Fidèle
Chapter 3

Copyright© 2019 by Barahir

Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 3 - Superstar sommelier Luke Bronson wasn't prepared for the breathtaking Kathryn Lloyd Maddox to walk into, and then out of, his life over the course of one unforgettable night. An old family friend's invitation to reinvent the wine cellar at his tranquil lakeside estate should have been a perfect way to take his mind off a woman he couldn't otherwise forget. But life, like wine, is full of surprises.

Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Fa/Fa   Mult   Consensual   Romantic   Lesbian   Heterosexual   Fiction   Tear Jerker   Cheating   Sharing   BDSM   DomSub   MaleDom   Light Bond   Rough   Spanking   Group Sex   Polygamy/Polyamory   Swinging   Anal Sex   Analingus   Cream Pie   Double Penetration   Exhibitionism   Food   Masturbation   Oral Sex   Petting   Sex Toys   Squirting   Public Sex  

A car engine cut through the riotous morning birdsong and the crunch of his running shoes as they rhythmically displaced gravel. He drifted to the side, slowing until he was essentially jogging in place, dreading the conversation to come. Dreading its pleasantness and bonhomie. Dreading its participants. Dreading it because...

“Morning, Luke. Sleep well?”

Because I’m an asshole.

“Morning, Bill. It took a while to fall asleep, but y’know ... new place, new bed, and I’m definitely overexcited about the job. Or maybe it’s just too quiet out here for a city boy. But the bed’s incredibly comfortable, and I’m sure I’ll be fine tonight.”

And a liar.

“Good, good. Listen, I know you’ve got a kitchen full of food, but why don’t you join us for dinner tonight?”

And a parasite.

“I’d love to. Thanks very much, Bill.”

And still a liar.

“Grab a few bottles on your way over. Anything you want. It’s going to be Vietnamese, I think. Ask Kathryn, she’ll know the details. Anyway, gotta run. We’ll talk later.”

And a coward.

“Don’t buy and sell the whole city before lunch.”

Bill laughed, waving his hand as he disappeared around a corner. The dust boiling in his wake made Luke’s next decision for him. He turned around and ran the other way.

Good morning, Bill. So nice to chat with you, old friend. Thanks for inviting me into your beautiful home and paying me a tremendous amount of money to do what’s pretty much my dream job. Last night I thanked you by having hours of imaginary sex with your wife until I passed out from fluid loss. Have a nice day at work.

He increased his pace, but there was no outrunning his guilt.


Luke surveyed his workstation. It would be his sole daytime companion for the better part of a month and a half, and quite possibly longer. Laptop, chair, step stool, wheeled table, bottle tags, marker, rubber mat, towels, water ... yep, that’s everything. Time to go to work.

Pulling up his custom modification of CellarTracker, he reached for the first bottle in the rack; carefully extracting it, studying the label, and replacing it where he’d found it. He started typing.

“2008 ... Albert Boxler ... Riesling ... Brand ... Alsace...”


Several hours later, he was a quarter of the way through Alsace and deep in the zone when he was interrupted by a discreet cough. Startled, his knuckles depressed a cluster of keys all at once; enough that his laptop beeped in protest. Oops. He looked up.

“Stop working.”

“Huh?”

“It’s one o’clock. Lunchtime was an hour ago.”

“But...”

“Dinner’s at seven. Exactly at seven. Eat lunch now or you won’t be hungry for dinner.”

“But...”

“You know, I think I liked you better when I first met you. Back then you knew words longer than one syllable. You could even speak them out loud and assemble them into complex sentences and cohesive thoughts. Let’s try this again: stop working, come upstairs, and have lunch with me. Better?”

“Uh...”

Clucking with disappointment, she turned around. God in heaven, she looks delectable in those shorts.

“Your employer’s giving you an order, you know.”

“You’re not my employer.”

“Yes I am. It’s a community property state.”

He started to stand, then stopped halfway, feeling feisty. “No it’s not.”

She twisted her head, her rich red waves drifting back and forth as her eyes twinkled. “While that’s true, are you really about to start an argument with a lawyer?”

