Chapter 7 #3
Not all men. I get that. Erik and Alex might be a good example.
He seemed completely enamored with her work and a hundred and ten percent behind whatever she turned her attention to.
But add in homes, families and children, and things had at least historically skewed that way.
I didn’t think they would with Ford. Not that we were having a relationship.
We were negotiating its antithesis. I was fervently ignoring for now that, in and of itself, might be its own kind of relationship.
“Friends with benefits. No romantic entanglement. Just a chance to explore the physical thing we seem to have. But.” I held up my index finger the way I would if I was making an important point in court.
“We have no emotional expectations. Even the friend part implies an unnecessary level of intimacy but it also implies a level of decency and integrity in the way we treat each other so I’m okay with it.
” Nothing sexier than morality talk when trying to set up a way to explore all the filthy things I wanted us to do with each other.
Ford looked unfazed.
“Okay. But.” He held his index finger up, mirroring my previous gesture. “I want an addendum.”
“A what?”
“An addendum. An addition. Supplemental terms. A clarification.”
His lips curved in that cocky grin I was getting way too used to. It had the conflicting effect of making me want to kiss him and bite him at the same time. Neither impulse served me at the moment.
“I know what an addendum is, Ford. What are your terms?”
––––––––
THIS NEXT BIT was going to be tricky. I hadn’t expected Charlotte to show up in the bar to thank me personally.
I absolutely hadn’t thought she’d show up with a proposal that got me exactly what I wanted.
Or, rather, would get me exactly what I wanted if I negotiated the terms right.
Negotiating anything with Charlotte demanded my complete attention.
I had no doubt she could run circles around me if I let her and that she’d be more than willing to use her considerable advantage to get what she wanted.
I also knew she’d never back down and that once she agreed to something, she’d hold us both to it.
I ran through the possibilities in my head. I wanted to propose a one-for-one kind of thing. One naked encounter and one time with our clothes on, in equal proportions. But that sounded too much like a relationship and made it too easy for her to call foul and walk out the door.
What I really wanted was more time with Charlotte.
Time to work past the artificial barriers and see if there was something else there—beyond the fucking phenomenal sex which, up until I had her in my arms, would have been enough.
Still would be if that’s all we got. I’d accept it and be grateful. I just wanted a chance to try for more.
I watched her watching me, saw the way she puzzled through what she thought I was thinking, like she was unraveling my as yet unformed plans. I panicked.
“Cooking lessons.” Cooking lessons? How was that going to help?
But the more I thought about it, the better I felt.
It gave us a chance to do something together.
Something with a strong sensual component.
People had been using food as a tool for seduction longer than alcohol.
I knew she didn’t know how to cook, and her inherent curiosity would keep her engaged.
By the time I worked through all of that in my head, I was feeling kind of brilliant and Charlotte was looking at me like I was a little—or a lot—off.
“I want us to have sex, and you want us to cook together? I’m honestly not sure how to feel about that.”
“In fairness, I want us to have sex too. I’ve got a running list of filthy things I want us to do together and another list of all the ways I want to make you come.
The cooking is an addendum, not a substitution.
I want both.” I’d put it out there. Now I waited to see what she’d say.
It was like fishing for a sexy lawyer. I had to stay quiet, wiggle the bait, and see if she’d take the hook.
I had to stop my thoughts from spiraling to crazy places before I blurted out something about fish.
“What kind of cooking lessons?”
I gripped the counter to keep from smoothing the crease in her forehead with my thumb.
I loved watching this woman think. Even more, I loved the way she didn’t school her expressions when we were together.
My inherent nature and years behind a bar made me more observant than most. Not in the Sherlock Holmes I see from the mud on your shoes, you’ve been in the north counties way.
In the I can tell you’re interested in trying something, but you’re scared kind of way.
When I paid attention—something I always did where she was concerned—I had a decent shot at reading Charlotte.
But if I’d honed my skills at observation, she’d developed an equal or greater skill at hiding her thoughts.
She could hide from me if she wanted to.
I fucking loved that, for whatever reason, she seemed okay with me seeing her.
The real woman, not the curated version.
“Standard low country food, Creole like my meme cooked, and anything else you’re interested in. I want to do something more involved than mid-coital omelets but it doesn’t have to be more complicated than you want.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?” I didn’t want to jump the gun and start celebrating too soon, but it sounded like she’d agreed to everything I wanted. Or, rather, to everything I felt safe asking for to start. We could work up to the rest.
“Why not. Four weeks. We meet once a week for sex and once a week for cooking lessons. But...” She held up her finger again.
I knew I was getting ahead of myself. Charlotte would always have conditions.
“When we’re cooking, we’re just friends. Completely platonic. No kissing. Nothing romantic. It would be too easy to blur boundaries.”
Which was kind of the idea, but that was okay.
A month was long enough to see if there really was something beyond the phenomenal chemistry.
Time together gave me something to work with and friends was more than we’d had at the start.
I could see she was still turning something over in her head.
I forced myself to wait and let her finish her conditions before I agreed like an overeager prom date.
“Scheduling is going to be a challenge. I don’t spend this much time on anything outside of work, but it’s important the cooking and the sex aren’t too close together.
Twenty-four hours apart, at least. I mean it, Ford.
We can’t blur the lines. If either of us starts to get too emotionally involved, I’m pulling the plug. ”
“Deal.” I held my hand out and watched her expression shift from wariness to cautious acceptance. I loved that she didn’t try to hide her feelings from me. I was going to see it as a positive—something honest between us—and not that she didn’t care enough to bother.