Chapter 5 #2
I wait to see if Cassie will say anything about my verbal blunder, but she takes a sip of wine and toys with her hair. She has it down instead of in a topknot this evening, and I think about how it will feel to wrap my fingers up in it and tug.
“So…you swear you’re not married?”
I sputter into my wineglass at the abruptness of the question. I shake my head and set down the glass. “Cross my heart and hope to die, I’m not married. Never have been.”
“Good. That’s good.”
“No girlfriend, either. Or fiancée. Or regular fuck buddy, in case you’re wondering.”
I watch her brows lift in surprise, and I can tell she wants to ask more.
I consider telling her right then and there about my abysmal track record with women.
About how one girlfriend after another chose to cut and run when she realized life with me wasn’t all luxury spa getaways and shopping trips to Paris.
It’s picnics in the park with Junie. It’s battling the system to make sure she has every opportunity she can get. It’s about letting my kid sister know I have her back, no matter what.
But sharing that much detail with Cassie would open the door to questions I’m not ready to answer.
Instead, I settle for a half-truth. “Serious relationships aren’t really my thing,” I tell her. “I’m just not cut out for it.”
She nods and sips her wine, and I’m glad to see no trace of disappointment on her face. In fact, she looks relieved.
“Good,” she says. “They’re not my thing, either.”
“You’ve never been married?”
“Nope. Not planning on it, either. I’m not really wired to be a good little wifey, planning dinner parties and playing tennis at the country club.”
“And that’s a requirement of marriage?”
“It is in my family.”
“I see.”
“My sisters are—”
She stops herself there, and I wonder what she was about to say.
Her expression is soft, almost wistful. When she speaks again, her voice is lower.
“I love them dearly. Lisa taught me to ride a bike, and Missy once slapped a boy on the playground after he made fun of me for having dirty fingernails.”
“But?”
I’m not sure how I know there’s a “but,” but I can tell from her expression there is.
“But,” she acknowledges, “we don’t have a lot in common. They like designer clothes and Pinterest boards of hydrangeas and expensive jewelry. And even though I’m glad they’ve both found the things that make them happy, they’re not the same things that make me happy.”
I sense I’ve stumbled into touchy territory, and I feel relieved I’ve told her nothing about my career.
If her family’s hell-bent on seeing Cassie married off to a guy whose finances give her the luxury of spending afternoons polishing her toenails on a yacht, it’s wise for me not to let on that I’m that guy.
On paper, anyway. Certainly not in real life.
Full disclosure: I don’t own a yacht.
I can see Cassie squirming beside me on the sofa, and I wonder if it’s best to just stop the chitchat and get on with what we’ve decided to do.
What we both want most from each other. She senses my eyes on her and looks up.
When those green eyes lock with mine, I feel a jolt of heat arc through me.
From her sharp intake of breath, I can tell she feels it, too.
Something primal. Something carnal. Something that has nothing at all to do with money or relationships or anything of the sort.
“Okay, then.” I clear my throat. “We’re going for item number two this evening, correct?”
“That’s correct.” Her cheeks turn a few hues rosier, and I’m not sure if it’s the ridiculousness of our formality, or the thought of what item number two is that’s making her blush.
“Hair pulling,” I say, deciding to put it out there. “And spanking with a kitchen implement of some sort, if I’m not mistaken. Any particular reason?”
I don’t know why I ask, since she doesn’t need a reason for wanting her ass smacked. It makes no difference to me, and I’m happy to oblige either way. I’m almost surprised when she answers.
“Yeah.” She takes a small swallow of wine and seems to choose her words carefully. “I told that particular fib last year when my sisters were giving me a hard time about being a terrible cook. I am, by the way. It’s never really bothered me before, but that day—”
She shrugs in a way that says a lot more than it would have if she’d completed the sentence. I nod, hoping she’ll continue.
“Anyway,” she says, “Lisa made a crack about me not knowing where my own kitchen was, and I fired back that I knew exactly where it was because some hot guy bent me over the counter the week before and yanked my hair while he smacked my ass with a spatula.”
I take a big gulp of wine and wonder if this story is supposed to be turning me on. It is. “And they bought your story?”
“Yeah. I knew they would. Their book club read 50 Shades of Grey a few years ago. I heard them all talking about the spanking parts, and they sounded scandalized.”
She says the word with a tone of reverence, and I can see why she’d want that. Why she’d crave that sort of response from people who’ve looked down their noses at her. I watch as she takes a small sip of wine.
