Very stubborn
We’re incompatible (in every way!)
I underline that last part, then realize the bullet marks look a lot like hearts. Biting the pen cap, I think about the way he took control and planted my hand on his strong arm. I force myself tolook beyond his appearance, trying to figure out why he rattles me so badly.
To my chagrin, I see a partial reflection of myself (not the hands, height, or hair—though we do both have buns). Rather, I see things about him that I thought I’d left behind in France.
Growing up, all I had known was dance and my ex, Gaston.
Dance, I loved. However, the harder my mother and coaches pushed, the less it gave back to me.
Gaston, I thought I loved, then very quickly realized I loathed. Mother forced me to be with him because of her aspirations for us to become ballet celebrities.
Connor’s massive figure pushes Gaston from my mind. It isn’t love or hate I feel for the football player. It’s something else that I can’t quite define. Interest? Attraction?
I get ready for bed and peel off my clothing, leaving it in a heap on my floor along with all my other outfits. I change into pajamas.
Restless, I lay in bed for hours before checking the time on my phone. It’s well past midnight. I get the weather for the next day and then review my schedule. My finger slides to the official Blancbourg social media account—Gemma set it up as a free form of advertising. I don’t think Regina has ever logged in. I scroll through the feed and land on a photo of my cousin Giselle with her latest catch—Garrison, a football player for the Miami Riptide. I give it a like.
Without giving myself a chance to talk myself out of it, I search forConnor Wolfe. Then I remember his username is@ChicksDigWolves. I roll my eyes.
“He is so self-absorbed,” I whisper inFranglais.
His latest post has a timestamp of less than an hour ago. It’s a selfie of him on a bed with a wooden headboard—an antique I recognize from his suite. He cradles his head in the crook of his elbow, propped behind him. His biceps pop. The smirk he wearsis downright delicious. Dark lashes lower partway, revealing the same gaze from earlier. It’s as though he’s looking right at me through the screen.
I shiver even though I’m warm. My breath catches and I drop my phone onto the bed as a smoldering feeling heats my blood like lava. The boats are on fire.
The grin Wolf wears suggests he’s already won the war. Little does he know that I’m made of tenacity, fortitude, and resilience. And that I’ll fight to the end, even with someone as aggravatingly and agonizingly handsome as he is. Then my finger slips, awarding the photo a heart.
No, no, no!
Everyone knows that the cardinal rule of snooping on someone’s account is to keep your fingers where you can see them. No sneaky swipes or accidental likes. My pulse pounds in my throat as I tap the heart to remove the like.
I spend the next ten minutes convincing myself there’s no way he saw it.
Despite the long day, I’m unable to sleep, so I decide to make productive use of my time. Still in my pajamas, I slide on my slippers and creep down to my office. Living in the same building where I work has its benefits and drawbacks. I can catch up on things whenever I want, but that also means I tend to work more often, since there isn’t a distinct line between home and office. Given what appears to be a dire financial crisis faced by the school, I’d better get cracking.
While in the hall, I pause as a shiver dips down my spine. For a moment, I think I hear murmuring toward the kitchen, but it’s probably the wind or the old building shifting.
Once, a student was convinced the manor was haunted and slept with all the lights on. Arthur tried to assure the woman that it wasn’t, but once the idea was planted, from time to time, I have thought that someone, or rather something, is sneakingaround. Then again, I wouldn’t put it past one of these football players to pull a late-night prank.
As usual, my office door is unlocked—locks won’t keep ghosts out, anyway. I flip on the light and when I sit down, my computer comes to life. Strangely, a tab is open to an account used for reaching out to Blancbourg alumni. I haven’t logged in lately. Typically, I send the invitations in early spring for the annual alumni luncheon—although, given the circumstances, I’ll probably have to postpone it until we have more funds.
I sigh and after checking my email, I flip through the stack of papers Regina gave me. We both have access to all the accounts related to the school’s finances, even though Regina primarily takes care of them. I’m determined to find where we can cut the budget to come up with that thirty-four-thousand-dollar number Regina indicated we need without eliminating any more employees—especially Arthur.
I’m drowsythe next morning, after staying up late and going over the bookkeeping.
Tangled in the sheets, I practically fall out of bed. As my feet hit the cold wooden floor, I stumble over yesterday’s clothing (and some from the day before and the day before that). I’ll make time to go to the dry cleaners soon.
I get ready and put on a flattering pair of trousers, a blouse, and heels.
