Chapter 17 Connor
CONNOR
I’d like to say dinner with Cat is short and sweet. More like short and tense.
Still dressed in the suit, I feel obligated to mind my manners.
But that isn’t the source of the tension.
No, it’s the way those few pieces of her dark hair remain free from her bun, the way she moves so gracefully, even doing the simplest thing like putting pepper on her potatoes, and the way her accent curls over words like aurora and serendipity.
“Why did you leave France?” I ask, attempting polite conversation.
“At eighteen, I went to London for university and then moved here directly after.”
“Wow. You’re part of the jet set then?”
Her lashes lower. “Non.”
“Right. I suppose then you wouldn’t be working here.”
“Actually, I might. I believe in the value of hard work and professional education. My father was a laborer. I studied to be a school teacher, but this position was available and I couldn’t pass it up. The youngest headmistress Blancbourg has ever had.” She lifts her chin with pride.
“Your parents must be proud of you.”
Her lashes lower again and she shakes her head slightly as if she can hardly face that reality. “What about you being a famous football player and all? Your parents must think the world of you.”
“Same answer. Nope. Well, my mother would be proud. She passed away when I was born.”
“I’m so sorry.” Sincerity rains over her features.
Something tickles inside as I realize I’ve never told anyone that before, not even the guys. Sensing I’m getting sentimental, I return to the safe zone and push Cat away. “My father was a lot like you, actually. Strict, disciplined, and rather irrational.”
“Discipline has its merits,” she retorts. “But I take umbrage with irrational, and I have a distinct feeling that I am nothing like the man who raised you.”
Cat is right about that. But I have to widen the narrowing gap between us as I feel irrationally drawn to her.
“Irrational? Yeah. You thought I put sticky notes all over your office. Why would I waste my time doing something like that?”
“Boredom? Because you’re a rascal? Or you can’t bear to do the right thing?”
“And what’s that?”
“The right thing? Be kind. Contribute. Help in some way instead of wasting resources this school hardly has.”
“My charity does plenty. In fact, since arriving in Concordia, I reached out to a local organization to aid animals—dogs in particular. I fund wolf preserves and animal rescues.” I look around and add, “It doesn’t seem like the school is hurting financially with its plethora of antiques, generous accommodations, and this gourmet food. ”
Cateline’s nostrils flare and her eye twitches. “You know nothing of this place or what it means to give. Goodnight, Mr. Wolfe.” She stalks toward the door.
“It will be. I’m a deep sleeper.” I wink.
She mumbles something that sounds an awful lot like woof.
“Sweet dreams, Kitty Cat.” And I sincerely hope she does, especially if she hate-scrolls her social media later and sees the selfie that I plan to post on @ChicksDigWolves, featuring a shot of my abs from the gym earlier.
Maybe to keep things spicy, I’ll include one in my new suit. I’ll caption it Meow.
The next morning, I wake to an itch. An all-over itch. I scratch my arm and pull back quickly. Something bit me...or cut me. No, it’s the distinct burning slice from a paper cut on my pointer finger.
As I slowly lift to sitting, sticky notes cover my entire body. I peel one off and it says woof on it. They all do. My jaw drops.
Did Cateline prank me back?
Before I remove any more, I snap another photo of myself and post it with the comment I thought you’d enjoy last night’s selfie with my new haircut, but perhaps you’ll like this one better. I add a cat emoji and post it to @ChicksDigWolves.
With thousands of likes and comments on the post from the night before, my fans adored the cleaned-up look. Cateline didn’t slip up and accidentally like it, but I hope she’ll see this one and be pleased with herself.
However, I have no idea how she pulled this off without waking me up. Then again, I trained myself to sleep through my father’s rages. Plus, her name is Cat. With how gracefully she moves, and without those high heels, she could be stealthy.
But this means that it’s double game on.
After cleaning up, I meet Cat for breakfast, we have our lessons, and then I go hard during my afternoon workout, letting out all of my frustration from the call with Cain.
All the while, Cateline never made a peep about the Post-its or my photos on social media.
But I keep my eye on her, which isn’t a hardship.
Tonight, her red wraparound dress with small white flowers hugs her in all the right places. She looks pretty, even if she’s a little prickly.
As usual, she orders a slice of chocolate cake after dinner. It has a shiny ganache, I notice she savors.
I wonder what it tastes like.
