Chapter 43
“It’s officially Mortification Monday,” Becca mumbled as she parked in her spot and quickly looked at the activity outside the barn and stable.
Sammy acknowledged her with a wave as he hurried to the door leading to the business wing of the barn. He still wore an orthopedic boot and needed a cane, but it looked like he had an easier time getting around.
When she was safely inside the building, she hoped for an uneventful day of hiding from everyone.
Okay, she allowed testily. So, maybe everyone was exaggerating. It was just Jamie she had to avoid now that she’d made a royal fool of herself. She couldn’t face him while her embarrassment was still red hot.
Blocking the memory of her cringe-worthy and reckless behavior wasn’t working. The horrifying scene played on a loop in her mind, leaving her feeling untethered and anxious.
His silence after she left last night weighed heavily on her emotions. She considered calling him to apologize but was still trying to work up the nerve.
Shutting her office door didn’t mean she wouldn’t be bothered, but it did give her a few seconds of heads-up before anyone barged in.
Turning on the ceiling fan and opening the plantation shutters—rustically styled to match the barn vibe—she let the sunshine flood the space without worrying about the heat, thanks to a solar-blocking film that kept the space cool.
Hers was not the largest or fanciest office, but she loved it anyway.
Her morning was filled with busy work. With a gazillion daily tasks required to keep the ranch running, she printed out the week’s activities and reviewed everything.
The kids and their Junior Saddle Club were on the schedule every day. Meghan’s mother, who was in Bendover for the summer, was taking riding lessons. Paul Winston, the over-achieving grandson of Duke Winston—Alex’s all-powerful security chief—was shooting a video for a school project on a day in the life of a modern-day ranchero.
A lot was going on.
An hour before lunch, she looked up from the computer monitor on her desk in time to see Meghan breezing through the door wearing her usual cheerful smile.
“Knock, knock,” the Queen Mother of Family Justice called out as she entered. “I come bearing treats!”
Becca chuckled when she got a load of the little red all-terrain wagon Meghan pulled loaded with coolers holding lord knew what.
“What in the world?” she asked with a laugh.
Meghan flipped open a cooler. “I may not know how to cook, but I do know how to turn on an ice cream maker. Choose your adventure, Becca! We’ve got serious vanilla, chocolate French Silk pie, banana cream, and black cherry!”
“For real?” She excitedly peered into the cooler. Pints of homemade ice cream in containers with the Villa’s logo were neatly stacked and labeled. “Mmm, chocolate. Hard to pass up.”
“Good choice,” Meghan exclaimed. “Ma makes a killer French Silk Pie—Da’s favorite. She helped develop this recipe. It’s wicked awesome!”
Becca loved it when Meghan’s Boston Irish made an appearance.
Opening a flap on a tote bag, Meghan reached in, produced a spoon and a napkin, and handed them to her.
“You have a fridge, right?” Meghan glanced about until she found the small appliance tucked beside a bookcase. “Do you want an extra pint to keep on hand?”
She laughed at the suggestion but readily accepted a second pint. “Black Cherry.”
They lounged in the two chairs at her desk, eating ice cream and chatting.
“I’ve informed the Ladies that your application is pending. Stephanie, of course, was especially delighted to hear I’d brought you around. She preaches from the women supporting women hymnal.”
“Working with her has taught me so much. She’s a fantastic boss and role model. Taking care of things while she’s gone was scary at first.”
“You’re a natural leader. The military gave you an awesome skill set. I can tell you that Stephanie has never once worried about leaving this place in your capable hands.”
Licking her spoon, Becca smiled. Praise always went down smoothly. “I finally feel like I’ve found my groove. This place saved me—and Kori.”
“You saved yourself. Bendover just provided a place to start over.”
“That means a lot coming from you, Meghan.”
“Don’t give me too much credit. I was a certified mess when I came here. Everyone was, in some form or fashion. The true magic of Bendover is in its redemptive energy. It’s there for those who care to embrace it. I’m glad you found your way. We need more people like you—spirited, determined, capable. Never underestimate your effect on others, Becca. I know that there are people in the community who look at you and say, she did it, so I have to try.”
“For real? Wow. I don’t know why.”
