Page 17 of The List
“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?”
