Follow Me Under

by HELEN HARDT

  I smile. My mousse turns out perfectly fluffy…and delicious after a taste test. I gently spoon it into parfait glasses, snap a quick pic, and set them back in the refrigerator.

  Back to my étouffée. I rinse, cut, and process the peppers, and then add them to the skillet. Time to turn on the heat. While my étouffée sauce is cooking and reducing, I snap a photo. Then I open the door to the walk-in pantry and find a bag of long-grain rice.

  Mmm. The aroma of my étouffée makes my mouth water.

  I’m pleased with myself.

  And that’s a welcome feeling after most of today.

  Marilyn pops her head into the kitchen. “Smells amazing! Is there anything I can help you with?”

  “Thanks, but no.” I want this to be my gift to Braden this evening.

  Now, for a wine with dinner…

  Braden has a refrigerated wine cabinet in the kitchen and a wine rack in the dining room. Maybe I need Marilyn’s help after all. I’m not sure how to choose a wine. I tend to drink red with everything, but Braden did order a white with our oysters and seafood the first time we dined together. Perhaps he’d prefer white with shrimp.

  I run my fingertips over the green bottles in the wine rack. Syrah. Too dark for shrimp. Beaujolais. That’s a light red that’s drunk young. Could work, but I’m not sure.

  Light bulb moment.

  I’ll ask Braden to choose the wine.

  Perfect.

  But we’ll start with Wild Turkey neat, of course.

  Crap! That means I should have an appetizer with the bourbon.

  Back to the kitchen, where I rummage through the pantry while my étouffée simmers. What will go nicely with my spicy entree? It’s not like I have the ingredients to make alligator bites or boudin balls, and I don’t even like the latter.

  A bag of raw almonds catches my eye. Perfect. I’ll pan roast them with some Cajun seasoning, and they’ll be delicious with our Wild Turkey.

  I find another pan, begin the process, and then check the étouffée. It’s ready for the shrimp. I add it, give everything a quick stir, and let it continue to simmer. Time to begin the rice, as well. I snap two more photos.

  Ten minutes later, dinner is nearly complete.

  Braden has yet to make an appearance. I check my watch. Ten until six. Marilyn said he wanted his dinner at six, so he should be coming out of his office shortly.

  My heart skips.

  Will he be pleased with the meal? With me?

  He loves me, but he’s so hard to read sometimes.

  Correction—all the time. Except in the bedroom.

  The bedroom, where I’ve given him my control.

  And even then, I never quite know for sure.

  I sigh.

  Nothing more to do. Dinner is warming on the stove and is ready to be served. One more photo of the étouffé when I plate it, and then I’ll post the series.

  I look down at myself.

  I’m still in my yoga outfit, and because I neglected to find an apron, I have spatters down the front of me.

  Great.

  I regard my watch again.

  Five minutes until six.

  Time to race up to my room on the second floor and hope I find something I can change into.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  At six o’clock p.m. sharp, I descend the staircase wearing a green sundress I found in my closet. It fits me like a glove, and I added brown leather sandals. I didn’t have a chance to do any more than pull my hair out of its ponytail and run my fingers through it. I painted on some of the Honey Glaze lip gloss and that’s it.

  This is me as I am.

  Braden still hasn’t come out of his office, and I sigh in relief.

  Now what?

  I haven’t set the table, so I find dishes in the cupboards and take care of that. Then I pour two Wild Turkeys.

  And I wait.

  And wait.

  And wait some more.

  The clock ticks.

  I return to the kitchen, turn off the stove, and cover the étouffée to keep it warm. I return to the dining room and eat a couple of my Cajun almonds. Yum.

  Finally Braden emerges.

  My breath catches.

  He’s in jeans and a T-shirt, and he’s fucking luscious.

  Have I ever seen him dressed so casually? Other than the black pants and no shirt at the club in New York, and that didn’t strike me as casual at all. He was dressed for the club.

  “Skye,” he says. Then he inhales. “Something smells amazing. What did Marilyn prepare for us?”

  “Nothing,” I say, smiling like a giddy schoolgirl.

  “Nothing?”

  “Marilyn didn’t make dinner tonight. I did.” I hand him his glass of bourbon and then hold up the bowl of freshly pan-roasted almonds. “Cajun almonds. Try one and then take a sip of Wild Turkey.”

  “Skye…”

  I lift my eyebrows. “Yes?”

  “We didn’t have plans tonight.”

  “I know, but I wanted to see you.” I stride toward him, hoping I look more seductive than I feel. “Is that wrong?”

  “It’s…” He rakes his fingers through his hair. “It’s not wrong.”

  “Then what’s the matter? Do you have someone else coming over here?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Then why can’t I come over and surprise my boyfriend with dinner?” I close the distance between us to the point that I’m nearly touching him.

  “God, your mouth,” he rasps.

  I smile. “I wanted to cook for you. I hope you like Cajun food.”

  “I love it.”

  “Good. I made shrimp étouffée. Why don’t you pick out a wine for us? You know so much more about that stuff than I do.”

