After closing the door on my bedroom chaos, I glance in the mirror. My bun is perfect today, which brings to mind the last few days of stress.
A heaviness forms in my belly as I think about the past and the decision I made to leave the ballet company and go tocollege. Usually, I’m certain it was the right one, but a pointy thought digs into my ribs. What if it was the wrong decision? Unlike the Blancbourg program, there isn’t an evaluation to complete, a form to fill out, or a letter indicating I’m passing or failing at life.
I should trust my gut, but what if it’s my heart I’m supposed to listen to?
When I get downstairs, Connor is waiting there already, standing at attention and with his hands clasped. His hair is a bit wild, like he didn’t bother to brush it—then again, the standard look of the Boston Bruisers is rough and masculine like they’d just as likely be found on a football field as they would in the woods, doing manly things. They all have facial hair in various stages of development—mostly beards—unkempt hair, tattoos, and wear jeans, T-shirts, and hoodies with the team’s logo.
Connor focuses on something out the window, highlighting his stature. He has a peaceful expression on his face as he turns toward me when the clicking of my heels on the granite floor stops at his side.
“Good morning, Mr. Wolfe,” I say.
“Good morning, Ms. Berghier.”
I dip my head back, surprised at his perfect pronunciation. “Well done. Have you been practicing?”
His lips curl with a smile. “I trust you had pleasant dreams.”
I force myself to look away. “Actually, no.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Yourself? This old building has been around for a long time and with that comes plenty of ghost stories.”
He shifts his weight. “Is that so? May I ask what you do when you can’t sleep?”
“A hazard of this job is that my office is located downstairs from my suite, so oftentimes I work.”
“You don’t go online, scroll social media...watch cute videos about dogs?”
I shake my head slowly, catching his meaning. He wants to know whether I saw the photo he posted on his account@ChicksDigWolves. “Nope.” My lips pop on the last letterP. I’m a terrible liar and, as a rule, never do, but the word just, well, popped out of my mouth.
He raises and lowers his eyebrows as I turn to lead him down the hall, indicating he saw the split second when I’d accidentally liked his photo. Probably. Or not. Could’ve been a coincidence.
Then why are my cheeks warm?
We pause outside a wooden door with a brass sign that saysSalon. Collecting myself, I take a deep breath and hold it open for Connor.
Like a picture-perfect gentleman, he gestures for me to go first.
Perhaps we’re making progress.
Then again, I get the feeling that I, too, am being watched and that this man with wolf-like eyes knows something I don’t.
15
CATELINE
“Good morning, Shonda,” I say when we enter the salon.
Our on-call stylist, who insists I call her Shonda and not Miss Morrison, organizes a shelf with beauty products. She smiles and we exchange pleasantries.
“I have your latest victim. I mean client. This is Connor Wolfe. Mr. Wolfe, please meet our staff stylist.”
The woman tosses her naturally curly hair and approaches, looking him up and down. “My, my. What are we going to do with you?”
Eyes widening and stepping backward, he asks, “What do you mean, victim?”
I cut my eyes at him. “You were doing so well. What you mean to say is, ‘Good morning, Shonda. It’s lovely to make your acquaintance.’”