Meghan spooned some ice cream into her mouth and nodded. “Yes, for really real. That talk you gave for the single parents group was powerful stuff. Sharing what it was like to be homeless and desperate—that sort of thing can be inspirational to someone who is struggling.”
“There’s no way to pretty up my story,” she murmured. “And since Kori experienced it with me, brutal honesty is the only way.”
“Things have improved between you and her. When you guys first got here, she wasn’t your biggest fan. Mothers and daughters,” Meghan sighed. “No one prepares you for how complicated it gets.”
“Kori blamed me for our situation. She knew what her grandparents did and what a dick her father was. I understood she had to direct her anger and fear somewhere, and that somewhere was me. It wasn’t easy or fun, but we made it through the tough times.”
“She seems cool with you seeing Jamie.”
Becca nodded. “They have an interesting relationship. At first, she couldn’t stand him, but now they’re best buds.”
“And what about you? Hmm? I know it’s early days, but how are things going?”
Slowly licking a mound of ice cream off the spoon, she considered what to say and how to answer.
Meghan had indicated she was a safe place for talking about deeply personal issues—maybe this was the universe telling her to confide her topping faux pas and see what she had to say.
“Things are a little tense at the moment. I, uh, did a stupid?”
Meghan’s perfect eyebrows shot up. “Are you making a statement or asking a question?”
Shoving the spoon into the middle of the half-eaten pint of ice cream, she gave a loud sigh, put the container on the desk, and shifted to look at Meghan.
“Not a question—I know what I did was stupid.”
“Did this stupid involve saying shut up, talking back, being a deliberate brat, or a bitch?”
“No,” Becca mumbled sullenly. “It involved me not thinking.” She nibbled her lip and pushed her hair behind her ears. “He, uh, called it topping.”
Meghan nearly choked, so she stuck the spoon into the container and set it aside.
“Oh dear,” she tut-tutted. “I bet that went over like a belch in church.”
“I had no idea,” Becca hastily defended. “But then he explained it in a way that made me cringe and left me mortified.”
“I can tell you first-hand that the embarrassment never goes away.”
Becca gasped. “You too?”
“Oh, yeah,” Meghan nodded. “And more than once. Obedience is sorta my downfall every time.”
“I don’t know what to do,” she bawled. “He’s gone radio silent.”
“Just a guess here, Becca, but I’d put money on him giving you space to think about it. Silence is a powerful tool.”
“What should I do?”
Meghan chuckled. “I have no idea because only you know what’s what with you and him. But if you’re asking what I did—what I’ve done—each instance is different. Can I assume this was a level one infraction without asking for details? Shot down at the start?”
“Yeah.”
“Then it’s simple. You fucked up on a basic principle—topping from the bottom is a huge no-no. Learn from it, own the mistake, and respond. Get on your knees, explain that you understand what you did was inappropriate, and you learned from it.”
The scene Meghan painted felt right to Becca. She had to take responsibility and accept her punishment—even if the form of discipline employed was silence.
“I don’t need to know how far along the learning curve you are, so I’ll just say this. Getting on your knees is not a sexual act. You don’t need to be naked—that’s movie nonsense. Sure, there may be times when something like that is okay, but teachable moments and simple apologies are best without a lot of fuss.”
“Is it always this complicated?”
“The complications are a two-way street. Responsibility lies in both of your hands. Again, this is just me, but I find communication is key. Even when you’re wrong, you have to communicate.”
“Thank you. I needed to talk to someone who wouldn’t clutch their pearls.”
Meghan laughed. “We are so not pearl clutchers,” she exclaimed. “But I think at the next Justice Ladies meeting, I’ll suggest we all get matching pearls. Inside jokes are the best!”
* * *
Jamie putteredaround his office at the veterinary clinic. He didn’t like anyone else touching his desk or his stuff, so once a week, he dusted and tidied up—this way, all the night cleaners had to do was empty the trash and clean the floors.
As he had at least once an hour since the last time he saw Rebecca, he thought about calling her. Leaving her alone was killing him, but he knew it had to be this way for their relationship to grow. Conceptually, she was nervously but enthusiastically on board. However, she was still a novice in the nuanced dance of a D/s couple.
