But this means that it’sdoublegame on.
After cleaning up, I meet Cat for breakfast, we have our lessons, and then I go hard during my afternoon workout, letting out all of my frustration from the call with Cain.
All the while, Cateline never made a peep about the Post-its or my photos on social media.
But I keep my eye on her, which isn’t a hardship.
Tonight, her red wraparound dress with small white flowers hugs her in all the right places. She looks pretty, even if she’s a little prickly.
As usual, she orders a slice of chocolate cake after dinner. It has a shiny ganache, I notice she savors.
I wonder what it tastes like.
She looks up at me through her long lashes and blinks once, twice before speaking. “I understand you have an event later this week?”
“I realized this country is very wealthy, so I arranged a meet and greet. I’ll be signing autographs and giving away Boston Bruisers merchandise. There’s an optional donation, which will go directly to the charity I operate.”
She nods as if she approves.
I freeze her with a long look.
She takes another piece of cake on her fork and asks, “You keep looking at my cake. You can order a piece, you know.”
“It does look delicious.” No, it’s her smoky, accented voice that’s delicious. I give her a long look, conveying my thoughts in the subtext.
“Would you like a bite?”
I really, really would. Instead, I say, “Would you like to join me?” My gaze remains softly on her and I dial up the smolder and play of my lips.
“What is this look you’re giving me?”
“You mean the long, lingering glance? I like watching you eat that cake.”
“And there I thought you were looking at me with disdain.”
“For eating chocolate cake?”
Her shoulder lifts slightly. “When I was a ballerina, my mother had me on a strict diet. Anyway, yes, I will be at the charity event. Glad to see you’re contributing.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“That I’ll be there?”
“No, that anyone would criticize you for eating chocolate cake. You’ve made it into a fine art.”
Indicating dinner is over, she pushes her plate away and gets to her feet, giving me a long, suspicious side-eye. For once, I’m not messing around. The way she savors it, delights in it. Cateline is no microwave. Nope, she’s a slow cooker and I don’t mind sharing these meals with her one bit.
Before we part ways in the hall, I ask, “By the way, how’d you get in my room?”
Cateline wears a faint Mona Lisa smile, a picture of innocence. As she walks away, a set of keys rattle in time with the click of her heels on the marble floor.
The next dayis more of the same, but I do sneak away to town to pick up some “personal items,” including a baggie filled with googly eyes intended for crafting.
I also pinch the headmistress’s keys, unlock her office door, and then creep downstairs in the dead of night.
She’d noticed melooking, but this prank is going to make Cat feelwatched.
As I get to work adhering the eyes to various objects, the old building settles and creaks. I’m jumpy and don’t want toget caught, but the ghost stories Cain used to torment me with whisper in my mind.
