Chapter 11 Cateline
CATELINE
After a brief check-in with the other teachers and getting status updates on each of their clients, I enter the inner courtyard to take a shortcut to the dining area.
I’m lost in thought about the terrible first impression I got of Connor and how I can put my irritation aside so that he has a favorable outcome.
Connor has the kind of charm, good looks, and entitled swagger that makes it seem like his success was handed to him—he’s on the top American football team in the league. The guy probably has a gold-plated toilet and a bathtub full of diamonds.
Meanwhile, I’ve had to fight hard for my success. Since the school is practically drowning in debt, I worry that I’ve lost my grip. That I’m failing.
A pointy little thought pokes me in the ribs, but before I make sense of it, loud voices with American accents echo from the balcony above the inner courtyard.
I don’t mean to listen, but it’s not like they have a volume button. The football players are all rowdy, raucous, and such...boys. If I were looking for a relationship, which I’m not, I’d want a man. Not someone immature like Connor or his teammates.
The voices filter louder. “We all have lady coaches?” one says.
“Figures the commish would tempt us with forbidden fruit,” another replies.
“Let me remind you of the playbook, guys. The women are off-limits—they’re our coaches,” the first guy says emphatically.
“The only coach I answer to is Hammer.” That’s definitely Connor speaking in his smooth, Appalachian accent.
Figures he’d say something like that.
I soon realize that only three of the guys are in the conversation. One of them must be out somewhere. Leaving the manor isn’t forbidden, but given what brought them here, I worry the missing member of the team is up to no good.
The first guy says, “The commish sent us here. Like it or not, he has more of a say in our careers than Hammer does. So, for the next month, these women are our coaches and nothing more.”
“Emphasis on women, but that’s all the more reason to behave,” the second one says in an even tone. I think it’s Grey, who, out of the group, seems like the voice of reason.
“Hot women.” Again, that’s Connor. He imitates a wolf howling.
I pause by a statue draped in ivy. A full-body flush works its way through me.
There’s no way he’s referring to me. I’m not hideous, but I’m not hot—at least, no one has ever commented on my attractiveness.
As a ballerina, I was complimented on my poise, my weight (that was my mother), and how lovely I looked in costume.
In town, guys don’t pay attention to me—I haven’t dated since leaving France.
The football players’ voices float back to me.
“Not hot women, they’re our coaches,” Grey says in his low rumble of a voice.
Chase must be the other rather than Declan, who has a slight Irish accent. He adds, “Would you date Coach Hammer?
“Are you insane?” Connor asks.
“Remember what Hammer said? If one of us screws up, we’re all out. We abide by the playbook rules. No kissing, no dating, eyes up, hands off,” Grey says.
“Those are all playbook don’ts. What about some dos?” Conner asks.
“Dos, as in I do?” Chase says with a laugh.
A chorus of it bounces off the stone walls of the courtyard.
“Unless you fall in love. Then it’s okay. If she makes you an honest man, then all bets are off.” I like what Grey has to say the most so far.
“Not going to happen. But me-ow, my coach is something. Tightly wound, a stickler for rules, so controlled—”
“Sounds like just the woman to tame the wild in you, Wolf,” Chase says.
“As I said, not going to happen.”
The sound of pushing and shoving—likely the guys teasing each other—tears me from the spot by the statue and I hurry to the dining room.
A few minutes later, Connor enters. At least he isn’t late, but he didn’t change out of his outfit from earlier and into something suitable for dinner. Obviously, he ignored the guidebook for rules and expectations for Blancbourg students.
The echo of his voice in the courtyard filters through my mind as he moves toward the seat opposite me. I will my cheeks not to tint pink. “Good evening, Mr. Wolfe.”
“What’s up?” As he lowers in the chair, his knee bumps against mine. He doesn’t apologize.
I grit my teeth to keep from commenting and to stop the sensation that zings from his point of contact right into my belly.
He takes a big slug of the water at his place setting and it dribbles onto his beard.
Is he some kind of barbarian? Raised in the jungle?
“Let’s try this again.” If nothing else, ballet training taught me patience and the value of repetition and rote.
Seated across from each other at a small table for two, Connor looks up as though alarmed. Either that, or he’s concerned about the neoclassical painting of a general leading a charge into a bloody battle behind my head. I can’t tell.
I instruct him on how to greet me properly.
He sighs as though I asked him to stop playing his video game and empty the trash. “Do I have to? I mean, seriously, can’t we just get on with it? I’m starving. Do you know how many calories a guy like me needs to feed these guns?” He lifts his right arm and flexes.
Do I fan myself at the sight? No, but with clenched fists, I don’t take care to avoid “accidentally” poking the heel of my stiletto into his shoe.
“Ow. I mean, wow. Are all of the coaches like this?”
With a little hit of self-satisfaction at nailing my target, I say, “It probably shouldn’t surprise me, but in all the years of teaching etiquette, I’ve never had anyone so boldly suggest not doing the lessons.
I’ve had lazy students and clients who simply didn’t understand, but you, Mr. Wolfe, are stubborn. ”
“The same could be said about you.”
Brushing off his comment, I say, “I’m here to do my job so no, we will not go through the motions. According to the information I received, you weren’t given a choice, so I suggest you play by my rules or—”
“Or?” he asks, interrupting.
