After his usual offer to come join him at work and her usual refusal, she’d told him about her plans to add fresh pastries cooked on site.
He hadn’t been impressed.
“People don’t care if their cookies are fresh or not. Just that their coffee tastes good,” he’d groused while sipping his third espresso. “If you want to look all cute, tear the packaging off and put your own clingy wrap on them. They’ll look home cooked and save you the time and expense.”
“That’s wrong.”
“That’s good business.” He scowled at his cup. “Your barista should be fired. This is bitter.”
The conversation hadn’t gone much better than that.
Veronica studied the half-glass of wine she’d poured.
Yeah. That.
She emptied the last of the bottle into the glass and carried it into the living room.
Her purse lay on the sofa where she’d left it, her cell phone inside.
It took a few seconds to tap in the unfamiliar number on her phone and a few more for him to answer.
“Veronica.” The voice boomed out of the tiny speaker. “How are you doing?”
“Just fine, Dad. What’s up?” She took a deep swallow of the wine, glad they weren’t on a video chat.
“I heard about the fire. Awful thing.” He sounded about as upset as her bathwater. “I hate to say I told you so, but I did warn you about those ovens. This idea about your own baked goods was a waste of time and now, plenty of money.”
“The insurance covered the damage.” Veronica wasn’t going to tell him about the dig into her savings and the delay on her expansion to another store.
The less he knew, the better.
“From what I’ve gathered, you’re cutting it pretty close.” She could imagine him sitting there in his home office, rocking back and forth in the ancient chair salvaged from one of his first jobs. “A push and you’re done.”
“Where did you hear that from?” Veronica asked. “We’re fine.”
“Of course you are.” The condescending tone sent her blood pressure skyward. “But let’s meet tomorrow and chat.”
“Our reopening is tomorrow.”
“Already? I had no idea.”
Veronica bit back a curse.
Of course you know.
“Why don’t you meet me at Java Jive at ten o’clock, and you can look the café over again. We’ve done some lovely renovations, and I think you’ll be impressed,” she said.
“Wonderful. See you there.” The phone went dead.
She looked at the wineglass, still mostly full.
He’s up to something.
Veronica held back a sigh. He hadn’t changed after all these years, and she always ended up waiting to be surprised.
I have to play the game out.
Despite her annoyance at her father’s attitude, she couldn’t fully shake the remnants of her visit to Oliver’s house.
Her need for completion fought with her growling stomach.
Enough of that for now.
Veronica caught herself stifling a yawn as she went to the kitchen to find something for dinner.
She still needed Oliver to sign off her return to Boots ’n’ Chains.
Officially, she had two more sessions.
An anticipatory shiver ran down her spine at the thought of future visits.
This could get interesting.
Chapter Twelve
Oliver had retreated into the shower for a good hour after Veronica’s departure, setting the water on scalding and grateful for the soundproof walls. His staff wouldn’t return until six o’clock, and he already had an order in for a steak dinner, medium rare, to be prepared immediately.
He was mentally exhausted.
Physically—
He’d come twice in the shower, frantically pumping himself dry with visions of her ass in the air, those perfect pink cheeks begging for more discipline, for more—
His cock stirred again as he dressed, making it difficult to stay focused on the task at hand.
The phone rang at his desk, snapping him out of his reverie.
Phil sounded nervous on the speakerphone. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got a midnight flight out to Vancouver and thought I’d see if you were available to brainstorm this now.”
“Don’t apologize. I’m here and ready to go. Let’s do this.” Oliver walked over to the mini-fridge in his office and opened it up. As per usual, it was stocked with plenty of beer and water.
He chose the latter, snapping the cap off and taking a sip.
Any residual thoughts of Veronica disappeared as he listened to Phil detail the results of surveys and studies just completed.
“So in summary—your suggestion is to do a full makeover of all the stores?” Oliver looked at the near-empty water bottle in his hand. “That’s going to cost a pretty penny.”
“We need something to draw in new customers. The feedback I’m getting from the surveys indicates they see Greenwood Books getting stale. Whether that’s true or not, it’s what they think, and that’s what’s important.” Phil was a good man who had started his career working for Oliver’s father. He’d gone from store employee to manager to his current position of corporate troubleshooter, flying wherever the company needed him to be. “The regulars are, well—regular. We have to offer something to draw in new customers, or when the old fogies die off, we’ll have no one left.”
Oliver laughed. “Including yourself in that list?”
Phil chuckled in response. “I’ve got a few more years left in me, and I’d like to spend them making more money.”
Oliver nodded. “Understood.” He walked to the fridge and got himself a beer. “Let’s start with the flagship store here in town. Send me some ideas of how you want to redo the store. I’m assuming we’re going for more than just repainting the walls.”
“Full makeover. New shelf design, new sculptures on the walls. Something to show we’re hip and with the times.” Phil paused. “And we’re able to hold back the competition.”