After emptying a bag of treats into the Tardis cookie jar, he moved from the desk to a bookcase shelf. His eyes kept darting to the phone, willing it to ring.
This was, in fact, his first rodeo as a Dom. Even though he knew the role came with serious responsibility, he was unnerved by his emotional response to drawing a line and putting his foot down. Rebecca wasn’t alone as she struggled to find her footing.
Since there wasn’t a one-size-fits-all manual chock full of practical solutions for a modern-day D/s arrangement, he was quite literally making it up as he went along, following his instincts because, at the end of the day, he had absolute faith in himself.
Cocky? Sure. Arrogant and boastful? Okay, fine. No matter what anyone called it, listening to your gut was the only way.
Reaching into his work tote, he retrieved an antique magnifying glass and letter opener wrapped in a piece of fabric—a gift from his sister. He had a habit of bringing décor into his space which he deemed personal. These things helped ground him.
Keeping an eye on the clock, he finished rearranging, stashed the dusting supplies in a cabinet, and sat at his desk.
Now what?
Rebecca’s crestfallen exit after he called out her behavior flashed in his mind. To her credit, she showed tremendous spirit by keeping her head up, but the shame in her eyes told a different story.
He still sensed her agony almost a full day later. If she didn’t know what to do, Jamie suspected uncertainty was eating her up, andhe should throw her a lifeline.
“That’s the ticket,” he congratulated himself out loud. “She’ll think more clearly with a bit of assurance.”
He reached for his phone and went to the contact info for the florist in Sedona who did displays for Justice. He hit the call button.
Technology has made ordering effortless. As he spoke directly with the designer, she texted him pictures with examples. It took about fifteen minutes to decide on a funky but charming ceramic pitcher holding a summery arrangement with roses and miniature carnations in peach, spruced up with raspberry and deep pink accents. The greenery came from silver dust and sprigs of huckleberry.
Had he micro-managed everything from the packaging to specific instructions for the delivery person? Fuck, yeah. The floral gesture was meaningful, and besides, he was a control junkie, so there was always that.
Satisfied that he’d done the right thing, he settled down just a bit. His nervousness was sure to hang on until he saw her face-to-face.
* * *
Becca sawthe delivery van parked outside her house as soon as she’d turned onto the street.
“Am I expecting a package of some kind?”
Claiming her usual spot in the driveway, she hurriedly grabbed her purse and work bag, then slid out of the van.
“Hi,” a friendly voice called out, announcing their presence. “Mrs. Tate?”
“That’s me,” she answered.
Marching to the porch, she heard the side door of the delivery vehicle slide open.
Unlocking the front door, she turned off the alarm system, dropped her keys in the bowl, and left her purse and bag on the floor.
When she spun around, the delivery guy was standing on her modest half-porch, holding a flower arrangement.
Hope exploded inside her when she realized what might be happening.
Opening the screen door, she accepted the delivery, immediately burying her nose in the roses and inhaling.
“This is also for you.” The guy handed her a small gold box that she knew held four chocolate truffles.
“Thank you,” she exclaimed. “What a lovely surprise at the end of a crazy day!”
Saluting, he agreed with a smile and a nod, then hurried back to his van.
Going inside and closing the door against the heat, she marveled at the arrangement, taking it into the living room to read the card stuck amongst the greenery.
Her fingers shook as she read the message. In bold letters, the florist had scrawled Jamie. Then, in a smaller postscript, wrote, Bring the chocolates—the date and time are entirely up to you.
Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god!
Considering a course of action took no time at all because, as luck had it, Kori and Phoebe decided to have a binge-watching sleepover. Holly assured her it was fine—she had a secret plan to have the girls help her make goody bags for her party business.
“Thank you,” she shouted to whatever benevolent power was listening.
An evening entirely to myself!
Squee!
With no shame in her game, she went straight to her bedroom and stripped off her work clothes. As she stuffed everything into the hamper, she thought about something Jamie had said—how if she had spent a whole day baking an inedible cake while thinking about him, the result would have been a thousand times better than the improvised shitshow she showed up with.
“Be in the moment, gurl,” she murmured. “See it, own it, do it.”
From that moment on, everything she did was deliberate as she got ready to address her behavior.
One hour and forty-two minutes later, she was back in the van and on her way to the Villa.