By the grave look on Regina’s face, one I know all too well, we might soon have to close the doors to the school completely.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Harrow.”
“Good afternoon,” Regina says.
She never bothers to try to pronounce my last name. The employees of Blancbourg follow all manner of polite protocol, practicing what we teach. Although, somehow, Regina thinks it’s okay to come into my office without an invitation.
“Looking for something?” I gesture to the files and papers on my desk.
Her cameo brooch glints. “Oh, um, yes. Just the balance sheet from last quarter.”
“Why would it be in my files and not yours? Don’t tell me your computer quit. We can’t afford a new one.”
“I’m well aware,” she says shrewdly, as if it’s my fault. “No, but, um, I wanted to make sure the numbers match.”
“Why wouldn’t they? You’re the one who prepares the documents.”
“Right. But when things look this dismal, it’s best to double-check.”
I let it slide because I have bigger problems. Much bigger ones that are about six foot six and consist of over two hundred pounds of pure muscle. Connor is massive—with an ego to match.
Why am I thinking about him again?
He’s also stubborn, has unruly hair, and a beard that probably houses chipmunks. They’re cute. Never mind. Not chipmunks. More like rodents. Grubby-handed little rats.
“What may I help you with today, Mrs. Harrow?” My gaze flits to Regina’s hand when the sunlight catches the stones on her rings. Given her salary, she must’ve recently inherited some family jewels.
Next to her hand is a photograph of Connor Wolfe on the desk, one of several articles I gathered to prepare for the football players’ arrival.
“How are things going with your new client?”
“As expected,” I answer, unable to ignore the photo. In it, Connor is clean-shaven, being profiled for a wolf sanctuary that he operates. From what I’ve learned, each of the players on the team has a charity, following in the footsteps of Rylen Murphy—Boston Bruiser, billionaire, and recently married to his high school sweetheart.
The four guys here at Blancbourg probably harbor guilt for how bad they are and make themselves feel better by donating money to a good cause. No doubt, vanity virtue at its finest.
Regina’s eyes follow my gaze and she raises an eyebrow. “Some muscles, huh?”
“No mistaking those,” I say vaguely. Or the killer smile that verges toward looking perpetually smug, like he has all the confidence in the world.
I cannot lie or deny that Connor is an incredibly handsome man if he’d clean himself up. Fortunately, I met the rough and rugged version—certainly not a match for me.
He’s a flirt and wants to manipulate me, so, like with the charity situation, he can feel better about himself.
I stuff the photos inside the folder, close it, and will my cheeks not to flush.
Regina clears her throat. “I think we should review the budget. My projections suggest we’re going to go over this quarter again.”
“But we recently received payment for the new clients.”
She waves her hand. “That money is already earmarked for overdue bills.”
“This information should’ve been presented to the board earlier when we had the chance. Do you remember, I suggested we review the budget monthly rather than quarterly when we started backsliding into the red?”
“I am already doing the work of several people and generating those reports in addition to my load would be impossible.”
“We’re all managing as best we can, considering the circumstances. What do you recommend?”
Regina’s answer is always the same. Cut costs. We’re bottoming out at the bare minimum to keep the sizable manor itself going, not to mention it functioning as a school. “I think the landscaping company needs to be let go...or Arthur.”