She looks up at me through her long lashes and blinks once, twice before speaking. “I understand you have an event later this week?”
“I realized this country is very wealthy, so I arranged a meet and greet. I’ll be signing autographs and giving away Boston Bruisers merchandise. There’s an optional donation, which will go directly to the charity I operate.”
She nods as if she approves.
I freeze her with a long look.
She takes another piece of cake on her fork and asks, “You keep looking at my cake. You can order a piece, you know.”
“It does look delicious.” No, it’s her smoky, accented voice that’s delicious. I give her a long look, conveying my thoughts in the subtext.
“Would you like a bite?”
I really, really would. Instead, I say, “Would you like to join me?” My gaze remains softly on her and I dial up the smolder and play of my lips.
“What is this look you’re giving me?”
“You mean the long, lingering glance? I like watching you eat that cake.”
“And there I thought you were looking at me with disdain.”
“For eating chocolate cake?”
Her shoulder lifts slightly. “When I was a ballerina, my mother had me on a strict diet. Anyway, yes, I will be at the charity event. Glad to see you’re contributing.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“That I’ll be there?”
“No, that anyone would criticize you for eating chocolate cake. You’ve made it into a fine art.”
Indicating dinner is over, she pushes her plate away and gets to her feet, giving me a long, suspicious side-eye. For once, I’m not messing around. The way she savors it, delights in it. Cateline is no microwave. Nope, she’s a slow cooker and I don’t mind sharing these meals with her one bit.
Before we part ways in the hall, I ask, “By the way, how’d you get in my room?”
Cateline wears a faint Mona Lisa smile, a picture of innocence. As she walks away, a set of keys rattle in time with the click of her heels on the marble floor.
The next day is more of the same, but I do sneak away to town to pick up some “personal items,” including a baggie filled with googly eyes intended for crafting.
I also pinch the headmistress’s keys, unlock her office door, and then creep downstairs in the dead of night.
She’d noticed me looking, but this prank is going to make Cat feel watched.
As I get to work adhering the eyes to various objects, the old building settles and creaks. I’m jumpy and don’t want to get caught, but the ghost stories Cain used to torment me with whisper in my mind.
When I stick the last set of eyes on the receiver of her office phone, my gaze lands on a financial document.
Cateline mentioned the school was having money trouble.
Red marker circles the sum of thirty-four thousand dollars needed by the bursar’s office.
A list in Cateline’s handwriting catalogs how they’ve already cut costs to save, including laying off employees.
All of a sudden, the door opens.
I startle and shuffle back.
“Mr. Wolfe, what are you doing here?” Cateline asks.
She wears a fuzzy white robe and her long dark hair is in a loose pile on top of her head. I never expected her to look so comfortable, so adorable...or so shocked.
I don’t answer her question.
All I can do is stare and stutter.
She caught me, and aside from moon-gate, that’s never happened. Why am I so off my game?
She steps fully into the room, wearing bunny slippers and wrapping the robe tighter around her waist, then flips on the stark overhead lights.
I can’t help it. My lips quirk with amusement.
“Attention. Up here,” she snipes.
“But you look so—”
Gesturing around us, she asks, “What is the meaning of this? What are these?” She picks up one googly eye and then another.
I bite my lower lip. “I was watching you, so you don’t label me with notes that say woof again.” Unable to suppress it a moment longer, laughter explodes out of me.
For one liberated and joyous moment, she laughs and then stops herself. “This is inappropriate.”
“No, sneaking into my room and covering me with notes is...” Hilarious, but I won’t admit that.
She doesn’t move a muscle, neither confirming nor denying the prank.
“My last name is Wolfe, but do you consider me a dog?” I ask, referring to the woof.
“A real mongrel.”
I step closer to her. “I think you like dogs.”
Again, not even the hint of recognition with a blink, twitch of her lips, or the brushing of a stray hair from her neck.
“How’d you get in here?”
My gaze reflexively flashes to the keys on her desk.
“You took my keys.” She snaps them up. Her brief amusement turns into anger.
As she stalks around the room in her fuzzy robe and bunny slippers, I hold back further laughter, but it builds inside.
“Go on,” she says, gesturing to the door. “To bed with you.”
I hang my head but don’t apologize. As I pass her, I lean in, close enough that I can feel her warmth and the feathery wisps of the loose hair from her high, messy bun. “I was going to say you look cute.” I wink because I am watching and I’m not teasing. Not at all.