Page 32 of Menotte avec toi

“A surprise for Sonnet. Speaking of which, could you get a key made for her and an alarm code?”

“Wow, you’re really serious about this girl.”

Where was this going? Anger flittered inside, fearing my dear friend would say the wrong thing. I managed to tamp it down, but only just. “I am.”

“I’m so happy for you. Now it all makes sense. I couldn’t figure out why you didn’t want to take on subs anymore. Sonnet is the sweetest thing. You’re perfect for each other.”

Whew… “Thank you, I feel the same. I fell hard and fast, but without a shred of doubt, I know she’s the one for me.” Ishould’ve known better than to doubt what Patrice would say. Had she had an issue, it would’ve been brought to my attention in the beginning and not weeks later. She was loyal to the bone, that one.

“You finished work before Sonnet showed up, what are you so engrossed in now?” Nothing got past Patrice.

“Well, if you must know…”

“I must.”

“Of course you do, sassy woman. I’m turning the solarium in my place into a studio for Sonnet.” Wouldn’t require more than supplies. The comfy furniture could stay for her to relax in while she sketched and what not. “Which reminds me, there will be far too many deliveries coming. Could you just have security take them up to my place?”

The smart ass curtsied. “Yes, Mistress, I’m at your beck and call.” I launched a notebook at her. “You missed!” She sing-songed as she skipped out of my office. I’d see to it that man of hers paddled her ass good and red. The only problem was, she’d enjoy it, but I’d enjoy tormenting her each time she hissed as she sat.

Oh, my evil side was so delightfully naughty.

As I finished the order for the easels, my phone chimed.

Sonnet: Sunday night works for everyone.

Me: Excellent. I’ll make the reservations. How was the client meeting?

Sonnet: Weird. I’m headed back your way. Dinner?

Me: Order in?

Sonnet: Sounds perfect. See you in a few.

I waited to head upstairs until Sonnet arrived. My mind locked on those new handcuffs and a few other delightful finds during my online shopping spree. Sensory play was one of my favorites, and I hoped to make it one of Sonnet’s as well. I wonder how she feels about candle wax…

Chapter Fourteen

Sonnet

Candles burned on the table in the dining area, giving off the sweet scent of honeysuckle and vanilla as we sat down to eat. My Mistress had ordered breadsticks, Caesar salad, shrimp and pesto bruschetta, buttery calamari, and baked manicotti in a creamy white sauce for our meal tonight and opened a fruity-smelling white wine to go with it. Everything looked and smelled so delicious that my stomach started growling the moment I caught a whiff of it coming through the door.

Food was rapidly becoming part of our love language, something I deeply appreciated being a closet foodie. Ever since she’d discovered that eating together meant I took the time to slow down and savor every bite, my Mistress had gone out of her way to see to it that we shared as many meals as our schedules would allow. In fact, I’d come to suspect that she rearranged herown schedule just to be free to have meals with me, something that left me feeling cherished and appreciated.

She had no way of knowing that my uncle used to do the same thing, even if that meant later nights for him. Through him, I’d learned that family meals had been a big part of his upbringing, though he’d admitted to falling out of practice in the kitchen the deeper he’d gotten into his bachelor years.

Still, he’d tried. With little patience for the sometimes long, drawn-out steps in cookbooks and a disdain for technology that left YouTube videos off the table, he developed a style of cooking that I came to call Dash and Hack. No measurements, no real concept of what he was attempting to make, he just hacked up whatever vegetables happened to be lying around, chucked them in a pot with whatever meat was languishing in the freezer, threw in a couple dashes of his favorite seasonings, and plopped it on the plate with a grin and a flourish that never failed to make me giggle.

His concoctions were always hit and miss, with items like junk in a pot, chipped beef on toast that I came to learn was often called shit on a shingle, and everything pot pie among some of my favorites. Still, I hadn’t wanted to expose my Mistress to that brand of insanity just yet.

As I dished us up portions from each of the pans on the table, I couldn’t help but be reminded of the first meal my uncle had attempted to make when I’d gone to live with him. A giggle slipped out, and as my Mistress stared quizzically at me, I just shook my head and finished plating things with a grin on my face, knowing he’d have a few colorful doozies to share with her when she asked about my exploits as a teen, and decided I’d get the jump on him, for once, and share one of my fondest memories of him.

“This meal reminds me of the first one I had at my uncle’s house,” I explained as my Mistress continued staring across thetable at me as I snickered a little. “Only it looks way more appetizing and lacks the burnt bits clinging to the garlic bread.”

“Exactly how did the garlic bread get burnt?” she asked. “Did he have the oven up too high?”

“No, I think that was one of the few times he decided to put his glasses on so he could read the label. It said to open one end of the bag, place it on a baking sheet, and stick it in a preheated oven. He did all the things it said, and the bag caught on fire.”

She’d just taken a sip of her wine when she snorted and fumbled for a napkin to press to her lips.

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