  He sighs. “Skye…”

  I step back, getting irritated. “What? What is it, Braden?”

  “I didn’t give you permission for this.”

  I roll my eyes. “Are we really going to go there, Braden? I’ve had a shit day. I wanted to do something that made me feel good. It made me feel good to come over here and cook for you. Do I need permission to do something nice for the man I love?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  Which gives me my answer.

  Finally, “I’m sorry you had a bad day,” he says.

  I set down my drink and fall into his arms. “That is just what I needed to hear.”

  He kisses the top of my head. “Can I help?”

  I pull back and meet his gaze. “You can help by picking out a bottle of wine and then eating the dinner I made for you.”

  “All right.” He walks toward the wine rack, pulls out a bottle, and returns. “This Beaujolais-Villages will be perfect. It’s light in body, and its acidity will complement the food.”

  I take the bottle from him, secretly pleased. It was one I considered. “Sounds perfect.” I set it on the table.

  He nods, still stoic.

  “Something’s bothering you still.”

  “It’s not what you think it is.”

  “So you’re not bothered that I showed up and commandeered your kitchen?”

  “No, Skye. I’m not.”

  “Then what is it?”

  He touches my cheek. “I’m bothered that I’m not bothered that you showed up and commandeered my kitchen.”

  My mouth drops open.

  “Don’t look so surprised.”

  “Why should you want to be bothered by this? We’re in a relationship, Braden.”

  “Skye, you know I made a lot of concessions for you.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know. You didn’t want a relationship. But you changed your mind. I didn’t make you change your mind.”

  “I know that.”

  “Don’t tell me,” I
say. “It bothers you that you changed your mind.”

  “A little.”

  My heart drops. He loves me. He changed his mind on relationships for me.

  But it’s bothering him.

  Still so much I don’t know.

  He avoids relationships for a reason—a reason I need to uncover if I’m ever going to truly know him.

  Uncovering it will be a huge task—one I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to complete.

  One thing’s for sure. This has made me forget, if only for a few minutes, about the shitty day I had.

  I sigh. “I made this meal. Will you please sit down and eat it with me?”

  He trails his index finger over my lower lip. “Of course.”

  I hold back another sigh. “Have a seat, then, and open the wine, okay? I’ll serve the dinner.” I walk back to the kitchen.

  I spoon rice onto plates and then take the lid off the étouffée.

  And my heart sinks.

  I meant to turn off the burner. I was sure I had, but in a kitchen I’m not used to, I turned the knob the wrong way.

  My étouffée has cooked down to nothing except some rubbery shrimp and a sauce the consistency of wallpaper paste.

  Ruined.

  Completely ruined.

  I choke back a sob.

  I’ve never cried in front of Braden, but I fear I won’t be able to stop myself now.

  I lost Tessa today.

  I did a half-assed Instagram post.

  I’m losing myself.

  And now this.

  My dinner—my beautiful dinner that I prepared for the man I love—is ruined.

  I can’t serve Braden a plate of plain rice.

  I slide to the floor, my dress riding up. My head falls into my hands as I work hard to hold back the sobs that really want to come pouring out of me.

  How much time passes, I have no idea.

  But eventually, Braden’s jeans-clad legs appear in front of me. “Skye?”

  Then the tears come.

  I can’t stop them.

  I try. Truly I do. I heave and gasp and try to swallow them into nothingness.

  None of it works.

  He drops down next to me and touches my cheek. “What’s the matter?”

  “It’s ruined. Dinner is ruined.”

  “What happened?”

  “Instead of turning the burner off, I turned it to high. Much longer and it would have scorched the bottom, and your whole penthouse would smell like burned étouffée.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “It’s not okay. Not even slightly. It was delicious, Braden. The best étouffée I ever made, and I ruined it.”

  “I’ll take you out. Wherever you want to go.”

  “Nowhere. I don’t want to go anywhere. This day can just go to hell.”

  “Surely you can’t be this upset over a burned dish.”

  “I am.”

  “Skye… Don’t lie to me.”

  I erupt then, like Mount St. Helens. I pour out everything that happened today. How I lost my best friend. How I nearly forgot to do my first post under my new contract and how I feel it’s half-assed. How I snapped a bunch of photos while I was cooking dinner, and how I can’t post any of them because said dinner is ruined. How he’s bothered by the fact that he’s not bothered that I’m here.

  All of it.

  Fucking all of it.

  Tears roll down my cheeks. I sniff back the snot that wants to pour from my nose. I know I look atrocious—face red, eyes swollen—but I can’t stop.

  I can’t fucking stop.

  Then something happens. Something I don’t expect.

  Braden sits down next to me, pulls me into his arms so I’m sobbing into his shoulder, kisses the top of my head, and says, “It’s okay, baby. Everything’s going to be okay.”

  Time passes in some kind of a warp. I have no idea how long we sit there, but eventually my sobs soften, I’m breathing more regularly, and I feel…comforted.

  Truly comforted.

  I don’t recall feeling like this since I was a small child sitting on my father’s lap after that horrible day in the cornfield.

  And I love Braden all the more.

