Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 86510 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86510 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
“Creole seems to use a lot of alcohol in cooking. First the sherry in the turtle soup. And now the whiskey sauce for the bread pudding.”
“Probably no more than any other cuisine. Creole has a lot of origins in French cuisine, though, and the French use a lot of alcohol in their cooking.”
“Do they?” she asks.
I nod. “Bananas foster may be a flambé treat, but the French originated the flambé. With crepes suzette.”
“You know so much about cooking, Ronan. Have you ever thought of going into the culinary arts?”
“God, no. I hate cooking. Can’t even boil an egg. I learned all this stuff from Mémé. I spent a lot of time with her when I was a kid. This restaurant was basically my home.”
“But your parents…”
“Were never home,” I say, and I hope to leave it at that. “But I do owe my parents a lot. Now that my father’s retired, I run the business.”
“Do you enjoy your work?”
“I do. Some days more than others. I’m a bit of a micromanager, but I’m learning to delegate. I like what I do. It’s a challenge. But it’s still work, Mary. It’s not play.”
She bites her lip at the word play.
“I know that.” She looks down at her plate, spears a piece of sausage on her fork. “I can’t thank you enough for this trip.”
“I told you before, Mary. I have no expectations other than that you enjoy yourself. And that maybe we get to know each other. Whether that includes any time in the bedroom doesn’t matter to me.”
The words are so odd.
All those years with Keira, and I thought we had something special. A Dominant-submissive relationship with no expectations of anything more. Then she grew to want more, but I didn’t.
Yet here I sit with a woman I barely know. Who I desperately want to know, and who I’m willing to go the distance for.
Any other woman who intrigued me but didn’t want to do a scene? I’d move on.
There’s something about Mary.
I keep my lips from curving up at the movie reference in my head.
But there is something about her—something special, something intriguing, something captivating.
Something almost…extraordinary.
She’s beautiful, yes. But is she the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on? No.
She has a lovely and hot body. But is it the hottest body I’ve ever laid eyes on? Granted, I haven’t seen her naked, but based on what I have seen? No.
Her tits are luscious, but not the biggest.
Her legs are long and shapely, but not the longest and most shapely.
Perhaps it’s that spray of freckles across her nose.
Or her hair, darker red than my own but still blazing.
Or her deep brown eyes. Eyes that look like they can see straight into my soul.
More likely it’s her fragility. Someone hurt her. Changed her. Caused her to lose something. I want to help her find it. Find herself again. And the more I get to know her, the more I’m drawn to her. The more I want to get inside her to help her heal.
And damn, I want to get inside her physically as well. Big time.
Our server comes by, clears the dishes, and then brings the jambalaya.
Mémé’s jambalaya is wonderful. Her classic rice dish is made with a variety of meats that include chicken, sausage, shrimp, and pieces of catfish along with peas and corn and carrots.
I bring a forkful to my mouth, expecting my taste buds to explode.
But I don’t taste anything.
Because as I stare at Mary, all I can think about is getting my tongue between her legs.
I know she is going to be creamier than the red beans and rice and sweeter than the bread pudding and more robust than the rich whiskey sauce.
Somehow…
Somehow I will taste her.
“My God, it’s like each dish is more delicious the last.” Mary smiles.
Fried catfish is next, which is delicious and succulent but bland compared to the last spicy dishes.
Then grillades and grits—thinly sliced beef and pork simmered in tomato-based gravy and served over creamy grits.
And they are creamy.
But not as creamy as I know Mary’s pussy will be.
Mary finishes her glass of wine. “I’m not sure I can eat another bite, Ronan.”
“You can. You’ve got to try the bread pudding.”
“Is it really made with stale bread?”
“Yes. The best cooks don’t waste anything. Stale bread, eggs, milk, and sugar. And then, of course, Mémé’s special whiskey sauce.”
“What kind of whiskey does she use?”
“Usually bourbon.”
“You mean she doesn’t use scotch for you?”
A smile tugs at my lips. “Scotch would not be right for the whiskey sauce. You need the caramel taste of a bourbon.”
She lifts her eyebrows. “Not the dirty flavor of a scotch?”
“Yes, I know. You’re not a fan.”
“It honestly tastes like dirt to me.”
“Perhaps I’ll make a scotch drinker out of you,” I say.
“Somehow I doubt it. Though I did enjoy the Sazerac. The rye was harsh, but it didn’t taste like peat moss.”