Chapter 10 Cateline
CATELINE
Had I waited long enough to see Connor’s face before I strode down the hall on the third floor, I’m afraid of what I would have seen.
Consternation?
Confusion?
Flame?
Fury?
I have a case of whiplash, and no doubt he does too.
Never before has someone gotten under my skin so completely.
Guys like him are all swagger and no substance.
Gaston was like that. Only, I realized that when it was almost too late.
I thought I knew him until he revealed his true motives—using me to get to the top while cavorting with other women.
Yet, he tried to hold claim over me, to conquer me.
As for Connor, not only does he get under my skin, but he sets it on fire.
See? Flame, fury.
But it’s confusing too, because I’ve coached dozens of wayward, bad-boy celebrities, and never have I experienced this level of consternation, which leads me to confusion.
Also, I’d like to make it public record that he has a man bun. I wear a bun. “There is only enough room in this manor for one bun, and it’s mine,” I hiss.
I slap my hand over my mouth as Pippa rounds the corner. Her brow ripples before she plasters on a friendly smile.
“Everything okay?” Before I can come up with an answer, she all but begs me to trade clients. Although Pippa is competent, I wouldn’t pawn off Connor “the Wolf” on her. I’m not cruel.
“Okay, I understand.” She sounds a little plastic, but it’s her first day with what’s surely an unruly and pompous football player, so there is bound to be an adjustment period for all of us.
“Glad to hear it. If you excuse me, I have—” I point vaguely toward the stairs. I’m so flustered, I don’t know what I have to do right now, other than my job.
Focus, Cateline.
I pound down the steps like a peevish teenager. I’m certain that, like Gaston, Connor sees me as little more than a good time, someone to conquer, which means he’s little more than a superficial jerk.
No matter whether the soft resonance of his Appalachian accent is charming or that his eyes are captivating—objectively speaking, of course. Those aren’t details from the interview that will help me better frame the training for the next thirty days.
And yet, I paid attention to them.
Letting out a little groan of frustration, I adjust my bun and march through the foyer.
If I were looking for a guy, which definitely is not the case, I’d want someone with depth, substance, and who takes me seriously.
But seriously, I’m not looking.
A pointy little thought pokes me in the ribs, reminding me that although I’m not looking, I did look...at Connor and his muscles.
I feel like growling, but that only reminds me of him.
As I pass Arthur in the hall on the way to my office, he gives a cordial little bow. “Thank you again for the time off, Miss Berghier.” He lifts his chin toward the administrative offices. “Good luck.”
That gesture and comment could only mean one thing. Regina has more bad news.
Arthur somehow knows everything that goes on at Blancbourg ahead of everyone else. It’s as though he has a sixth sense or has been around long enough—since the former king and queen of Concordia attended as students—to have seen every manner of triumph and calamity befall this place.
Although I headed up the opening of the school’s doors to the world, in recent years, our numbers and revenue have gradually declined, no matter how much money the Board of Regents approves for advertising. The funds evaporate more quickly than they offer a return.
And most recently, they seemed to have fallen precipitously off a cliff. One that I feel like I’m looking over. It’s a long way down, my thoughts echo.
Bracing myself before knocking on Regina’s office door, I draw a deep breath. It’s an old habit from my days as a ballerina. At the curtain call, on an inhale, I’d leave everything that was going on in my personal life behind, so I could be fully present to whatever would come on the other side.
And because dancing is quite the workout and requires strong lungs—though I suppose a guy like Connor would disagree and say it’s for sissies or something—I take a second breath.
Given Arthur’s comment, I’ll probably need all the help I can get.
Regina doesn’t answer. Somewhat relieved, I pad down the hall to my office. When I open the door, ready to flip on the light, I hear shuffling. I press the switch to find Regina in a squatting position, as if she were sitting down or getting up from the chair at my desk.
We both remain quiet in alarmed or polite shock.
There is no reason to lock the doors since Concordia is so safe, but the faint tint to Regina’s cheeks suggests she’s been caught.
But at what?
I don’t have anything to hide. Maybe she’s curious about the boisterous football players. There is no escaping the fact that they’re all good-looking, though Regina is at least twenty years my senior and married.
By most accounts, the position of headmistress should have gone to her, but the Board selected me from the pool of candidates.
By the grave look on Regina’s face, one I know all too well, we might soon have to close the doors to the school completely.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Harrow.”
“Good afternoon,” Regina says.
She never bothers to try to pronounce my last name. The employees of Blancbourg follow all manner of polite protocol, practicing what we teach. Although, somehow, Regina thinks it’s okay to come into my office without an invitation.
“Looking for something?” I gesture to the files and papers on my desk.
Her cameo brooch glints. “Oh, um, yes. Just the balance sheet from last quarter.”
“Why would it be in my files and not yours? Don’t tell me your computer quit. We can’t afford a new one.”
“I’m well aware,” she says shrewdly, as if it’s my fault. “No, but, um, I wanted to make sure the numbers match.”
“Why wouldn’t they? You’re the one who prepares the documents.”
“Right. But when things look this dismal, it’s best to double-check.”
I let it slide because I have bigger problems. Much bigger ones that are about six foot six and consist of over two hundred pounds of pure muscle. Connor is massive—with an ego to match.
Why am I thinking about him again?
He’s also stubborn, has unruly hair, and a beard that probably houses chipmunks. They’re cute. Never mind. Not chipmunks. More like rodents. Grubby-handed little rats.
“What may I help you with today, Mrs. Harrow?” My gaze flits to Regina’s hand when the sunlight catches the stones on her rings. Given her salary, she must’ve recently inherited some family jewels.