I press my lips together so I don’t lose my cool. “If you’d simply let me finish speaking instead of challenging me like a toddler, I’d remind you of the—” I almost repeat what I overheard in the courtyard about the playbook.
Completely ignoring me, Connor cuts across. “Oh, right. The commish and his rules. Thanks for the reminder. So let me get this straight, I do what you say and we can get this over with?”
“It would be better if you learn and apply the lessons, but yes, that’s about right.”
“So, I have to follow your rules?”
“They’re common rules of etiquette, manners, and deportment. If you read the guidebook in your room, you’d learn about our history and—”
“The rules, huh? What you said earlier about being a Crock-Pot. Let’s just say that I’m a slow learner. It might take me a while to catch on.”
“I understand and am equipped to prioritize multiple learning styles. There are visual learners, those who learn by listening, writing and reading, and of course, kinesthetic.”
“Is that like learning by doing?”
“Yes, it’s a very hands-on approach.”
“Hands on like this?” Connor wraps his big fingers around my hand and plants it on his bicep. Then he flexes. A firm lump rises, pushing against my palm. It sends a spray of flaming arrows through me, piercing all my defenses and fortress walls.
He wears a very self-satisfied grin and I can’t help but imagine his face in the photo without the beard. Then I come to my senses.
I jerk away. “What are you—?”
“As I said, I need to feed these muscles.”
Cheeks burning and beading up with sweat, I turn from side to side as though looking for an exit, an ice cooler, anything to douse the flames inside. Yes, I’m upset that he’d do such a thing, but also because of the way my body reacted.
I smooth my hands down my deep purple dress and then sit in the chair. “On second thought, we’ll employ a hands-off approach. Please, take a seat.”
“Why? You can’t handle my hot man muscles?”
“Who uses the words hot man muscles?” As soon as hot is out of my mouth—a reminder of his comment in the courtyard—my blush deepens.
“Obviously, I do, babe. But because we’re not going to go through the motions, you’d probably enjoy this more if you let down your hair.
You’re too organized, systematic, strict.
..” He trails off, then waggles his finger at me.
“Wait. Why did I get the headmistress and the other guys just got regular chicks?”
He’s a rotten apple, alright. I sharpen my eyebrow like I would a pencil. “We are called teachers or coaches.”
“But were you warned that I’d be the most problematic?” His smirk hints toward pride at the possibility.
“No, Mr. Wolfe. I figured that out myself.”
“Just Wolf,” he corrects.
He leans back as though fighting against sitting up straighter, even though slouching in the upright wooden chair has to be uncomfortable.
“What’s your goal for the next thirty days?” I ask.
“To not ruin my career.” But the dismissive glance and jut of his chin suggest he isn’t going to give up on doing everything in his power to annoy me.
Little does he know, my arsenal for guys like him is well stocked. “That’s a good start.”
However, Connor probably consulted his playbook or whatever to figure out his next moves, because he’s relatively agreeable for the next few minutes while I review dinner manners. “Do you have any questions?”
“Are you single?”
I will my jaw not to drop.
He smirks. “I’m asking for a friend.”
I scoff. “Unlikely.” His meow in the courtyard echoes in my mind. Time to raise the drawbridge and keep Connor out. “If I had to guess, it’s more like you’re trying to see how far you can push me before I snap.”
“Not so. You’re hot, but I have a theory.” As he speaks, his eyes never leave mine, even as he rubs the rim of his water glass with his forefinger.
Somehow, he pokes at embers I didn’t know I had inside. I swallow thickly in hopes of putting out any potential fires.
“What’s your theory?” I instantly regret taking the bait.
“That you’re hot but don’t know it. Haven’t been trained in the fine art of flirting and letting a guy be interested in you.
Maybe I have something to learn from you about being more well-behaved.
However, the same might be said about me.
Perhaps, I can teach you a thing or two. Namely, that you, Kitty Cat, are hot.”
My temperature spikes and his comment confirms that he was talking about me when I overheard him in the courtyard.
However, all he sees is a hot chick. Not a career professional.
Not a teacher or coach or an intelligent woman with hopes and dreams. Well, maybe not that last part.
I’m not sure what those are, because allowing myself to think that way is dangerous and will only end in disappointment. I have to focus on my job.
My heart stutters.
Connor’s eyes remain fixed on me and a grin curls on his lips. “No, really, I know a guy who likes uptight, smug, tough-to-crack women like you.”
I bristle but keep my cool. “What pleasant compliments. Your friend must have good taste, but in this case, my sincerest apologies because he won’t be finding out what he’s missing.” I hide a smile at the zinger.
His copper-brown eyes don’t leave me. No, they dig deeper, trying to find my vulnerabilities.
Blistering emotions grow inside as I realize what I’m feeling and I hate Connor for it.
He remains silent, not firing back. Instead, he cradles the back of his head in his hands. His biceps flex. Without meaning to, my gaze flits over them. The blazing heat of anger morphs as my cheeks warm all over again.
He knows exactly what he’s doing, getting me all flustered with his man muscles.
I’m left with no other option than to be like the general in the painting behind me and prepare for battle, because if there was one thing I won’t lose, it’s my heart.