“That does sound unwise.”

“So are you coming?”

Stand like that for a few more minutes and I might. “Right behind you.” If I can manage it without tripping because I can’t stop staring at your ass...


Luke nibbled at the delicious spread of crudités and saffron-accented aïoli. The vegetables were so extraordinarily fresh and vivid that he wondered if they were local, and aïoli was one of his favorite simple things in the world ... though he had to be careful where and when he ate it. I guess I’m not kissing anyone tonight, nor waking up with anyone tomorrow, so what difference does it make if I stuff my face with raw garlic?

“Did you want wine with lunch?”

“I’m ... not sure.”

“I usually have a glass or three if I’m not doing anything important after lunch, and don’t forget that you have your ‘rations.’ We’re quite serious about that, you know. Open stuff. Part of what you’re doing is clearing cellar space for other things, right? Anyway, unless you’re going to finish bottles the night you open them, you’ll have leftovers, so we can rely on those in the future. Today, let’s just skip it. I don’t want to impede your work until you’re comfortable.”

He nodded absentmindedly, completely missing her unanticipated use of the word “we,” swabbing another dollop of the creamy paste with a broccoli floret and tossing the whole thing into his mouth. The acrid bite of the garlic rose invaded his nasal passages and burned his throat going down. He loved it.

“Luke? Listen to me.”

He frowned. “Haven’t I been? I’m sorry.”

She leaned back, displeased. “Actually, it’s the only thing you have done.” His heart thudded in his chest. He was about to be scolded, and he didn’t like it. Partly because he knew what she was about to say, but mostly because she was right. “Is this how you intend to act at dinner? All week? The entire time you’re here?”

Sighing, he stared at his plate. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to ... how to...” He clenched his fists, searching for the right words ... the safest words ... the truest words ... before realizing, to his dismay, that none of those things were the same.

“You’re going to have to figure it out. Soon.” She looked at the clock on the microwave. “You have about four hours. Five, if you want to skip apéritifs ... though that would be a terrible shame, because we have Vietnamese-style honey-marinated shrimp skewers on the grill, and they go really well with the ‘96 Bollinger Grande Année I’m going to open to celebrate your first day at work.”

Despite his frustration, he couldn’t help but smile. She was exerting a mighty effort to lift his spirits, to encourage him out of his melancholy. And, probably because it was coming from her, it was working. “Well, we wouldn’t want that,” he replied, managing for the first time in a while to look her in the eyes and almost immediately regretting it. Every time I do I fall more deeply in lust. How can I talk to someone I can’t even look at without wanting to do every single bad thing? How much desire, guilt, and shame can I feel because of a person I barely know? If there’s a limit, I fear I’m nowhere near it.

“Seriously, Luke: what can I do?”

He sighed. “Go back in time, hit me really hard in the head, and stop me from being an idiot?”

“Out of curiosity, just how far back do you think I’ll have to go? Kindergarten? Cradle? Womb?” She’s funny. She’s always funny. Why does she have to be funny on top of everything else?

Folding her arms behind her head — her plain grey t-shirt stretched enticingly across the already prominent breasts he was completely failing to ignore — she studied him like...

... like a lawyer studying its prey. He gulped.

“Look, I think the only way around this is through. Straight through the heart, including every one of the dangerously sharp corners.” She took a deep breath. “I’m flattered. Really, truly flattered. I’m hiding it a lot better than you ... not that it’s exactly difficult ... but I’ll admit, though I’ll thank you to keep this between us, that I do get a certain thrill from being adored so intensely. Especially by someone young, smart, and handsome.” His heart fluttered, his tongue adhered to the roof of his mouth, and his palms began to sweat. I really wish I’d taken her up on that offer of wine.

“I want to stress,” she continued, “that even if I’d been aware you and Bill were already acquainted, and even if I’d grasped that,” she gestured at him with her elbows, “this was going to be so uncomfortable, I still would’ve recommended you. You’re the right person for this job.”

