Chapter 15 Cateline
CATELINE
“Good morning, Shonda,” I say when we enter the salon.
Our on-call stylist, who insists I call her Shonda and not Miss Morrison, organizes a shelf with beauty products. She smiles and we exchange pleasantries.
“I have your latest victim. I mean client. This is Connor Wolfe. Mr. Wolfe, please meet our staff stylist.”
The woman tosses her naturally curly hair and approaches, looking him up and down. “My, my. What are we going to do with you?”
Eyes widening and stepping backward, he asks, “What do you mean, victim?”
I cut my eyes at him. “You were doing so well. What you mean to say is, ‘Good morning, Shonda. It’s lovely to make your acquaintance.’”
Connor dutifully repeats the words.
“I see you have him trained well,” Shonda says.
“Working on it.”
She surveys his appearance a moment longer. “I think we can work with this. But first things first, the man bun has got to go.”
Connor backs all the way to the door, pressing himself against it. “You can do whatever you want. Just leave the hair.”
Shonda looks to me for a response.
“This is part of the program you signed up for,” I say.
“I didn’t sign up for this. It wasn’t my choice to come here,” Connor fires back.
Shonda casts me a look that asks, Is he for real?
“Actually, your actions have consequences. Your coach gave you a choice: come to Blancbourg, pass, and stay on the team, or, well, you could quit.”
“I’m not a quitter. It ain’t over ‘til we’ve won. But the hair stays.”
I sigh. “Fine. But maybe deep condition it and be careful, you might find a chipmunk living in his beard.”
Connor scowls at me, and then, as if changing his mind in defiance of my backtracking, he says, “Chipmunks are cute. And you can cut the hair, Shonda. But I want to donate it to charity.”
Of course, he adds the last part just to dig a little deeper under my skin. Since first meeting, a few times I’ve worried that we have access to each other’s thoughts. Connor somehow knows to say the thing that’ll have me hurtling back into his hands like a boomerang.
“In that case, get your #BruiserButt in the chair,” Shonda says playfully and points to the swivel seat in front of a long mirror. She flashes him a smile as though she, too heard about the mooning prank.
“I don’t see why this is necessary,” Connor mutters, but obeys.
Shonda leans close to me. “Are they all like this?”
I nod. “I’m afraid so.”
While Shonda works, cutting Connor’s hair, trimming his beard, and giving him a manicure and pedicure, I instruct him on the importance of hygiene and grooming.
“I’m not an actual caveman,” he says. “I brush, floss, and—”
Shonda spins the chair, cutting him off before revealing his new look in the mirror. His gaze flicks to his reflection.
I quickly wipe the smile from my face.
“I did a marvelous job, if I do say so.” Shonda smirks.
“I guess I clean up good,” Connor boasts, smiling smugly at himself.
That Shonda did a marvelous job and that Connor cleans up well are both understatements.
Freshly shaven, bright-eyed, and with a haircut that left a little messy bit at the top makes him look like he stepped out of a magazine, off a runway, or red carpet...out of a dream I didn’t know I had.
He still has the stature and bearing of the gritty football player I met the day before, but now he’s devastatingly handsome. Which is totally not fair. How can someone with such a cocky attitude be so attractive?
Connor brushes the hair just above his ears before straightening. Then he turns to me, eyes locked and loaded. “I may clean up good, but I’ll always be dirty.” He laughs privately.
This is what it must feel like to have eaten a whole lemon. “Please don’t say things like that, Mr. Wolfe. It’s unbecoming.”
Shonda laughs as though we’re an adorable elderly couple who frequently bicker, but always remember how much they love each other by the end of the day. Turning to me, she says, “I may be married, but you’re not. I’d get on that asap.”
“What we will be getting on is proper attire. Next up, the tailor.”
Connor rolls his eyes, then, in Shonda’s direction, he wags his finger between himself and me. “Us? It’ll never happen.”
“Why’s that?” Shonda asks.
I brace myself for the answer.
“You’re both single, attractive, and stubborn as all get out—sorry, Ms. Berghier. Just speaking the truth, but I’d say you’re a perfect match.” Shonda grins like she just ordered an ice cream cone.
I value her talent and enjoy her personality—she’s friendly, fun, and cheerful—but I firmly disagree.
“We could never be together because wolves, well, dogs, and cats are natural enemies. But in the meantime, we’re just having a little fun,” Connor says with a gleam in his eyes directed at me.
“I would call this tedious, rather than fun,” I mutter.
“That’s too bad. You’ll have to keep your pants on, Connor. Apparently, no one here wants to see a full moon.” Shonda winks at me and then whispers, “I mean, unless that’s your thing.”
Connor laughs like he just had a flash of brilliance.
“Whatever it is, don’t do it,” I order.
He practically smiles his face off and asks, “What? Are you going to put me in detention?”
I can’t even deal with this man.
After the trip to the tailor, where I studied the wallpaper pattern to avoid looking at the cut of Connor’s muscles, followed by a tense midday meal wherein he wouldn’t stop needling me with the things Shonda said, reminding me that he is, in fact, a dog, we go to an empty classroom.
Seated opposite each other at a table, I open my folder. “Today we’re going to discuss women.” My tone is flat. To the point. I’m tired of his flirty comments and it’s clear, after looking at his social media feed, that he spends a lot of time dating a lot of different women.
“I think I know my way around the ladies, thank you very much.”
“Your way is flawed. Could use some improvement,” I quickly correct myself.
