My conclusion is swift. Connor Wolfe is an alpha male, through and through.
I set down my leather folder on the table between us, preparing to outline what to expect when he reads my title embossed in gold across the front. Or tries to.
“Cat Burger. Headmistress. Ew. That sounds gross.”
“Juvenile, to be expected.”
He drops his palms onto the table. Fortunately, I don’t startle. I trained myself to remain calm during Gaston’s mercurial moods.
“We’ve been at this for what? An hour. It’s taken everything in me not to ask what your problem is,” Connor asks.
I make a show of jotting that down in my notebook. “Demonstrates ability to exercise restraint.” Then I level him with my gaze. “For the next thirty days, you’re my problem, Mr. Wolfe.”
“I resent that, thank you very much.”
“Ah, I see you do know that phrase. In French, it’smerci beaucoup.”
“So you speak French and your birthday is April fifteenth. I’d say you’re older than me by a couple of years.”
“Younger by one year, but we will be together for thirty days.”
“And that’s a month too long.”
“I regret that you feel that way. Instead, you could think of this as a wonderful learning opportunity.”
“Listen, I’m used to women flirting with me and being more than willing to have a good time.”
“When we are done here, you can have all the good times you want.”
His lips ripple with amusement. “Is that a promise?”
It takes me a moment to realize what he did there and I fight the pink that threatens to shade my cheeks. Instead, I glower. A good, solid glower.
His lips quirk as if he knows exactly the effect he had on me.
Lengthening my spine and enunciating, I say, “By the way, my name is not Cat Burger. It’s Cateline Berghier.”
“Sounds fancy when you say it. Say something else in French.”
He’s really trying to get under my skin. The furrow in my brow digs in and won’t let go.
The moment stretches longer than is comfortable. If I’m not mistaken, once more, we’ve entered a staring contest. His eyes are impossibly bright around the iris. They are eyes that could mesmerize a weaker woman.
In a voice just above a whisper, I say, “I’m a professional, Mr. Wolfe. You can play all the games you want. I will not fold.”
When he replies, his voice is a growl. “I’ve been conditioning for years. As far back as I can remember. My singular purpose was toendure. That’s what makes me so good at football. I am persistent. Relentless.” His eyes swim in mine as he punctuates each word.
I won’t let myself go under the surface of their copper hue or his intoxicating scent, peppered with aftershave and clean cotton that’s been in the sun.
“I can out-lift, out-press, and out-run any of the other guys—even Grey, who is the most focused on the field. He can catch a pass with his eyes closed—it’s like he and the ball are one. Chase, the QB, is a faster runner, but only for relatively short sprints. Declan has the agility of a mountain cat. He’s big, strong, and can turn on a dime. As for me, my strength is endurance. You’d do well not to forget it.”
“In that case, it will serve you well during the next thirty days.”
“In that case, I’m looking forward to showing you what I’m made of.”
If I were a ceramic ballerina, I’d have lost my balance and cracked because I blink, losing the contest.
Remembering that I’m in charge, I ask, “What position do you play, Mr. Wolfe?”