“Since we’re clearing the air, I’m also going to admit something that I probably shouldn’t. I want to say upfront that it doesn’t change the way things are. You understand that, right?” Though he was starting to shake, he nodded. Despite the turbulent emotions clouding his mind, he was fairly certain what she was about to confess. Now it was his turn to be flattered. Flattered and dismissed.

“Right. So ... well, let’s put it this way: if Wendy had kept the bar open for another hour or so, she might have achieved the result she worked so hard to accomplish. And then this would be a lot more complicated.”

Even though he’d guessed correctly — and, to her credit, so had Wendy — it still shattered his mind and sent blood racing to his loins to hear it from her lips. So close. I was so close.

“So,” she said, returning her hands to the table, “can we work with that? Are we good? Can we move forward, preferably with you actually using multisyllabic words? Out loud? In more or less complete sentences?”

Luke doubled over, laughing in an uncontrolled release of his unbearable tension, until he accidentally dipped his noise in the aïoli. This is all too much. How did I ever get myself into this ridiculous situation? This absurd, impossible triangle in which only one side — unfortunately the side about which I care the most — is a vector? And could that analogy be any dorkier?

Scraping the garlicky deliciousness from his nose with a handy slice of red field pepper, he nodded. “We’re good. And I’m sorry. Really. I’ve been trying not to act like a petulant child who didn’t get the toy he wanted for Christmas, and as a result I’ve been acting like a petulant teenager who didn’t get the date he wanted for prom.”

Cocking her head, she fed a morsel of bread into her mouth. As usual, staring at her lips caused a galaxy of naughty images to explode in his increasingly fertile imagination. “Or a petulant twenty-something who rather uncharacteristically went home alone?”

His jaw dropped at the precise moment he’d been about to bite into his pepper, and his face turned as red as its flesh. “Kathryn!

To his immense surprise, she collapsed in a fit of giggles. He’d never seen her so unreserved, so adorably goofy — in fact, he’d suspected she might not have it in her after years of fighting to be respected on her own terms — and he couldn’t help but join her. Nor could he stop being distracted by her breasts as they bounced and shook inside her t-shirt.

Eventually, her laughter slowed. “I have two more things to say.” Though the words sounded serious, it was clear that she wasn’t, and he relaxed; waiting to sate a growling hunger that was growing more ravenous with every word.

“First: dinner is some sort of fish marinated in what the chef told me to tell you are classic Vietnamese flavors, served with green mango and herbs — cilantro, mint, basil, culantro, some others I don’t remember — over vermicelli. Count on there being fish sauce, fried shallots, roasted peanuts, and so forth. I’m thinking German riesling?”

“You’re thinking correctly. I don’t know exactly what’s available yet, because I haven’t scanned the whole cellar, but probably something a little sweet from the Pfalz. On the other hand, don’t be surprised if I show up with a bottle hidden in a paper bag.”

“Sounds like great fun. You know how much I like blind tasting.” Oh, I know. “Especially when I get to show up cocky young Master Sommeliers.” The way she deliberately, mockingly, overemphasized the word “master” made his loins ache. “Bring at least two, and maybe three; Bill and I usually finish a bottle by ourselves, and you’re not exactly shy about imbibing.” He could only shrug his acknowledgement.

“Second: I’m glad you’re actually speaking to me again, because I want to work with you.”

He dropped a carrot, spattering aïoli all over the table. I’m such a mess. I’d better be more careful with the bottles this afternoon. “You want to do what?”

Her mood took an abrupt turn towards sour, which he found startling and confusing. “I have a lot less to do than I expected I would when we moved here. Sometimes I’m busy ... usually for a week or two at a time, and in fact there’s one of those stretches coming up soon ... but ever since Bill ... oh Luke, I’ll just say it: I’m bored. I know wine decently well for an amateur, as I think you know. I have nothing useful to do at the moment. I’d like to help you. It might make things go faster. And it would be fun, wouldn’t it?”