Oliver pressed his lips into a tight line. The other independent stores had been nipping at their heels for years, but this was the first year they’d started really digging into Greenwood profits. It wasn’t at a critical level yet, but he couldn’t wait for it to happen.
“Send me the details as soon as you can. And keep it under your hat—I don’t need anyone blabbing online and letting our enemies know what we’re up to.”
“Roger that. Talk to you later.” Phil paused. “You sound pretty good Oliver. I mean—” He paused and Oliver knew he was searching for the right word.
“You sound happy. You haven’t sounded like this for a long time.”
Since Melissa’s death, you mean.
“I feel happy,” he replied. “Later.”
The line went quiet.
I do.
He walked to the window and looked out into the garden; the one Mel had spent so much time caring for and had remained in pristine condition thanks to Andy, their dedicated gardener.
I do.
The roses were blooming and the purple flowers, the ones he could never remember the name of were open wide, exposing their beautiful yellow interiors.
I do.
Oliver felt the tears coming, the sense of loss overwhelming him again. He’d had many of these attacks over the years, and each had lessened with time.
He braced himself for the emotional whirlwind smashing into his heart as he thought about Melissa.
And—
Oliver let out a whuff of air.
Nothing.
No, not nothing, he corrected himself. It was a different feeling, a different sensation. A different emotional rush.
He was—
Oliver wiped his face with his free hand.
&
nbsp; He was okay.
The hole in his heart was still there, but the pain was gone, the horrifying emptiness now a comfortable ache.
I’ll never forget you, Mel.
You don’t have to, he imagined her saying. But it’s time for you to start living again.
The buzzer on his desk sounded, breaking Oliver’s train of thought.
“Mr. Greenwood? Your dinner is ready.”
He worked on the steak and potatoes, thinking about what he needed to do to keep Greenwood Books current.
It kept him from wondering about other things.
We already offer free wireless. Plenty of open chairs to sit; story time each Saturday for the children. Writing groups visit, author signings at least once a month, if not more. Midnight openings for the hot releases and a downtown store open twenty-four hours a day, year-round.
What else can we do?
He didn’t realize how hungry he was until he found himself mopping up the last of the steak juices with a slice of bread, the potatoes and mushrooms only a faint memory.
Oliver carried the dishes into the kitchen despite the protests of the housekeeper and got himself a beer.
Good exercise, he mused as he retreated to his home office.
The phone rang as he sat down.
Come on, Phil. Give me a break.
He reached for the conference-call button and froze.
The caller identification read Hooded Pleasures in the small gray window.
Oliver tapped the button. “Hello. Can you hold on for a second?”
“Sure,” Wendy said.
He got up and closed the office door. He wasn’t sure if his employees knew his interests or not, but he didn’t have to broadcast them around the house.
And he knew darned well listening to half the conversation would make it even more awkward.
“Okay. Sorry ’bout that.” He settled into his chair and opened his beer. “How are you doing? Is everything okay?”
“Just fine. I wanted to give you an update on one of your other clients. Charlotte showed up last week at Boots ’n’ Chains at the new members night. It went very well.”
Oliver smiled. “That’s good to hear.” He’d enjoyed his time with Charlotte. The tough businesswoman had needed a bit of instruction to turn her book-learned knowledge of what a submissive was into fact. “Some lucky man is going to enjoy her.”
“She had quite a few offers but played it right. Ended up with Carlos and had herself a great time. She sends her thanks and wishes you all the best. So—” Wendy continued, “How’s it going with Veronica?”
“Fine.” He flashed back to a few hours earlier and felt himself growing hard again. “She’s a natural submissive.” He rubbed the stubble on his chin. “I can’t believe she just decided she was a Domme and never explored further.”
“I’ve seen plenty of people decide they’re one or the other based on nothing more than the media images,” Wendy said. “They see a movie or read a book and decide they’re this or that without taking into account their own needs and urges. And when they show up at a club or a meeting, no one wants to challenge them because they’re so self-assured, so confident in their role, it’s pointless. It takes something like this, an intervention, to get them to move beyond the position they’ve assigned themselves.”
“Definitely.” Oliver nodded. “It’s a classic scenario when you think about it. Businesswoman strung out at work, comes to club and takes it out on her subs instead of realizing she’s the one who needs to let herself go, give control to someone else.” He chuckled. “There’s a book in there somewhere.”
“The club’s been quiet without her,” Wendy confessed. “A lot less drama. I must say, I’m impressed—Matthew and I thought she might be a bit too much for anyone to handle.”
“She’s…complicated.” He took a drink. “We’re over halfway through the sessions, and she’s realized she’s a much better sub than a dominant. Hopefully we’ll be able to build on that for the remaining visits.”
“Good.” There was a pause on the line, long enough to unnerve Oliver. “You’re having her come to your house, correct?”
