dining room. We will be meeting promptly at six p.m. this evening.”
“Like a date?”
From the back, her shoulders rise and fall on an exhale, as if disappointed or exasperated. I can’t tell. She turns around and says, “No, Mr. Wolfe, like a lesson. Dating between coaches and students is strictly prohibited. Moreover, I didn’t think you were the type to date. Rather, to conquer.”
“You know nothing of my conquests.”
“Nor will I. Moving on.” She strides down the hall.
The décor consists of polished antiques, wood, brass, and glass.
It’s like a museum with displays and paintings that the patrons aren’t allowed to touch.
Cateline included. Except there aren’t any signs or velvet ropes to keep people from the valuables.
I suppose, since this is a school of etiquette, everyone should know better.
I’m not sure I do.
She climbs a set of stairs, putting her perfectly firm calf muscles on display. The desire to touch the goods grows in me. At the top, she stops in front of a window and gazes at a panorama of the city, sea, and mountains.
“It’s beautiful,” I murmur.
She turns to me as if grateful I’m not a lost cause and appreciates the vista.
My thoughts skip from the scenery to Cateline as the natural light highlights her features. A charge vibrates under my skin—and it isn’t from my phone. I turned it off as instructed. It’s caused by my new teacher.
Ordinarily, I hardly bother to ask a woman her name. I prefer to call them babe, sweetheart, whatever—less of a chance to make a mistake or mix them up. But I want to hear her say it again so I can get it right.
However, a different question comes out of my mouth. “Why will I need all of these lessons?”
“Etiquette aims to make people feel comfortable in one’s presence, to demonstrate the ability to be relied upon, and to know how to conduct oneself in any given situation. It’s about respect. Having integrity in all affairs, private and public, and in turn, demonstrating dignity.”
“I’m not the kind of guy who goes to high tea very often.” In fact, I’m a long way from my humble beginnings in the backwoods of North Carolina.
Had she been any other woman I’ve ever met, that would’ve earned me a giggle. Instead, she looks me up and down. Never have I felt so exposed—like she knows the truth of who I am.
I shift from foot to foot, wondering what would happen if I weren’t the guy who earned the nickname, Wolf, at least when it comes to women.
“That is clear, Mr. Wolfe. But when a person knows how to handle themselves with comportment at high tea, at professional engagements, in front of peers and everyone else along the spectrum, it translates to all areas of their lives. They become stronger, they become a positive influence, a leader. You said you play safety, yes?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You do it all, covering passes and opponents. You are a line of defense, so the other players can do their job. When I do my job, you will be better able to do your job.”
“You mean you can teach me to prevent an opposing player from scoring a touchdown?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes. But not necessarily on the field. Also, in life. Ego aside and humility in its place, you will have greater clarity and knowledge of who you are by the time we are done. That’s sure to improve your game.”
“I’m a star player for the greatest team in the football league’s history. Learning how to drink tea properly isn’t going to change that.”
“What about endorsements, Mr. Wolfe?”
“I have a few.”
“How long is the average career of a football player?” she asks.
“Three years if they get injured. Eight if they stay in good shape. Though Grey is defying all the odds. He’s in his forties.”
“You?” Her question is as sharp as a knife.
“For as long as I can keep myself on the field.”
“What’s your plan after that?”
It’s like she tossed a rock in a lake with my name on it and it starts sinking. I never took the long view. It’s always been about surviving another day.
“Hadn’t really thought through my plan for the future.”
“You’re birthday isn’t far off.” And if I’m not mistaken, she winks as she strides down the hall.
I practically stumble as I follow her like a puppy dog.
When I catch up, she says, “You may be a star on the field now, but someday that currency will be worthless. Have you ever heard the saying, ‘Your first impression is also your last impression’?”
“Do you mean a lasting impression?” I correct, wondering if something was lost in translation.
“No, I mean if you don’t make a good first impression, that will be the one and only you have the opportunity to make. In other words, your first and last impressions are the same because your opportunity, whatever it may be, will end there if you do not make a good impression.”
Nope. She has full mastery over my native tongue. Nothing wrong with her English. Who is this woman and why does she make me think so much?
