I grit my teeth to keep from commenting and to stop the sensation that zings from his point of contact right into my belly.
He takes a big slug of the water at his place setting and it dribbles onto his beard.
Is he some kind of barbarian? Raised in the jungle?
“Let’s try this again.” If nothing else, ballet training taught me patience and the value of repetition and rote.
Seated across from each other at a small table for two, Connor looks up as though alarmed. Either that, or he’s concerned about the neoclassical painting of a general leading a charge into a bloody battle behind my head. I can’t tell.
I instruct him on how to greet me properly.
He sighs as though I asked him to stop playing his video game and empty the trash. “Do I have to? I mean, seriously, can’t we just get on with it? I’m starving. Do you know how many calories a guy like me needs to feed these guns?” He lifts his right arm and flexes.
Do I fan myself at the sight? No, but with clenched fists, I don’t take care to avoid “accidentally” poking the heel of my stiletto into his shoe.
“Ow. I mean, wow. Are all of the coaches like this?”
With a little hit of self-satisfaction at nailing my target, I say, “It probably shouldn’t surprise me, but in all the years of teaching etiquette, I’ve never had anyone so boldly suggest not doing the lessons. I’ve had lazy students and clients who simply didn’t understand, but you, Mr. Wolfe, are stubborn.”
“The same could be said about you.”
Brushing off his comment, I say, “I’m here to do my job sono,we will not go through the motions. According to the information I received, you weren’t given a choice, so I suggest you play by my rules or?—”
“Or?” he asks, interrupting.
I press my lips together so I don’t lose my cool. “If you’d simply let me finish speaking instead of challenging me likea toddler, I’d remind you of the—” I almost repeat what I overheard in the courtyard about the playbook.
Completely ignoring me, Connor cuts across. “Oh, right. The commish and his rules. Thanks for the reminder. So let me get this straight, I do what you say and we can get this over with?”
“It would be better if you learn and apply the lessons, but yes, that’s about right.”
“So, I have to follow your rules?”
“They’re common rules of etiquette, manners, and deportment. If you read the guidebook in your room, you’d learn about our history and?—”
“The rules, huh? What you said earlier about being a Crock-Pot. Let’s just say that I’m a slow learner. It might take me a while to catch on.”
“I understand and am equipped to prioritize multiple learning styles. There are visual learners, those who learn by listening, writing and reading, and of course, kinesthetic.”
“Is that like learning by doing?”
“Yes, it’s a very hands-on approach.”
“Hands on like this?” Connor wraps his big fingers around my hand and plants it on his bicep. Then he flexes. A firm lump rises, pushing against my palm. It sends a spray of flaming arrows through me, piercing all my defenses and fortress walls.
He wears a very self-satisfied grin and I can’t help but imagine his face in the photo without the beard. Then I come to my senses.
I jerk away. “What are you?—?”
“As I said, I need to feed these muscles.”
Cheeks burning and beading up with sweat, I turn from side to side as though looking for an exit, an ice cooler, anything to douse the flames inside. Yes, I’m upset that he’d do such a thing, but also because of the way my body reacted.
I smooth my hands down my deep purple dress and then sit in the chair. “On second thought, we’ll employ a hands-off approach. Please, take a seat.”
“Why? You can’t handle my hot man muscles?”
“Who uses the words hot man muscles?” As soon ashotis out of my mouth—a reminder of his comment in the courtyard—my blush deepens.
