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He waits for some kind of response. Maybe he thinks I’ll grumble that Charlie dared ask me to work on Christmas Eve. But it isn’t in me to complain about anything the Master asks me to do, so I merely shrug.
“So you got any Christmas plans?”
I take a small step back. I’m not used to this kind of directness from anyone, let alone a stranger. A man I don’t know. On a dirt road in the middle of nowhere. I reach down and bury my fingers in Sheba’s ruff. She still hasn’t growled, so I don’t think the man is a threat, but I don’t like him.
“I mean, in case Mac is delayed. You know how airports dick you around and reschedule your flight just to be inconvenient, especially this time of year.”
I can’t tell if the guy is fishing for information on when Charlie would be home or if he’s trying to find out if I’ll be alone again tonight. The creeper. I turn around and start walking toward the house. “Hey, nice to meet you, but I’ve got to get back.”
The SUV rolls alongside, the weirdo still leaning toward me. “I could give you a ride. You’re probably two miles from his place.”
I smile brightly and keep right on walking. “No thanks. Sheba needs the exercise. I don’t mind.”
He chuckles and waves as he speeds up. “Suit yourself. Merry Christmas.”
The dust chokes me but I keep walking. I don’t want to give him an excuse to turn around. Sheba shakes herself and looks up at me as if to saygood riddance, wagging her big tail.
“Yeah, me too.” I frown. The guy didn’t tell me his name, either.
My phone buzzes with a single-word text from Charlie.Hungry?
I’m so fucking hungry—for him, not dinner—that I break out into a run before I can stop myself.
But I’m too far away—and too out of shape—to jog all the way back. I really do hate this kind of exercise. I don’t want to show up gasping and sweating—that’s for later when he’s working me over—so I force myself to walk the last ten minutes. I probably still need a shower, or at least some deodorant, but I’m not going to amble to the Master’s side when he calls.
I never expected to walk into the kitchen and find him cooking. For me.
And oh, it smells incredible. The Master cooking for the slave? It messes with my head in a very good way. I’ve never known a man who can cook, let alone cook well.
“How do you like your steak?”
“Medium,” I reply, washing my hands at the sink.
“Then I’ll throw yours in the oven for a bit.” He used an honest-to-God iron skillet to sear the filets, with liberal butter and mushrooms. Holy calories, no wonder it smells so good. That’s my only excuse for not noticing all the candles he lit. Or how incredible he looks in a white T-shirt and ragged jeans. Barefoot and in the kitchen. I never dreamed of a Master like him.
“Is there something I can do?”
“There’s a salad in the fridge. Just set it and the dressing on the table.”
Damn, a man who eats veggies when steak is on the table. Now I really did die and go to heaven. The dressing isn’t store-bought, either, unless he deliberately took it out of its original bottle and put it into a glass cruet. “How’d you learn to cook like this?”
“Easy. I like to eat.” He winks at me over the stove, flashing that dimple. “Actually, I fell in love with wine first, then I learned a few dishes that pair well with my favorites. I don’t know how to make that many different things. Do you enjoy cooking?”
“I’m more of a baker. Cookies, cakes, that sort of thing, though I’ve gotten out of the habit.”
“Cheesecake?” That must be his favorite dessert. It’s the second time he mentioned it.
I pretend to think for a moment, as if I’m flipping through my mental recipe box. “Hmm, maybe. Seems like I used to make a chocolate cheesecake topped with a surprisingly decent raspberry sauce.”
“Sign me up for that one.” He pulls the skillet out of the oven, plates my steak and adds a crusty salted baked potato. “Why’d you stop baking?”
I shrug, trying to blow off the question with a flippant response. “I got tired of dieting.”
He hands my plate to me but doesn’t let go of it, waiting until I meet his eyes. He doesn’t have to order me to tell the truth. “I prefer to bake for others. I didn’t have anyone to bake for any longer, so I stopped.”
He releases my plate as a reward for my honesty. Grabbing his own, he comes around the bar and joins me at the small breakfast nook table. Three fat pillar candles light the table, while he lit at least a dozen votives on the counter behind us, the window sill and the decorative shelves on the wall. “What troubles me the most is that you gave up something you enjoy because the relationship ended. Were you punishing yourself?”
He set the chairs close together instead of opposite each other. I can still see him by keeping my head slightly angled in his direction, but I can also gain some space by looking out the large bay window into the backyard. Did he do that on purpose, giving me a little respite from his intensity? “I don’t think so. I put a lot of myself into baking, and I didn’t feel like I had anything left of myself to bake again. I didn’t have the desire to go into the kitchen and spend the time making a chocolate ganache when I had no one to share it with.”