“I love my sisters,” she says at last. “It’s complicated.”
“Family usually is.”
Her eyes meet mine, and for a moment we just look at each other. I feel like I’m swimming in those bold green pools, and I’ve almost forgotten what I came here to do.
“The thing is, my sisters are really—uptight,” she says. “And really, really girly.”
“Girly,” I repeat. “You keep using that word. What do you mean, exactly?”
She shrugs and takes a sip of her wine. “They’re always in skirts and dresses and heels. Well, unless they’re going to their country club for the latest trendy workout. Then they’re all decked out in pink Lululemon.”
“I don’t know what pink Lululemon is, but it sounds delicious.”
She laughs and shakes her head. “It’s designer workout gear, but you’re on the right track with the delicious thing. They’re always drying herbs and testing out gourmet recipes or hosting these elaborate wine dinners. They’re the ultimate put-together, ultra-feminine hostesses.”
“I see.” I sip my own wine and stretch one arm over the back of the sofa. I’m not trying to put my arm around her, exactly, but I do enjoy the feel of her hair tickling my wrist. “Are you saying you’re not the ultimate put-together, ultra-feminine hostess?”
“God, no!” She looks horrified for an instant, then softens her expression.
“I don’t mean to disparage my sisters. They mean well.
It’s just—well, I play with dirt for a living.
Lisa—she’s a couple years younger than Missy—she asked for a curling iron for her eighth birthday. I asked for a microscope.”
“This is starting to make sense now.”
And it is. Just these few tidbits of information about Cassie are letting me understand where she’s coming from. What makes her tick.
“They loved the kitchen spanking story,” she says a little wistfully. “Know what’s dumb?”
“What’s that?”
“I’m not even sure I know what a spatula is.”
“A spatula?” I frown and try to conjure an image of my own collection of kitchen gadgets. “What do you mean? It’s that tool you use to flip pancakes, isn’t it?”
“That’s the thing. When I told them the story, I was picturing one of those wand-looking gadgets with the rubber-smacky part on the end.”
I frown, completely clueless what the hell she’s talking about. “Like a turkey baster?”
“No, that’s not it at all.” She stands up and starts toward the kitchen with her wineglass in hand. I follow suit, not sure whether I’m more intrigued by the mystery kitchen gadget or by the sway of Cassie’s hips in that skirt.
She halts beside the stove and drags a big terracotta pot of utensils across the counter. Plucking one from the bouquet of silicone and metal, she holds it up for me to inspect. “This. Isn’t this a spatula?”
The tool she’s holding is what my mom used to scrape brownie batter off the sides of a mixing bowl.
I feel a pang of sadness at the memory of my mother, who died in a car wreck with my dad ten years ago.
It’s a weird contrast to how turned-on I feel with Cassie standing in front of me holding the kitchen implement like a flogger.
“That’s a rubber scraper,” I tell her.“ At least that’s what my mother and grandmother always called it.”
“A rubber scraper?” She frowns like I might be making this up.
“It’s true.” I lean against the counter and take a sip of wine. “Then I got to middle school and learned what a rubber was. I started snickering every time my mom asked me to hand her the rubber scraper, so she stopped calling it that after a while.”
Cassie laughs and sets the gadget down on the counter. She plucks another utensil from the collection and holds it up. “So, this must be a spatula, then?”
I can’t believe she’s asking me, or that I’m honestly not sure. Is it more surprising that we’re having this conversation as foreplay to BDSM or that I’m not actually certain about the names of kitchen utensils?
I look at the one she’s holding up and shrug. “I always called that a flipper. You know, for flipping pancakes?”
“You make pancakes?”
“Sure.”
She looks oddly in awe of this, and I feel an unexpected swell of pride. I came here hoping to wow her with my hair-pulling, ass-smacking alpha-maleness, and here she is looking impressed by my culinary skills.
“That’s the tool I grab whenever I need to flip pancakes or grilled cheese sandwiches,” I continue. “I guess that’s why I’ve always called it a flipper.”
Cassie gives the flipper a rueful glare. “Then which one is the spatula?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe different people call them different things?”
Cassie sighs. “Getting through The List is going to be more complicated than I thought.”
I love that she’s trying so hard to get this right. That it matters to her that the kitchen gadget I use to smack her ass is called by the correct name.
“You said your sisters cook a lot, right?”