It takes me a while to devise my retaliation. Meanwhile, Connor struts around like he’s the grandmaster prankster.
Two can play this game, buddy.
I bide my time, letting him brace for the worst. He’ll assume I’ve given up and relax. I let him think it’s a victory.
When the meet and greet comes around, I offer Connor the opportunity to demonstrate what he’s learned during ourlessons in real time. I wear a fitted blue dress, black stockings, and black heels. To change it up, I leave a few pieces of hair loose from my bun.
His throat bobs when we meet. “You, look...good, Shorty. I like the Bruiser blue and black.”
“Shorty?”
A lopsided grin grows on his lips. “Yeah, because I’m taller than you.”
“You’re taller than most people, Mr. Wolfe.”
Then I get an idea. A diabolical one. As I consider executing the plan in a way that would make Marie Antoinette reconsider her life choices, another idea comes to mind. Don’t worry, I wasn’t going to actually cut off Connor’s head. Just in the photos during the meet and greet.
I quietly plot his demise as we walk toward the event site in the village.
But when I see him interacting with kids and old folks, my higher nature gets the better of me. Instead, I make sure to capture some really good photographs, especially of him with the adoptable dogs. Women love pictures of hot guys with dogs.
After the meet and greet event, I say, “Mr. Wolfe, that was exceptional. You were a wonderful host. I was going to have the last word, or image, as it were, in our little prank war. But then I had another idea.”
He leans in as if eager to hear what I have to say. This close, I try not to breathe in his aftershave and clean cotton scent.
My surroundings blur slightly and my heart picks up the pace, forgetting that I’m a slow cooker, a Crock-Pot.
“You were saying?” he asks as if realizing that I’m suddenly intoxicated by his scent, if such a thing were possible.
The man tests me, and not only my patience with the prank war but also my resolve to put out the little fires he sets ablaze all over my skin.
I start walking down the cobblestone street in the village by the school and he catches up with me. Our arms and hands brush, which only fans the flames.
From the manor, the city stretches in every direction—to the harbor and toward the royal castle at the foot of the majestic mountains before ending abruptly by the forest that stretches as far as the eye can see.
Steadying myself, I say, “I was going to cut off your head in all of the photos, but then I had another idea. How would you feel if I compiled them into a calendar, especially the ones with the dogs, to raise some money for Blancbourg?”
He hesitates.
I instantly feel silly and needy. “Actually, never mind. Forget I asked. Something like that would be better to go to your cause, for the animals.”
He’s silent for a long moment. Walking through the little village, an older pocket of the capital, works as a buffer. Every turn is enchanting. Ivy grows on the sides of the sandstone and brick buildings, little boutiques contain treasures and sweet shops with delicious treats line the lanes.
An ever-present smile blooms on my face anytime I’m here because it feels like home. In fact, my grin matches the one Connor has worn since we met this morning, wearing his team colors. As they say, when in Rome...or with a Boston Bruiser.
Finally, the man speaks. “I’ll forget about your intended prank for now. You’re welcome to create the calendar. But I’d be willing to help in a greater capacity if you tell me why the school needs the additional funds.” All sense of suave rascal gone, Connor speaks deliberately and powerfully, like he’d be happy to help and all I have to do is ask. Er, change my mind.
“We’ve hit some snags. Advertising costs are up. Revenue and enrollment are down. It’s just business, I suppose.”
“Is that all it is?”
“I don’t know what you mean?”
“Have you carefully reviewed the books?”
“Regina, I mean, Mrs. Harrow keeps them, so yes, I believe they’re in order.”
He grunts as the salty scent of dough fills the air and I push the calendar idea from my mind. I’ve always pulled myself up by my own pointe shoe ribbons. Always will.