  He holds me, never letting go, until finally I pull back slightly.

  “I have to blow my nose.”

  He pulls a handkerchief out from his pocket and hands it to me. I blow unceremoniously into it, nearly filling it, and then I crumple it in my fist. I meet his gaze. His blue eyes are kind. Full of love. A look I’ve never seen on his face before.

  “I’m sorry,” I choke out. “I wanted to make you a wonderful dinner.”

  “You did.”

  “It doesn’t count if you don’t get to eat it.”

  He smiles. That smile I see so seldom and love so much.

  “What can I do for you? How can I make this day better for you?”

  I sniffle and meet his loving gaze.

  I know just what to ask for, what will help me put this day of misery behind me.

  “You can take me to New York.”

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  He kisses me tenderly on the lips. “Okay, Skye. You win. We’ll go to New York.”

  The anvil rises from my shoulders. New York. Braden’s club. I’ll find peace there.

  “When?” I ask.

  “Tomorrow. I’ll call and have the jet ready to leave in the morning.”

  I smile through the mess that is my face. “Thank you. Thank you, Braden.”

  “But Skye…”

  “What?”

  He brushes a tear from my cheek. “New York isn’t an escape. The club isn’t an escape.”

  “I know that.”

  “Do you?”

  “Of course.” I sniffle. “I just feel like… I don’t know. I feel like everything will be okay there, you know?”

  “I do know, probably more than you even comprehend, but I don’t labor under any delusion that real life ceases to exist in the club.”

  I do know.

  He understands. The club is something he needs, too.

  But he keeps it in New York for a reason—a reason other than what he says—and I’m beginning to understand.

  Why, though? If it gives him pleasure—gives him an escape from real life, if only for a few hours—why limit himself?

  I don’t ask, for I know he won’t answer.

  I just revel in the knowledge that we’re going back to New York tomorrow. I’ll do an amazing post for Susie Girl in downtown Manhattan. I’ll write copy that makes cosmetics fly off the shelves, not something mundane about lip gloss after yoga.

  I’ll restore the faith Eugenie has in me.

  “Oh!” I jerk upward into a stand.

  Braden rises as well. “What?”

  “Chocolate mousse! I made dessert, and it turned out perfectly. I can’t offer you shrimp étouffée, but I can offer you rich and delicious dessert.”

  “We haven’t had dinner yet, Skye.”

  “So? What’s wrong with dessert first? We can order something to be delivered and have our dessert while we wait.”

  Braden opens the refrigerator and pulls out the two parfait glasses of chocolate mousse. “Fine. I’ll have Christopher order something for us, and we’ll eat this first, with only one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  His gaze darkens. “We eat it in the bedroom.”

  My skin warms. The bedroom. He has plans for my chocolate mousse, plans I know I’ll love.

  But my face. I’m red and swollen and tear-stained. “Braden…”

  “Follow me,” he says, his voice low and dark.

  Apparently he doesn’t care about my face, which should please me but doesn’t. Because I care what I look like
for him. I want to be beautiful—or at least not repugnant.

  We enter his bedroom, and he closes the door. Then he does something he almost never does. He sets the two parfait glasses on the night table and strips off all his clothes without having me do so first. I catch my breath at the beautiful sight of him, his masculine perfection.

  He turns to me. “Take off your clothes.”

  I’m only wearing a dress, shoes, and panties, and I discard them hastily.

  He approaches me, his cock huge and erect. I expect him to grab me and kiss me or to order me onto the bed. Instead, he cups my cheek.

  “Something broke in me today, Skye.”

  I part my lips and widen my eyes.

  “When I saw you so distraught, so sad, so upset, something squeezed my heart. I knew I had to act, had to do whatever necessary to make you smile again.”

  I curve my lips upward. “I’m smiling now, Braden.”

  He trails his finger over my lower lip. “You have such a sexy mouth. Do you have any idea how you affect me?”

  “I’m beginning to.”

  “I’m not just talking physically. When you part your lips in that seductive way, I want to plunder them. But mentally, Skye. Emotionally. When you were sobbing, I was sobbing, too.”

  I cock my head.

  “Not physically but emotionally. I hurt when you hurt.” He shakes his head. “That’s never happened to me before, at least not to this extent.”

  I part my lips farther, resisting the urge to drop them into an O.

  “You’ve gotten inside me somehow. Yes, I’ve fallen in love with you, but it’s more than that. It’s… Fuck. I don’t have the words. I’m not sure they exist.”

  “Braden, I—”

  Then his lips are on mine, his tongue inside my mouth, his hand on my bare breast, squeezing, thumbing the nipple. Another hand between my legs, parting the slick folds of my pussy. I wrap my arms around his neck and melt into him, our bodies touching everywhere. His cock pushes into my belly. I grind into him, thrusting my clit against his hardness.

  I love you, Braden. I love you, Braden. I love you, Braden.

  The emotion swirls around me, coils through me—all the love I never knew I could feel, I feel now. In this moment. For this man.

  He rips his mouth from mine and gasps in a breath. Then he clamps his lips onto the top of one of my breasts and bites me.