There was a lot behind her request that she wasn’t revealing, it was clear, but he put that aside for now. Though he could scarcely contain his excitement over her proposal, he managed to tease back for a change. “You know, if this job goes faster, I get paid less.” And I spend less time here with you, which to my mind would be even more dissatisfying. “Can you find a way to slow me down instead?”

Her smile returned. There was enough of a twinkle in her eyes to indicate that she grasped his subtle innuendo. “No can do, sluggard.” She rose with a smile, knowing without him having to say it out loud that his only possible answer was yes. “Come over anytime between five-thirty and six. I’ve already got the Champagne, but the rest is in your hands. Oh ... and when you’re done here, throw some plastic wrap over the aïoli and the veggies and put them in the fridge. Irina’s going to take them home with her. Her daughter loves garlic, and it’s one of the few ways to get her to enthusiastically consume vegetables.”

With a fresh lilt in her step, she bounded down the stairs. He watched her buttocks flex and release as she descended.

Unfortunately, Kathryn, our newfound understanding doesn’t make you any less perfect.


“That was a hell of a meal, and an even better conversation. Luke, I knew you cooked because your dad raves about it all the time, but I didn’t know you knew so much about Vietnamese food.”

“Vietnamese, Thai, and I’m trying to learn Malaysian, though that’s a bit more complicated than I realized when I started. I figure that pretty much everyone who loves to cook can crank out French, Italian, and so forth. People who get into Asian cuisines usually look to Japan or China. I respect all that, and I love eating food from pretty much anywhere, but it’s fun to have something different to offer. Also, a fair bit of Vietnamese and the vast majority of Thai food in this country isn’t anything the people who live there would recognize, so the things I cook are almost entirely unexpected. I love offering someone an experience they’ve never had.” Out of the corner of his eye, he noted that Kathryn was practically beaming at him, but he thought it best to keep his attention on Bill. “Your chef, though ... where’s she from? She obviously knows this food really well.”

“Somewhere in Northern Laos that she doesn’t like to talk about much. First generation refugee. Back when I had the time to do rewarding pro bono work rather than sit in conference rooms and scowl at politicians and CEOs all day, I helped Sevinay navigate her way through the system and into a restaurant job. About three months later, she called everyone who’d helped her and asked if they knew of any better positions, because she was restless and underutilized. That took guts, and it showed ambition. I remembered those calls when we decided to move here, and I tracked her down. I knew I’d be in the city a lot, though if I’d known just how much...” He grunted with displeasure. “Well, anyway, I figured it would be less stress on both of us to hire her, I haven’t regretted it for a second. We sometimes hired chefs when we lived in the city, but none of them ever measured up to Sev. We don’t entertain all that often way out here — it’s easier to rent a private room in the city — but when we do, it’s obvious that a lot of our guests are jealous of how well we eat.”

“You implied that most people don’t know how this food is supposed to taste. How do you measure authenticity?” Kathryn interjected. She’d been reveling in the wine, perhaps a little more than the men, and her mesmerizing green eyes were glossier than usual. Not that Luke minded, though this was no time to get lost in them. Again.

“Technique, balance, and ingredients. For example, a lot of people know what a risotto is supposed to be, and especially how it’s supposed to feel. The creamy texture comes from slowly stirring the right kind of rice in liquid until the starches release, which is what makes it creamy. If you take shortcuts, you don’t get the right texture. If you use the wrong rice, like basmati, it won’t ever work. So to make up for not doing it correctly, some people add cream. And now it’s creamy like risotto’s supposed to be, sure, but it tastes different. You could go a little wilder and use coconut milk instead of cream, and now it’s really different. And then there are the things you add. Onion and mushroom make sense in a risotto, raw tuna and wasabi don’t. It’s not that you couldn’t make a perfectly interesting dish from basmati, raw tuna, wasabi, and coconut milk, but it has nothing to do with risotto anymore. You’ve gotta start by knowing what the basic, authentic dish tastes like and what it’s made from. Then you can play around a bit. But only to a certain point; after which, no matter how much you want to call it risotto, it’s not actually risotto anymore.”

