Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 68354 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 342(@200wpm)___ 273(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68354 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 342(@200wpm)___ 273(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
I walk in silence ahead of her and she follows, until we’ve reached the secluded round table on the rooftop. It’s a pleasantly warm fall evening, and a gentle breeze kicks up. The tables are laden with white fabric tablecloths and little bud vases with single stems of white roses. Pleasant strings of classical music plays in the background. I normally dine here alone, and this is the first time I’ve brought a guest.
“Well isn’t this place fancy,” she says, but I can’t tell if her tone is derisive or teasing.
“It’s fine,” I mutter, pulling out her chair for her.
“Why’d you do that?” she asks.
“Do what?”
“Pull out the chair for me.”
Is she serious?
“Because I’m a gentleman,” I tell her. “Now sit your ass down.”
With a snort, she plunks herself down and I adjust her at the table.
“Gentleman my ass,” she mutters. “I don’t know if a gentleman would tell me to sit my ass down.”
“You’d try the patience of a saint,” I tell her, taking my own seat across from her and signaling the waiter to bring us the wine menu.
“And what would I do to a sinner?” Her eyes are bright but dancing, I only catch them for a second before she casts her gaze away and eyes a roll from the basket on the table. She doesn’t touch it.
“Time will tell.”
That brings the faint flush to her cheeks that I love. Reaching for a roll myself, I butter it and we sit in comfortable silence. She still eats nothing.
“No food menu,” she says.
“We don’t need one,” I tell her. “I know exactly what to order.”
“Is that right?” she asks. Leaning across the table, she lowers her voice. “You don’t know me at all. How would you know what I like?”
And suddenly, I’m not sure we’re talking about dinner.
I lean closer to her, take a bread roll from the basket, and rip it open. Steam wafts in the air between us, while I slather some butter on the roll. I hand it to her.
“Because you’re predictable,” I tell her. “And reading you is like reading a first-grade primer.”
It astonishes me how quickly those eyes go from curious to angry in a split second.
“I’m not a primer,” she chokes out.
“Didn’t say you were.”
“You did!”
“Did not.”
“You just said—”
“I said you were easy to read, not that you were the primer. Oh, no. Not at all, Cora. You’re far more complex than that.”
She takes a savage bite out of the roll while glaring at me.
“Keep scowling at me like that, your face could get stuck that way,” I tell her, remembering the old adage my grandma taught me.
“Oh?” she says. “Tell me why I’m so easy to read. What am I saying with my body language or whatever?”
The waiter comes to our table, so I order a bottle of wine for us both. The waiter pours us each a glass, and when we’re finally alone, I give her my answer.
“It’s partly in your body language,” I tell her. “You’re overwhelmed and busy, and while other people you go to school with are stressing over mid-terms and exams, and what to wear, you’re worried about paying your bills. Making sure your brother and sister get what they need. Keeping your grades high while you juggle the responsibilities a woman your age shouldn’t have to bear.”
She’s stopped chewing, but the side of her cheek bulges out, like she’s got half a loaf in there she forgot what to do with.
Finally, she swallows. “Well, that’s obvious,” she says. “Any college student who was guardian to their siblings would feel the same.”
“Maybe,” I allow. “But that isn’t all I’m reading from you.”
She lifts her wine and drains half the glass in one large gulp,
I barely stifle a smile. I’m getting to her.
“What else is there?” she says with a shoulder shrug.
I take a slow drink from my wine glass while I carefully formulate my reply.
“The other night at Verge,” I tell her. “You were looking for something or someone. Something to keep your mind off whatever it is that troubles you. Someone who would be willing to do that for you.”
“I was not,” she says, finishing her glass of wine.
“Don’t lie to yourself, sweetheart,” I tell her. “And don’t lie to me. You’re a bartender at the most well-respected kink club in the state. And you didn’t want to know what it was like to submit?”
“I—it was more curiosity than anything,” she says. “But laying over your lap for a spanking is hardly the same as looking for someone to relieve me of my responsibilities.”
I shake my head. “You can deny what’s written right across your face, Cora,” I tell her. “You want someone to take care of you. Protect you. Someone you can rely on.”
This time, she doesn’t respond at first, but sits immobile at the table. She doesn’t touch the bread or wine, but just sits. Contemplating?