liked him.
Surprisingly, she also liked the even footing. She’d feared once she’d accepted her desire for submission that she’d never feel equal to a man again, but there was a freedom with Hank, the freedom not to be defined by a role. They were just two people having fun, nothing else. The realization was a huge weight sliding off her shoulders, leaving her more than a bit wobbly. She eyed her margarita with suspicion.
“Tell me what you did before you moved here,” Hank asked between the fourth and fifth games. Sage watched him rack the balls while she gathered her thoughts.
“I’ve lived in and around Los Angeles all my life,” she finally said. “Went to culinary school right after graduation.”
“Really?” Hank set the triangle to the side. “Why cooking?”
Sage took her first shot, noting wryly that the distraction of her past offed her aim. “My father was a restauranteur. I got my love of the kitchen from him, my love of food from my mother.” The weight of both their losses settled on her chest, making it difficult to draw a full breath for a moment.
Hank seemed to sense what she couldn’t put into words. “What happened to them?”
Sage forced a smile. “I lost my dad when I was a teen; car accident. He had a heart attack early one morning on his way to work. My mother died last year of cancer.”
A sympathetic frown settled on Hank’s mouth. Even the man’s frowns were attractive. “I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.” She nodded toward the pool table. “Your turn.”
Hank circled the table, scoping out his shot. He passed within inches of her, close enough that the faint spice of his aftershave warmed her blood. The scent always lingered in the bathroom after he shaved. It took everything she had not to suck in more.
“What made you decide to come here, then?” He lined up his cue and the number-two ball.
A lot of things she didn’t want to discuss, but… “I’d been working as head pastry chef at LesMiz for a little bit,” she said, ignoring his startled look. LesMiz—the five-star restaurant, not the play it was named after—was well-known even outside the city. “I loved it, but after my mother…” She let the clack of Hank’s shot cover the pause she needed to swallow the knot in her throat. “I took some time off. Deirdre and I have been friends since high school, and I’ve always been fascinated with her tales of the rocky cliffs of Citrus Pointe. When she explained about her parents… I don’t know. It sounded like an all-new adventure—just what I needed.” An escape. Sage fought to keep her thoughts from wandering too much farther down that path. “What about you?”
She was lining up a shot, but she caught Hank’s grin from across the table. “I’m pretty sure Alice has told you all there is to know about me.”
Not an answer. She took her shot. “I know you’re in a rock band.” And what band it was—and okay, she did have at least one album, maybe more, on her iPod. She hadn’t been able to resist when Alice mentioned who Hank was. Not that she’d admit the fact except under extreme duress. “Why music?”
Hank waited until her next shot cleared the table, then grabbed the triangle to rack back up. “I was a cop in LA.”
Whoa. The initial shock hit her like a punch, though as it settled, the information fell into her perception of him like the last remaining puzzle piece she hadn’t known was missing. Most people wouldn’t see it—Hank wore his flirty, laid-back persona like a second skin—but the way he carried himself, how hard he was to read, even the way he took care of Alice and Merry and Knight… Yes, she could definitely see it.
An uneasy twinge of yearning, far too close to the hunger she associated with the need to submit, lit inside her. No way. She’d almost rather want him because he was a rock god than because he’d been a cop. At least with the former she could keep things shallow.
How sad was that?
Hank
Surprisingly, she also liked the even footing. She’d feared once she’d accepted her desire for submission that she’d never feel equal to a man again, but there was a freedom with Hank, the freedom not to be defined by a role. They were just two people having fun, nothing else. The realization was a huge weight sliding off her shoulders, leaving her more than a bit wobbly. She eyed her margarita with suspicion.
“Tell me what you did before you moved here,” Hank asked between the fourth and fifth games. Sage watched him rack the balls while she gathered her thoughts.
“I’ve lived in and around Los Angeles all my life,” she finally said. “Went to culinary school right after graduation.”
“Really?” Hank set the triangle to the side. “Why cooking?”
Sage took her first shot, noting wryly that the distraction of her past offed her aim. “My father was a restauranteur. I got my love of the kitchen from him, my love of food from my mother.” The weight of both their losses settled on her chest, making it difficult to draw a full breath for a moment.
Hank seemed to sense what she couldn’t put into words. “What happened to them?”
Sage forced a smile. “I lost my dad when I was a teen; car accident. He had a heart attack early one morning on his way to work. My mother died last year of cancer.”
A sympathetic frown settled on Hank’s mouth. Even the man’s frowns were attractive. “I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.” She nodded toward the pool table. “Your turn.”
Hank circled the table, scoping out his shot. He passed within inches of her, close enough that the faint spice of his aftershave warmed her blood. The scent always lingered in the bathroom after he shaved. It took everything she had not to suck in more.
“What made you decide to come here, then?” He lined up his cue and the number-two ball.
A lot of things she didn’t want to discuss, but… “I’d been working as head pastry chef at LesMiz for a little bit,” she said, ignoring his startled look. LesMiz—the five-star restaurant, not the play it was named after—was well-known even outside the city. “I loved it, but after my mother…” She let the clack of Hank’s shot cover the pause she needed to swallow the knot in her throat. “I took some time off. Deirdre and I have been friends since high school, and I’ve always been fascinated with her tales of the rocky cliffs of Citrus Pointe. When she explained about her parents… I don’t know. It sounded like an all-new adventure—just what I needed.” An escape. Sage fought to keep her thoughts from wandering too much farther down that path. “What about you?”
She was lining up a shot, but she caught Hank’s grin from across the table. “I’m pretty sure Alice has told you all there is to know about me.”
Not an answer. She took her shot. “I know you’re in a rock band.” And what band it was—and okay, she did have at least one album, maybe more, on her iPod. She hadn’t been able to resist when Alice mentioned who Hank was. Not that she’d admit the fact except under extreme duress. “Why music?”
Hank waited until her next shot cleared the table, then grabbed the triangle to rack back up. “I was a cop in LA.”
Whoa. The initial shock hit her like a punch, though as it settled, the information fell into her perception of him like the last remaining puzzle piece she hadn’t known was missing. Most people wouldn’t see it—Hank wore his flirty, laid-back persona like a second skin—but the way he carried himself, how hard he was to read, even the way he took care of Alice and Merry and Knight… Yes, she could definitely see it.
An uneasy twinge of yearning, far too close to the hunger she associated with the need to submit, lit inside her. No way. She’d almost rather want him because he was a rock god than because he’d been a cop. At least with the former she could keep things shallow.
How sad was that?
Hank
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