“With Vietnamese, there are fundamental flavor combinations that show up all the time. Not in every single dish, but when they’re there, anyone who knows the cuisine can immediately identify it as Vietnamese. Lime juice, sugar, herbs ... but the right herbs ... fish sauce, chiles, and so forth. It all has to harmonize and balance correctly, which is tricky and takes a lot of practice, but once you’ve tasted it done the right way it starts to make sense. And then you can experiment, just like you can with risotto. The other issue, though, is that here in the States you can only get maybe eighty percent of the way there. So many herbs, fruits, and vegetables in Vietnam just aren’t available here, or they’re only available in one store in LA and another in Philadelphia. The shallots are different. The chickens are different. Maybe most people can’t tell, maybe even I can’t tell, but the prototypical Vietnamese grandmother... she could tell.”

Luke noticed motion in the background and shifted his attention to the swinging door between the dining room and the kitchen. The chef had emerged from her workspace, vigorously nodding along.

“Well said. Well said! Mr. Harris, Mrs. Lloyd Maddox, unless you need anything else I’ll be leaving soon.” When she received only negative responses, she fixed her gaze on Luke. “It sounds like you should join me in the kitchen one of these days, Mr. Bronson. I think I could teach you some things.”

Out of respect, Luke stood. “It would be an honor to cook with you, and I’ve absolutely no doubt I could learn a great deal from you, chef. Thank you for an absolutely delicious meal.”

Sevinay dipped her head and slipped back into the kitchen.

“I’ve never seen Sev do anything like that before,” Bill murmured. “You’ve made quite an impression for your first day, son.” He went on to explain that few of their dinner guests had ever managed to draw the reclusive chef from the kitchen, much less get her to engage in a conversation. Kathryn, for her part, was staring at Luke as if suddenly noticing something that had previously eluded her.

Luke shrugged. “I’m here so you can take advantage of my expertise, but I’m always eager to learn new things.”

Slapping him on the arm, Bill announced, “Well, I’m off. I have a contract to look over before I can catch some well-earned shuteye. Luke, I hope you sleep better than you did last night. You might want to change your running schedule, though; I’m usually on the road between 7 and 7:15, and I’m sure you don’t want to be inhaling all that dust.” He turned and disappeared upstairs.

“I guess I hear my chariot outside,” Luke said with a sigh. “Thank you for a lovely meal, and ... the whole day, really.”

Circling the table, Kathryn took his arm and walked him to the door. She seemed pensive, softly inquiring, “You didn’t sleep well last night?”

“No, but it’ll pass.” He could feel her eyes angling towards him, curious and probing, but he was unwilling to return her gaze.

“It’s not the mattress, is it?”

He managed a half-smile. “Heavens no. It’s exactly as comfortable as you promised.” No, the problem is that I keep imagining you sharing it with me. “Don’t worry, once I’m more settled I’m sure I’ll sleep the sleep of the innocent.”

Her snort of derision rendered his face a little redder than it already was. As they reached the door and he put his hand on the ornately carved handle, she sidled around to face him, blocking the entrance. For the first time he realized that they were exactly the same height. She was wearing heels at the bar, which means that she was probably taller than me. How did I not notice?

“Thank you.”

He cocked his head. “For what?”

The gleam in her eyes turned ever so slightly wicked, and he braced for the worst. “For not calling me ‘more beautiful than you ever could have imagined someone being’ during dinner.” He shook his head in amazement, for despite her mild inebriation she’d quoted him verbatim (save for the swapped pronouns). “That would have been so much more awkward than a fifteen minute monologue about the mouthfeel of starch.” He could only bow in defeat as she smirked. Again.

Tonight’s lipstick smudge was considerably larger than the one he’d received at Wendy’s bar, and he let it stay there until he’d worked through a half-dozen anatomically unlikely fantasies, sullying an equal number of tissues along the way.


Luke’s task was fairly simple, albeit divided into discrete halves. The second half — creating and managing a plan to transform Bill and Kathryn’s cellar into something more reflective of their tastes — was where all the fun and creativity awaited.

