Page 26 of For the Sub

“I was looking for a fresh start, and I’ve been lucky to find work doing some marketing for one of the smaller ski resorts and a couple of the towns around here—web design, social media, that sort of thing.”

Odd that he’d never considered that she had a job outside of being a submissive at the Den. Then again, over the last few years, he’d thought of precious little beyond what he’d lost.

“Are you any good at barbecuing?” she asked.

The question caught him off-guard. “You’re asking a man who can’t select a tomato?”

“The two can’t be compared. Men will cook if flames and danger are involved. It’s genetic. A badge of honor, even.”

He laughed. “That sounds sexist.”

“Is it true?”

“I’ve lit a grill a time or two,” he conceded. No way could he be considered a gourmet, though.

“With matches or a flamethrower?”

“Both. Why do you ask?”

She brushed her hair back from her face. “I’m having a small get-together this afternoon at my place. Nothing fancy. Just a few friends. But the neighbor who cooks the hamburgers had to go out of town. I need a replacement.”

Why the hell were they still talking? “Are you asking me to be your chef?”

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far. Cook is fine.”

He socialized only with a select group of people he knew well and who didn’t pry into his personal life or try to set him up with their available female friends. His friends understood his need to be alone, and they honored it. This woman, though, had intruded on his privacy at the Den and now she was trying to drag him to a gathering where he knew no one. Boldly, she was treading where no one else dared go.

“I bet you’re wondering what’s in it for you,” she went on.

No. In fact, he was trying to think of an excuse that wouldn’t crush her and make him feel like the world-class asshole that he was.

“Dinner,” she told him, even though he hadn’t asked. “It’s a potluck, and you know how that is. No one brings dishes they’re bad at. So there will be lots of salads, several kinds of dessert, including cheesecake, and all the beer you can drink.” She cocked her head to one side and smiled at him. “And you’ll have my undying gratitude.”

Why the fuck was he considering it?

“I’m desperate,” she confessed, going on as if she’d sensed an opening. “Since I’m the hostess, I have a million things to do, and I know I’ll forget about the burgers and burn them or get impatient and take them off too soon.” She looked at him with wide eyes, as if it didn’t occur to her he’d refuse.

In her world, no doubt friends helped one another. Niles had never been the neighborly type. “Brandy, I don’t—”

“They’re a good group of people. I promise.”

If they were close to Brandy, there was little doubt. “I’m sure they are.”

“I’ll owe you a favor. Please say yes.”

Good God. There was no way to refuse this woman anything. At the Den, he’d thought of her as a beautiful, compliant submissive.

He’d underestimated her.

She had the relentless determination of a bulldozer. But she’d approached him with such guileless trust that he wanted to help, despite every sound reason not to. “I can spare a couple of hours this afternoon.”

“Yes. Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.” She did a little two-step, and an older couple smiled at her enthusiasm. “Thank you, thank you. I’ll even pick out your tomatoes. In fact, all your produce. How’s that for gratitude?”

Fifteen minutes later, his basket was full, he’d been educated about the reasons to select heirloom vegetables, learned how apples were graded, exchanged telephone numbers, and she’d provided him with directions to her home.

“See you around three.”

She wasn’t asking, she was telling.

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