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Now Hannah appeared at the front door and walked quickly down the path toward the driveway. She wore a pale pink, short-sleeved knit top over a floral-patterned skirt that fell to mid-calf, flats on her feet. Her thick, dark hair was pulled back in some kind of twist at the nape of her neck, probably courtesy of Lucia. The only nod to her slave status was the training collar. With its O-rings, it might raise a few brows in town, but only from those in the know.
She climbed into the passenger seat, her eyes bright with expectation, nervous energy radiating from her like an aura. “Permission to speak, Sir?” she asked.
Mason smiled. “Yes. While we are running errands you have carte blanche, no need to ask, and no need for protocol.”
“Oh, good,” Hannah said, perhaps a touch too eagerly. As he drove down the long driveway toward the exit gates, she added, “I used to love going to the butcher and the various farmers’ markets and specialty shops. It’s been a long time since I’ve had anyone to cook for.”
It occurred to Mason he knew next to nothing about Hannah outside of The Enclave, except that she was an author and a widow. “Lucia mentioned you’d lost your husband last year to cancer. I’m sorry for your loss. That’s gotta be really rough, losing your partner so young.”
He glanced at her as he made his way carefully along the dirt road that wound down the mountain. She was blinking rapidly, her eyes bright with sudden tears. Shit. Why had he brought that up?
“Yes,” she said quietly. “It was rough. We’d been together our entire adult lives—just shy of twenty-four years. I was only nineteen when we married…” She trailed off, then gave an abrupt, embarrassed laugh. “Are you sure you want to hear this?”
“I really do,” he asserted, surprising himself. Normally, he took little to no interest in the private lives of the slave trainees that came and went at The Enclave. He enjoyed training and playing with them, as far as it went. Then they left, and that was that.
But Hannah was different. For one thing, she was an excellent dessert chef. He hadn’t really given her a chance with much more than prep work for the main courses, but perhaps he would remedy that. For another, she was sexy as hell. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so attracted to a woman. And the more he got to know her, the more attracted he became.
He glanced at her again as he drove. She was staring out her window, her arms wrapped around her torso. Hoping to distract her from sad thoughts, and also because he was interested, Mason said, “Tell me about your culinary background. You clearly know your way around the kitchen. You’re a top-notch baker. And your prep skills tell me you’ve had at least some formal training. Am I right?”
“Oh, well,” she replied with a flustered laugh. “Actually, you’re looking at a culinary school dropout. I lasted all of four months.”
Mason chuckled. “Why’d you drop out? Wait. Let me guess. Was itthe insanely expensive tuition, the cutthroat competition, the ridiculous hours or the abusive chefs that got to you?”
Hannah laughed. “Those were definitely factors. Then there was the fact of two little kids at home and a husband gunning for partner in his law firm, working sixty-plus hours per week. Not to mention a revolving door of nannies who looked good on paper but could never live up to my expectations. Which isn’t to say I’m sorry I tried it. While I learned a lot, the key thing I figured out was that I don’t have the drive it takes to make it in that kind of environment. Turns out, I’d much rather be at home playing with the kids or sitting with my laptop, tapping out stories, though it would be years before I actually made any money at it.”
She groaned, theatrically slapping her forehead. “Oh, god. Listen to me. Blathering on about stuff I’m sure you have zero interest in.”
Mason chuckled. “Hey, I wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t interested.” He snorted, adding, “Blathering? Is that even a word?”
“Of course it’s a word,” she said, sounding for all the world like his fifth grade teacher. “It means to go on and on about something or, as my meemaw used to say, ‘holding forth.’”
“Yourmeemaw?” Mason repeated incredulously, still laughing. “Seriously?”
“What?” she demanded, affronted but grinning. “Meemaw and Papaw. Perfectly respectable Southern grandparent names. Where are you from, anyway?”
“Upstate New York,” Mason replied.
“Ah, that explains it. A Yankee,” Hannah said.
“Guilty as charged,” Mason agreed. “Though I’ve been down here since graduating culinary school.” They were entering the city of Asheville now, and he eased into the traffic that was getting worse every year.
“Were you ever married?” Hannah asked, adding quickly, “I mean, if that’s not too personal a question.”
“Nah. Turnabout is fair play, after all.” Mason shrugged. “The shortanswer is no. I guess I never found the right woman. Or the time. Forget sixty-hour work weeks. I was clocking up to ninety hours in some of the kitchens I worked in. People hooked up all the time, sure. But no one really had time for a relationship. We would all be so hopped up and overtired by the time the workday ended, often not until two or three in the morning. For a while, the only way I could unwind was with drugs and alcohol. That worked until it didn’t.”
Suddenly aware how much he was sharing, or oversharing, he glanced at Hannah. Based on the somewhat sheltered suburban life she’d described for herself, would she judge him regarding his casual references to hooking up, drinking and drugging?
But all he saw was interest in her expression. She was watching him intently, as if hanging on his every word. While he appreciated her listening so raptly, it also made him uneasy. Especially since he’d just opened that can of worms about his past self-destructive behavior.
Eager to head off any probing questions in that regard, he rushed on, “I eventually saved up enough to open my own restaurant, and then I was even busier. Forget a relationship, I barely had time to breathe. I was burning out by forty. BDSM was my only real release valve. It was my salvation, really. Then I met Anthony and Brandon, and the timing was perfect. They needed a live-in chef. I needed a major change. Win-win all around.”
He pulled into the small parking lot of his favorite local butcher shop and cut the engine. Hannah accompanied him inside.
He asked for her input as he selected various cuts of beef and pork. He was impressed when she made the same selections he would have. Ditto at the fish store and his favorite farmer’s market.
When the car was loaded with provisions, Mason drove to a secluded spot on the edge of town behind a boarded-up warehouse. He left the engine idling as he turned to Hannah. “As of now, we resume your training, sub girl. You will abide by the earlier rules of only speaking when asked a direct question, or first requesting and receiving permission. You will do exactly as I say during the drive. Understood?”
Hannah’s eyes had widened as he spoke. “Yes, Sir.”