Next to her hand is a photograph of Connor Wolfe on the desk, one of several articles I gathered to prepare for the football players’ arrival.
“How are things going with your new client?”
“As expected,” I answer, unable to ignore the photo.
In it, Connor is clean-shaven, being profiled for a wolf sanctuary that he operates.
From what I’ve learned, each of the players on the team has a charity, following in the footsteps of Rylen Murphy—Boston Bruiser, billionaire, and recently married to his high school sweetheart.
The four guys here at Blancbourg probably harbor guilt for how bad they are and make themselves feel better by donating money to a good cause. No doubt, vanity virtue at its finest.
Regina’s eyes follow my gaze and she raises an eyebrow. “Some muscles, huh?”
“No mistaking those,” I say vaguely. Or the killer smile that verges toward looking perpetually smug, like he has all the confidence in the world.
I cannot lie or deny that Connor is an incredibly handsome man if he’d clean himself up. Fortunately, I met the rough and rugged version—certainly not a match for me.
He’s a flirt and wants to manipulate me, so, like with the charity situation, he can feel better about himself.
I stuff the photos inside the folder, close it, and will my cheeks not to flush.
Regina clears her throat. “I think we should review the budget. My projections suggest we’re going to go over this quarter again.”
“But we recently received payment for the new clients.”
She waves her hand. “That money is already earmarked for overdue bills.”
“This information should’ve been presented to the board earlier when we had the chance. Do you remember, I suggested we review the budget monthly rather than quarterly when we started backsliding into the red?”
“I am already doing the work of several people and generating those reports in addition to my load would be impossible.”
“We’re all managing as best we can, considering the circumstances. What do you recommend?”
Regina’s answer is always the same. Cut costs. We’re bottoming out at the bare minimum to keep the sizable manor itself going, not to mention it functioning as a school. “I think the landscaping company needs to be let go...or Arthur.”
“No.” My tone is firm.
The full-time gardener had been released and we hired a landscape firm to tend the grounds every other week—the once beautiful gardens are becoming a sad sight, indeed.
“The landscaping company has other accounts, but Arthur only has one job, his wife is ill, and he’s been loyal to the school for longer than I’ve been alive.
If more money continues to move out rather than in, it’ll be the landscapers, the cook, the housekeepers, and then the additional teachers.
Arthur stays with us until the end.” My tone is unyielding.
“I understand you’re sentimental, but that has no room in running a business.” Regina simpers a smile.
A deep furrow slices my brow. I’m not sentimental at all, except once a year, which happened to be the other day. I’m intentional about keeping emotions separate from my professional life—not that I let myself experience many emotions much at all.
“I beg your pardon,” I say as Regina’s words dig in. “I’m not sentimental. I am compassionate.”
I won’t get into details with Regina, but Arthur Fitzgerald relies on the healthcare provided through his job to help with his wife’s ailments. To lay him off right now would be a hardship.
Regina crosses her arms and cocks her hip.
“We need an additional thirty-four thousand dollars to cover operating costs, and I don’t see where else we can get it.
The landscape service runs fifteen annually, leaving us with nineteen remaining to cover if we remove it from the budget.
If we let Arthur go and no longer have to pay his salary, we’d have a surplus. ”
My face is made of stone, unshakable. To some, that dollar amount might not sound like much, but in the last several years, since Regina took over as bursar from her previous role as junior headmistress when the position was eliminated, the school has had to count every cent.
“I’m sure our guests can figure out how to open doors by themselves and—” Regina starts in, slighting Arthur’s importance to the operation at Blancbourg.
I hold my hand up in the universal sign for stop. I’ve heard enough. “When do you need these additional funds by?”
“We have thirty days. That’s also when we have our next meeting with the Board of Regents. I requested a meeting because things cannot continue in this fashion.” Regina cuts her eyes in my direction, challenging me.
“I will come up with the amounts by then.”
“You mean you’ll try. Believe me, Cateline, I’ve tried. The money isn’t there.” Regina slides some documents across the desk.
I skim them. “Please email me the spreadsheets, account information, and anything else relevant to the budget.”
“Are you suggesting that I missed something? That I don’t know how to do my job? Might I remind you that I’ve been working at Blancbourg for seventeen years? I know everything there is to know about every aspect of every job. You’ve only been—”
“I’ve been here for almost eight years, less than half your time, as you’re so kind as to remind me with frequency. I, too, am familiar with the functioning of this school. I aim to keep it open so long as I am employed as headmistress.”
The financial straits are real, but given that we pour the majority of our budget into advertising, I find it hard to believe our enrollment would be diving down so deeply.
Regina fingers her brooch. “Of course. I wasn’t suggesting we close Blancbourg, but—”
“What were you suggesting?”
“I already said. We need to eliminate personnel.”
I hold the door open. “Thank you for alerting me to this issue.”
Regina stumps down the hall.
I call, “Oh, and Mrs. Harrow, considering you’re well versed in the many roles and positions at Blancbourg, then you’ll understand that Arthur is indispensable.”
If the school had a mascot, it would be him. He attends to the guests’ needs, makes them feel comfortable, and is always cheerful. All of that, on top of countless behind-the-scenes duties. If anything, he’ll be the last man standing.
I set the papers aside. I’ll take the time to look at the budget later and get to the bottom of the lack of funds, where the money is going, and why it seems like there is never enough.
First, I have to deal with our current roster of clients since, for better or worse, they’re the current moneymakers. I have to be sure they succeed, even if it means putting up with Connor Wolfe and his man muscles.