The other half was considerably more tedious: inventorying, cataloging, and (eventually) reorganizing the existing collection. With the exception of wine still residing in unbroken cases, it meant extracting every single bottle from the racking, recording location, name, vintage, appellation, cépage, and other identifying information in the software, then replacing the bottle freshly adorned with an identifying tag. Once that was done, the entire cellar would be rearranged to prepare for new additions; a mindless physical task to which he was not looking forward.

Despite my anxiety, it really will be nice to have some help during this stage. The problem is that the “help” is a woman by whom I’m desperately, hopelessly enraptured. If she’s here every day, all day, sitting right next to me...

He groaned, stripping off his sweaty running clothes and warming up the shower.

I feel like I keep making dangerous choices, daring myself to be stronger at each turn. But every man has a breaking point, and it would be so very easy for her to shatter mine.


“I’m ready, boss!”

Maintaining rigid control over his otherwise neutral expression, he raised an eyebrow.

She put her hands on her hips. “What’s wrong?”

His eyes flickered downward. “Yoga pants?” That they clung to her enticing curves like a second skin he unsuccessfully tried to ignore.

“It’s cold in there.”

“Do you even do yoga?”

“I’ve tried. It’s so boring, though that’s probably more my fault than yoga’s. But I like the clothes. Look, let me have this one super-girly thing, okay? Next week, I promise that I’ll ruin someone’s life with an indifferent stroke of the pen, after which I’ll dissect live baby animals while smoking a cigar.”

Despite himself, he broke down laughing. “Baby animals?”

“It was the worst thing I could think of on short notice,” she admitted with a sheepish grin.

“OK, fine. But what about the hat?”

“What’s wrong with the hat?”

“Why do you need a hat in an enclosed wine cellar?”

“Because it goes with the outfit? One super-girly thing, Lucas Bronson!”

Shaking his head, he muttered, “Maybe this was a bad idea.”

One tooth-grating Velcro separation later, the hat was gone and her untamed red mane was free of its confinement. Just where she’d put it all, he couldn’t imagine, He also couldn’t help but stare, entranced.

“Better? You’re sure it won’t get in the way?”

“Even if it does, I promise I’ll find it more than motivating enough to make it worthwhile.”

Squinting as if to assess the earnestness of his compliment, she urged, “So when do we get started?”


Kathryn picked up his rhythm with ease. After a few minutes of instruction and half hour or so of increasing efficiency, she also learned when it was okay to chat and when he required silence to concentrate.

“What’s the rubber mat for?”

The bottle he was holding fell from his hand. Gasping, she leapt for it ... and missed, watching helplessly as it fell to the ground. And bounced, once, before coming to rest on the mat.

“Ah, I see. Clever.”

“The first time you shatter someone’s thousand-dollar bottle of rare Burgundy, you’ll invest in a mat, too. L120, please.”

She pulled the the next bottle from the rack, replacing the one he’d dropped as he typed. “Did you really?”

“I really did. That job ending up costing me more money than I made. But I finished it anyway, because I felt obligated.”

“I’m sorry.”

“L121. It was my fault, and I paid the price.”

“Do you really like my hair that much?”

Interesting non sequitur. “Why do you ask questions to which you already know the answer?”

“I don’t. Like my hair, I mean.”

This time, the bottle that slipped from his hand wasn’t any sort of demonstration. He ignored it, hearing it thud against the mat while he looked at her in bafflement. “You don’t?”

“It’s too much. It leads to all sorts of assumptions that I’d rather not deal with, or at least not all the time. And it’s a pain in the ass to take care of. I’ve wanted to cut it off for ages ... I even did it once, back in college ... but I’m the only person I’ve ever known who hasn’t vociferously argued for me to keep it the way it is.”

Catching himself just before he acted on the urge to reach out and stroke his fingers through her not-quite-curls, Luke decided on a personal appeal. “I’ve never seen lovelier hair, so I’m afraid I’m going to join that chorus. Yes, I suppose it makes one think things ... but if I may be blunt, Kathryn, you’re rather overburdened with such signifiers. A haircut alone isn’t going solve that problem.”