He tucks his chin. “I’ve been with top models, actresses, and beautiful women of all types.”
“Yes. I am aware. Your way is insulting. Your way is revolting. Your—”
“That’s not what they tell me.”
“Beauty isn’t everything and neither is quantity, Mr. Wolfe.”
“What could you possibly teach me, Cat?” He leans forward, casting a net of tension my way.
I meet halfway, narrowing the space between us, which has the unfortunate result of me breathing in Connor’s aftershave and clean cotton scent.
“So you’re an authority? Who was the last guy you dated? Tell me all about it.” He clasps his hands and rests them on the table.
I may have little experience with men, but I know a few things. “Women want to be respected, treated with dignity, honesty, and care.”
“Check, check, check, check, check.” He motions, making checkmarks in the air.
Ignoring this, I ask, “Do you have any siblings?”
Connor’s expression turns stony. “A brother, Cain.”
“Well, imagine that you have a sister, a cousin, a girl in your life who you feel protective over. She’s sweet and innocent, and then some meathead clown decides it’s the day he’s going to defile her mind with a clear view of his backside.
No, make that four geniuses who think it would be funny to—”
“Are you talking about moon-gate? The commissioner’s daughter? We didn’t know she’d be there.”
“She has a name.”
“Elyse Starkowsky,” Connor says.
“That’s better, but all the same.”
He opens his hands, palms up. “Oh, come on. It was a harmless prank.”
“Harmless? How so? Now you’re here.”
He leans back a fraction. “I suppose you have a point, and because I don’t want to endure more of this conversation, I’ll concede.
I won’t moon anyone ever again unless I have their consent.
” The gleam returns to his eyes as his gaze shifts and lingers on my folder with color-coded tabs. “My, you’re organized.”
“It helps to have a system.”
“It must be exhausting, running this place. What with waking up in the middle of the night, working, and having to deal with guys like me.”
“Yes, it’s true, but it also has its rewards.” At the reminder, I fight off a yawn. He’s right, I am tired.
“You’re French, don’t you have something called a fiesta, siesta, or something?”
“Two different things, neither French. But yes, in some countries, there is a time of rest and restoration built into the day.” I tell myself not to be chatty and get back to business.
“What else do we have on the docket this afternoon?” Connor claps his hands together as if sensing my flagging energy, yet he’s just getting warmed up.
I almost startle. “You’ll be meeting with the trainer,” I say, relieved because that means I can take a quick, twenty-minute power nap afterward, but before we meet for dinner.
But first, we head to the gym. I wear leggings and a fitted athletic shirt, suddenly self-conscious that it’s pink.
“Are you a gym bunny?” Connor asks.
“No, but I’ll take this opportunity to get in some exercise while you meet with the trainer.”
“Ah, my favorite part of the day.”
I ignore how his gaze, with the blaze in his eyes, follows me as I start up the treadmill.
Trying to outrun my thoughts is futile as they spin in circles around the school’s budget crisis, my work visa, my overdue trip to the dry cleaner, and Connor.
I cannot fathom why women are attracted to him. He’s a beast. When I glimpse myself in the mirror while I do squats and work on my quads, I look like a she-beast at the same time his eyes meet mine for the briefest moment. If I’m not mistaken, he wears a private smile.
The trainer has him doing a circuit on the machines. Connor lifts and lunges and explodes with power. His face is a picture of pure masculinity. I’ve never watched an American football game and I suddenly wonder what he looks like on the field.
Done with my workout, I wander over to him while I pat my forehead with a towel.
“Working out some frustration?” The question is out of my mouth before I have a chance to stop it. I guess what they say about cats and curiosity is true.
“No, working out my muscles,” he grunts as he lifts a heavily stacked bar.
“Looks like frustration to me.” The teacher and analyst in me observe that this question is actually a reflection of my current state.
Am I frustrated? Yes. This man has clawed his way under my skin and found the exact buttons to push to make me red-cheeked and flustered.
“What would I be frustrated about?” he asks.
“That you’re here and have to deal with me, for starters. Then there could be the deep need to prove yourself at odds with the bravado you show the world. Also, that your reputation as a lone wolf leaves you lonely at times.”
With a grunt, he says, “I’ll stop you there. I didn’t come here for you to psychoanalyze me.”
“It helps to understand the inner workings of my clients,” I counter.
Connor cocks an eyebrow. “What about the outer workings? I think you like what you see.”
I don’t not like it. I clear my throat, thankful that didn’t slip out. Instead, I just stare. My lips part a little, and not because I’m looking at his massively toned muscles. Okay, maybe a little.
“I’m surprised to see that you’re a gym rat.” He sets another plate on the barbell with a clank.
Eyes bulging, I incline my head. “Did you just say I look like a drowned rat?”
Connor’s face falls. “No, a gym rat. You know, like someone who knows their way around weights.”
I cast him a dark look. “Is that an American expression?”
“I don’t know, but I’m serious. Look it up. If anything, it’s a compliment.” Then he has the gall to wink.
“Adversaries don’t exchange compliments,” I say, lengthening my spine and restoring my resolve...also wiping my lip, but it’s sweat. Not drool. Probably.
Connor smirks like he knows all too well what just transpired. “I think the rules of engagement have changed. You just wait, I’ll have you purring in no time, Kitty Cat.”
“My name is Cateline Berghier. Miss Berghier to you.”
He lets out a growly meow like he had the last word.
I start to storm off, then slow to a strut. One that’ll make him have to repeat his workout so he can siphon off some of his frustration.