“If you want a future and some amount of longevity, I recommend cultivating your character now. Create a polished and professional public image, including media, networking, and so on.”
A spike of rebellion shoots through me. “What if I don’t want to?”
“It’s your life.”
I stop myself from flinching. I’ve heard those words before.
My father always told me it was my life.
I could throw it away or throw down and do better.
I pushed myself when all I wanted to shout back was, It is my life and you’re not going to tell me what to do. Yet, here I am anyway, a star player...
The memories shake me and I steady myself on the windowsill.
If Cateline notices, she spares my dignity. Waiting in front of an open door, she gestures for me to enter. “This is where you’ll be staying, Mr. Wolfe.”
“You can call me Wolf.” I have to get my head back in the game. There is something about her, Concordia, or who-knows-what that threatens to shift something inside of me.
“In this setting, I will address you as Mr. Wolfe. Or if you prefer, I can use your given name.”
I muster, summoning all my plays and calling on the alpha inside, the swagger that I effortlessly carry. “I’ve never dated a chick long enough to call me by my first name.”
She snorts. “That’s because you don’t know how to treat a lady.”
“Maybe you could show me.” And I’m back! The flirt. The wolf.
“To be clear, I’m not interested.” She presses her lips into a thin line.
“Maybe I could persuade you.”
Given the strained look across her brow, were she not an etiquette coach, she’d have rolled her eyes or slapped me on the cheek. “No, Mr. Wolfe. I will not be swayed.”
“The name Mr. Wolfe belongs to my father. My friends call me Wolf.”
“My friends call me Cate. You are not my ami.”
There she goes with that French again, rattling me from within. “Amour?”
“Non, ami. It means friend. Amour is something else. Something I don’t imagine you are familiar with.”
With her tossing those words around, I glaze over, enchanted. That slap would come in handy right now.
“Catline Burger,” I say, butchering her name...maybe on purpose, because I can’t let myself go down this enchanting, flower-strewn path.
“Berghier,” she corrects.
“Burger. I could go for one right now, grilled rare, juicy.”
She wrinkles her nose. “I prefer filet mignon avec pommes frites.”
“Sounds fancy.”
“Steak and fries. But Mr. Wolfe, I’m what you call a slow cooker.”
“A Crock-Pot?”
She gets close enough that the slight breeze coming through the open window wafts her floral scent—if a field of lavender were made of diamonds left to sparkle in the sun.
“Yes. I am a slow cooker, a Crock-Pot. I am not a microwave. You don’t cook a burger or a steak in the microwave.”
“Actually, I have. But I don’t recommend it.”
“This life you have, it’s in the microwave. You should slow down. Stop to smell the roses, the lilacs, the lavender.”
“Yes, please.” I gulp.
She lifts her eyebrows.
I internally slap myself to snap myself out of this trance. “So, Cateline Burger, how are we going to survive the next thirty days?”
“Berghier, it means shepherd.”
“Fitting.”
“We are going to survive by using what you said is your strength, endurance.”
“Sounds like a challenge. I’m up for it. We never got around to what I should call you.”
“My name is Cateline Berghier. You can call me Ms. Berghier.”
I’ll never be able to say her last name without making an embarrassing mess of it, so I change tack. “Ms.? I take it you’re single, then.”
“Mademoiselle Berghier,” she confirms.
My smolder escapes. “Since your name is Cateline, how about I call you Kitty Cat, or just Cat?”
Her arms cross in front of her chest. “What do you know about cats, Mr. Wolfe?”
“They don’t get along with dogs.”
“They also scratch.”
And with that, I’ve met my match. But this is far from over. No, it’s just beginning. A long beat passes as this realization sinks deep.
“Well, Cat, wolves bite.” I wink.
If she had a tail, she’d have flicked it, but she doesn’t so much as bat an eyelash.
“You will find the guidebook for rules and expectations while here at Blancbourg on the table by your door.” At that, she sweeps from the room.
I watch as she strides down the hallway, unable to ignore the sway of her hips.
But she’s too serious and out of my league. A first for this wolf.