Chapter 16 Chase
CHASE
Wearing glasses that remind me of when we first met, her hair in a ponytail like in high school, but smoother and with an elegant curl at the end and loose pieces framing her face, Pippa flutters her hands as though in a panic.
The corner of my mouth lifts. “Well, this is interesting.”
“Interesting? No, impossible. There must be a mix-up. A mistake.” She squeezes her big brown eyes closed, trying to compose herself.
Back in high school, I’d wanted nothing more than to take her to the prom and dance with her to the song Brown Eyed Girl.
It was wishful thinking, because Freddie would have just as soon knocked out my teeth, but I even found out who the DJ was going to be, so I could request in advance that he’d play it.
Should’ve done so the other night at the Smythe’s party.
Back in high school, though, my big plan was to ask her to be my brown-eyed girl.
Considering she was Freddie’s sister, did I have a death wish? Maybe.
Looking back, that was also the biggest cheese ball move.
What can I say? I like pizza. Always have.
Though I probably would’ve gotten slightly better grades had I not been staring at the back of her head in the classes we shared, waiting for her to turn around, if only to glimpse her beautiful face.
Pippa’s eyes open. She blinks a few times, catching me staring. Smoldering, I hope. I bite the inside of my lip and grip the back of my neck, feeling like I’m seventeen all over again. After all, we are at a school and in a classroom setting.
Her throat bobs on a swallow and then, giving her head a shake, she says, “I should go and see if I can find someone else to work with you.” She rushes from the room before I can tell her that isn’t necessary.
That I’m sorry for what happened in high school.
For calling her kiddo...and Pippag Thomzeg.
For ruffling her hair. It looks really pretty today.
For engaging Jerk Mode, so no one suspected I liked her.
For the sponge incident. I owe her a proper slice of cake.
For not being braver and telling her brother how I felt.
I’m about to shout after her, but that won’t score me any points at reform school. I could also follow her, but I got lost twice trying to find my way to this room, so I’m better off sitting tight.
Like the cocky football player that some say I am, I’m confident she’ll be back.
And do I want Pippa back? Yeah. I do.
But the last thing I want to do is to be at reform school and learn etiquette.
I’ve spent plenty of time keeping my elbows off the table, thank you very much.
But as Coach Hammer said, and I know all too well, there are consequences to my actions, and having the opportunity to reconnect with Pippa isn’t the worst of them.
I’d say it’s an unexpectedly pleasant side benefit.
For the last decade or so, I solely focused on football, but Pizza comes and goes from my thoughts.
Comes when I have a craving I can’t satisfy.
Goes when I realize that craving has a brother who’d beat me to a pulp if he so much as knew that I have a thing for her.
The guys don’t understand why I rarely date. I realize now that I measure everyone against how Pippa is unapologetically herself.
Most of the women I come across try to convince me that they’re normal and have good intentions. That they’re not after fame or prestige or what money can buy. That they’re not gold-digging opportunists who hide a whole lot of crazy under hair extensions, chemical peels, and lip fillers.
Pippa is normal. Okay, her version of normal. But she remains true to herself. To who she is and that is very, very attractive.
She is also the one who got away. Well, I was the one who went away, but any possible future between us was over the moment I gave her that stupid sponge...and good thing too. Otherwise, I might not be here to tell the story. Freddie was wildly protective of her.
But at the moment, she also ran away...again.
Pippa left the door ajar, and from the hall, voices rise and fall.
“Cate, I was hoping to find you. I have a situation.” Pippa’s voice is tight.
“Pippa, we all do. Today has already been a trying series of situations and it’s barely past mid-morning.” The headmistress I met earlier, Cateline, has a French accent and every one of her words sounds like a loaded cannon. I pity whichever one of the guys has her as an etiquette coach.
“I can help you with whatever you need. We’re a team. I’ll do whatever you need me to do, but I just need us to swap students.”
“Why is that?” I imagine Cateline has her hands on her hips by the challenge in her tone.
I also bet Pippa twirls a piece of hair nervously as she’d sometimes do while waiting to give all-school announcements at morning meetings.
Leaning against the doorframe, a sigh escapes as I recall my youth and being free in ways I didn’t realize or appreciate at the time.
Much like the Smythe’s palatial home, the Blancbourg manor has classic charm with its corniced ceilings, paneled wainscoting on the lower half of the wall, tapestries, and enough paintings to fill a museum.
I don’t want Pippa to beg her boss to change things up, so I consider interrupting. I peer out the doorway.
Sure enough, the headmistress has her hand on her hip.
Pippa’s hands are folded in front of her as though in prayer. “I knew my student previously and I—”
“Ordinarily, I’d make changes, but as it is, we’re already short-staffed. I had to hire a former Disney princess and am hoping for the best.”
“Please?” Pippa tries.
If I hadn’t overheard her comment about having a crush on me in high school, I’d think she hates me. The flush in her cheeks suggests the opposite.
“This is not a good time,” Cateline says. “And I wouldn’t wish my student on the toughest of etiquette professionals. He’s—” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “A beast.”
Which beast? Declan would best be described as a hooligan.
Grey is a sullen grump—though a beast in his own way.
But the bitter tone in Cateline’s voice could only have been caused by one person: Wolf.
I’ve heard plenty of women voice their frustrations about the guy who can’t commit to anything except football.
“Are you sure?” Pippa asks, taking one last shot.
“Please, make it work,” Cateline says before sweeping down the hall.
Pippa slouches and as she turns, she startles at seeing me leaning in the doorway.
“Don’t tell me you heard the whole thing?” she asks.
Arms folded across my chest, I nod. But I can’t hold back the amused smirk spreading on my lips. She’s downright adorable. “You can’t run away this time. We’re stuck together.”
She shoulders her way past me and lowers into the chair at one end of a polished wooden table, holding her head in her hands.
Maybe I’m wrong. Perhaps she does hate me, or something happened between the other night and now. Maybe she told her brother and Freddie’s phone call from Fiji was a warning shot.
My smile falters. “Oh, come on, I’m not that bad? Am I?” Trepidation leaks from my voice.
Pippa shakes her head, face still hidden by her hands.
I sit down in the chair opposite her.
She peeks through her fingers.
I toss her a dimpled smile. I only have one dimple—my sister Rhiannon got the other.
She slams her eyes shut.
“If this breaks one of your rules, we could make up our own,” I say.
“It’s not that,” she mumbles.
“If it helps, I have some rules that I have to follow aside from not mooning anyone. Er, it’s a playlist of rules. Namely, no flirting or dating, at least for the next thirty days,” I paraphrase Grey’s list as a reminder that I have to behave myself.
But man, oh man, would I like to break those rules with Pippa.