He frowned. “How would you know that?”
“Don’t worry. No one’s playing detective for HP,” Wendy said. “I recognized her home address from the club application when we transferred it onto the HP documents. It’s in an area known for renting flats, and she’s listed as 124A, which usually indicates an apartment.”
“What do you do when you get a situation like this?” Oliver asked, his curiosity stoked. “Up to this point, I’ve always had clients who could provide a safe place to play.”
“We can and do invite them to the office. We have a room here set up for such things. It’s awkward, but all parties involved can make do if it’s needed,” Wendy replied. “Not everyone’s got the room or the environment for this sort of thing.” She paused. “You could have asked us for help, you know.”
“I didn’t think of it.” It was an honest answer. “Of course, now that all makes sense.”
“My bad. I should have mentioned it to you, but I assumed that she’d have enough privacy.”
Oliver nodded. “I thought so too, but when I arrived and assessed the situation, I decided to take her to my house. Her landlord’s a nosy sort, and I wanted to make sure she could let herself go without any worries or restrictions. Charlotte and Linda had their own houses where they could be guaranteed privacy. The only way I could see Veronica was to invite her here.”
Something I’d never done before.
And you know that.
“Of course. I agree completely. As long as it works for both of you,” Wendy said.
Oliver shifted in his seat. For some reason, he felt like he was under inspection and didn’t like it one bit.
“She’s had some issues in her personal life as well. Café had a small fire. Nothing major, but the stress of dealing with it has been a pain.” Oliver took another swig of beer. “I think she’s finding being a submissive is exactly what she needs. But that’s just my opinion.”
“Where’s the café?” Wendy asked.
“Around the corner from one of my stores near High Park. It’s quite nice and friendly.”
“So you visited her there?”
He felt like a mouse wandering a maze laden with traps. “It worked out that way. We’re good.”
“I’m sure.” There was more curiosity than condemnation in her voice. “It’s good for you to get out, explore your options.”
“It’s professional, one businessperson to the other. There’s nothing personal about this. We’re keeping to the contract terms as we both agreed to.” The beer tasted flat. “She understands this and so do I. No dating, no sexual completion.”
He shifted in his chair, feeling the tickle in his groin.
God damn it, Wendy.
“I have no doubt about that. You both signed the contract, and I trust you to keep to it. And I understand events can sometimes run their own course, away from what the rules dictate. Kate and Alex, for one example.”
Oliver knew who she was referring to—Alex, who ended up not only emboldened enough to come to the club and be seen as a submissive man, but who also brought Mistress Kate out of her self-imposed exile and captured her for himself. In the few months since their initial appearance at the club, their love story had become almost legendary.
“Good for them. I’m glad to hear it worked out.”
He was envious in a way. While Oliver wasn’t a sub, he knew the strength, the power of a good strong relationship built on full acceptance and honesty.
He’d had that once with Melissa.
Maybe—
“I won’t keep you any longer,” Wendy said, breaking him out of his self-reflection. “Just wanted to check in on you and make sure you were able
to deal with her.”
“Just a question,” Oliver asked. “Would Matthew really have totally banned her from the club if she hadn’t come around?”
“Probably. He’s got a sweet soul, and Evelyn’s a lucky woman to have him, but they both know the club can’t afford a bad rep. Letting her terrorize the subs was only going to lead to heartbreak for all concerned.” She paused. “I’m glad she’s got you. Under all that mental armor, she’s as vulnerable as the rest of us and needs someone to love.”
“But—” Oliver stuttered. “But if things work out, she’s going to return to the club as a submissive. Is that going to sit well with everyone? Will she be able to meet a Master and work with him for even one night?” He shook his head. “I’m afraid she’ll come back to the club and revert to her Domme persona because it offers the easy way out, to tamp down the change she’s had with me. It’ll be hard for her to take the silver if she fears everyone is going to either shun her, or worse, mock her.”
“That’s none of your concern. That wasn’t what we were asked to do.” Wendy’s tone was steady and soft. “We were told to help her realize her inner nature. Now that she has, it’s up to her what she wants to do. I’m sure Matthew can get her ban lifted from the other clubs once she completes her basic training with you and can move on to other men for more experience. If she goes back to being a Domme, she’ll have to deal with the consequences, whatever they might be. It’ll be her decision—not yours, not mine and not Matthew’s. At least she’ll understand more about what she’s putting her men through, having been on the other side.”
Oliver’s mouth went dry.
“Of course,” she continued without waiting for him to reply, “you could always come back to the club if you’re that worried about her. Right? You did say you felt like it was time to move on. What better place to start?”
“Right. Yes. I could come back.” He studied the label on the bottle in his hand, trying to organize his thoughts. “I’ve got to go.”
“No problem. We’ll chat later.” She hung up, leaving Oliver dazed and confused.
Strictly Pleasure: Hooded Pleasures, Book 2 Page 15