I’ve never been to Los Angeles and as the plane descends, the city lights sparkle before they abruptly stop at the sea.
The air is warm even though it’s after nightfall. The pace is the opposite of where we visited in North Carolina and I feel like a cat watching someone bounce a ball back and forth. There is so much to see, to hear, to do.
A car service brings us to a fancy hotel where the other players are staying. Connor is at ease, yet he carries himself with more pride than he did when we first stepped through the doors at Blancbourg. His smile comes a little easier and when a gaggle of women who call themselves the Bruiser Babes strut by, he doesn’t even look their way.
No, Connor’s gaze is fixed on me and remains there when we go shopping for a blue gown the next day, when we eat at a famous sushi restaurant, and when he takes me on a tour of the off-season Bruisers’ training facility.
And it’s hard not to admire a man of his stature when he meets me after a spa day of pampering in preparation for the ball. He’s dressed in a perfectly tailored tuxedo. His hair is trim and he’s freshly shaved, but it’s the way his muscles tease the tux’s fabric that has me aflutter.
“Like what you see? I do.” Eyes combing me, he plants a kiss on my cheek, takes my hand, and spins me in a circle. My dark Boston Bruisers blue floor-length gown in a mermaid fit flares at the bottom. The ruffles lift a little, revealing my silhouette. It has a V-neck in the front and a V-cut in the back, providing me with some air conditioning, because Connor’s eyes eat me up, making me warm all over.
“What did you do all day?” I ask.
A couple of guys pass, and their eyes land on me. Connor draws me close. He’s an alpha, a wolf through and through. It’s a little possessive and I like it.
There’s a growl in his voice when he answers, “Thought about you.”
“What else?”
“Worked out. Played football. Thought about you.”
I kiss him on the cheek and say, “You mentioned.”
After taking a limousine to the First Annual Boston Bruisers Charity Ball, we sweep along the blue and black carpet, past photographers taking photos and reporters asking questions.
Connor flashes his smile and wedding ring, confirming that he’s no longer on the market. “The only Wolfe you’ll see is on the field.”
He squeezes my hand as we go inside.
I’ve been in countless ballrooms in my life, but the charity ball is by far the most upscale and formal event I’ve ever attended.
It’s all glitz, glamour, and a long list of who’s who, consisting of athletes, celebrities, and public figures.
I’m thankful for my background in etiquette and how to interact in this kind of setting. But instead of spending much time making small but meaningful talk with strangers, Connor whisks me onto the dancefloor.
We slow dance and pick up the tempo to the fast songs. He even knows the pasodoble. I’m a bit rusty and it wasn’t part of my classical training, however, I picked up a lot over the years. But where did he get these moves?
When we return to a waltz, I say, “Who knew you enjoyed dancing so much?”
“Only with you, Kitty Cat.”
And there we remain for most of the ball before getting in a limo and going for burgers and milkshakes at In & Out. Of course, we share.
We end the night on the beach with the waves washing to shore and a kiss under the stars that threatens to cause a blackout in the city at our backs.
Upon returningto the manor in Concordia, Arthur greets me with a gracious smile as always.
“You gave us a bit of a fright after we learned about your visit to the hospital,” he says, helping me with my bags. “I’m glad to hear you’re feeling better because I don’t know what we’d do here without you. You run a tight ship.”
The sincerity in his eyes makes me feel appreciated. In a way, Arthur and his wife are like grandparents to me. I spend holidays with them and always bring Arthur a pretzel when I shop in the village.
“Thank you.” I can only manage a smile because I’m not sure how much longer any of us will be there.
During the flight back, I caught up on emails and notices. The budget looks graver than ever, but I also had a chance to dig deep into the various accounts owned by the school and discovered some unusual discrepancies.
“How is Mrs. Fitzgerald faring?” I ask.
“Quite well—” Arthur holds up his finger to say something else, but someone cuts across him.
