“Hands off. Doctor’s orders.”
“Fine, but we’ll need a cloak of invisibility if Cateline finds us both in here. This is a restricted section.”
After a quick clean up, I follow Pippa to the hallway where I catch my reflection in a large mirror. “I’m not a beast like the other coach said about Grey, so why’d I have to go through with that makeover? I shave almost every day. I’m not a feral animal,” I say, shaking a few loose hairs from my shoulders.
“It’s part of the program. We offer comprehensive top-to-bottom, inside-and-out guidance so you can present the best version of yourself to the world.”
“I guess I was overdue for a haircut. Shonda trimmed it on the sides and along the nape of my neck.”
“You’re admiring. You know what Dumbledore said about the mirror.” Pippa arches her eyebrow.
“That was the mirror ofErisedorDesireif you read it from right to left, but who’s admiring who and what do they desire?”
“Your charms don’t work here, mister.” She pokes me in the upper arm and meets rock-hard muscle.
“Ow. Oh.”
“Did you sprain your finger?”
“Ha ha. Very funny. But speaking of muscles, you have a workout with the trainer.”
“Who said anything about muscles?” I ask, playing coy.
Whether she tries to resist or not, the effect I’m having on her is visible. Pippa’s cheeks are a pleasant shade of pink and her lip is puffy, but we’re so close I could lean in and kiss her forehead right now.
But I don’t. Nope, there’s the playbook. However, if I wasn’t following the rules, I’d draw this out a little longer until it was about to break. If only so she’ll admit there’s something between us.
Continuing down the hall, the backs of our hands brush, sending a tingle through my fingers and landing like a bolt of lightning in my chest.
It fuels me through a killer workout with one of Concordia’s top trainers. Pippa sits on a weight bench and takes notes, probably on the cut muscles of my abs and arms.
As I build up a fine sheen of sweat, I catch her staring a few times. Flirty comments come to my lips, but I won’t say them to Freddie’s sister. I can’t. She’s a lady and deserves a gentleman.
I volunteer to be that guy.
When the session is over, she abruptly gets up and exits to the hallway, where she waits, facing in the opposite direction.
“What’s next, Coach?”
“You can shower, then please meet me in the same classroom as this morning.”
I give her a little salute because I do my best thinking in the shower, and it’ll be about how to win over Pippa Thompson.
Thirty minutes later, I’m sitting at a table with a pen and paper in hand. No, I’m not writing a love note. I wish. Rather, it’s a letter of apology to Elyse Starkowsky, the commissioner’s daughter.
“Do I really have to do this?”
For the third time, Pippa explains the importance of a formal apology and the power behind a handwritten letter.
“Can’t I text her? Write an email?”
“No and no. It’ll be handwritten. Postage paid.” She flutters an envelope.
“Fine.” I make a sincere apology and when I sign my name, a nagging question repeatedly bumps into me. “Would a verbal apology be better?”
“Yes, but unless you plan to see this woman in the next few weeks, this will have to do.”
I lean back in the chair and think about the person I most owe an apology to...and she’s sitting in this room.