She stared at him thoughtfully as he retrieved the fallen bottle and finished its entry.

“Thank you.”

“L122. And you’re welcome. But obviously I’m far from the only person to tell you how magical your hair is.”

“You weren’t just talking about my hair. But it’s ... nice ... to hear such kind words from new people. Aside from strange men in wine bars, I mean. For some reason they feel more honest.”

They worked in near-silence for a little while — he called out coordinates, she stopped interjecting — until he decided to break the impasse.

“If you don’t do yoga, what do you do to keep fit?”

Her silence continued for such a long time that he paused to look at her. She was blushing.

“Can you keep a terrible secret?”

What’s she going to tell me? If the answer’s sex, I may have to slit my wrists right here and now. “Sure, of course.”

“I ... don’t. Not really. But if people knew, they’d hate me. So I tell them I swim. Which I do, but not nearly as often as, for example, you run. Every once in a while I use the gym, but that’s even more boring than yoga. Even less often, I play tennis. God, I’ve become such a cliché, haven’t I? ‘Idle housewife swims, plays tennis.’ Maybe I should take up gardening. Or golf. Actually, those skorts are pretty cute...”

“Incredible. And you’re right: I would’ve thought it impossible, but now even I hate you just a little bit.” She’s not only perfect, she’s perfect by nature’s indelible design. I’m starting to think she’s not actually real, and this is all some terribly unfulfilling dream. I’m going to wake up alone in my apartment with a mess in my boxers, cuddling an empty bottle of Bas-Armagnac and angrily raging at the inequity of the universe. He typed some more ... and then, without looking up, asked, “By the way, I’d forgotten that you mentioned a gym.” Because I was too busy drooling over you. “I don’t want to wander aimlessly around your house looking for the door to the basement, so can you show me where it is? If I’m still allowed to use it, that is.”

“Of course you are, Luke. I’ll show you right before lunch. If, that is, you don’t think that repeatedly dropping bottles is enough to keep your oh-so-manly muscles from atrophying.”

He picked up a marker and poked her in the stomach. It was, based on the quick bounce-back, tighter than many he’d run his hands over — tighter, even, than stomachs he knew were the work of countless hours in the gym — but there was just a little bit of softness and give. Though he had to imagine it, he found it incredibly sexy. But of course I find it sexy. I’m starting to sound like a broken record, even to myself.

“Hey!”

“You’re right,” he grinned, “you don’t need to work out. L123.”

“Are you ever going to stop complimenting me?”

“Only when I run out of reasons.”

Though he didn’t look up to take in her blush, he could feel it. Her momentary bout of visible squirming was all the gratitude he required.


A gym tour and a quick lunch — this time accompanied by a sprightly grignolino he’d been shocked to find hidden (probably by mistake) amongst some vastly more serious Barbaresco — were followed by more inventory. Kathryn showed no signs of flagging, but as the afternoon wore on she found fewer and fewer lighthearted things to say. Instead, she started asking him probing questions ... about how he got into wine, about his family, about his life outside of wine (a discussion that went nowhere fast, as there was essentially nothing to tell, save for stories he wasn’t inclined to share). She seemed strangely disappointed in his response to the latter, yet his attempts to ask her similar questions were deftly deflected or diverted. Which is when she abruptly turned her attention to vastly more personal matters.

“Are you sure you and Wendy were never an item?”

This time he didn’t drop a bottle, but it was near thing. “Wendy and me? An item? L196. Impossible. Also, who says ‘item’ anymore?”

“Me, I guess,” she said with a grin. “She likes you, you know. Quite a lot.”

“I do know. I like her too. More than quite a lot, actually. If she felt differently about men, then yeah, we’d probably already have had our passionate love affair and flamed out by now. But she’s definitely a lesbian.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t have sex. You’re very good friends. She’s seriously hot. You two have an intense energy that’s at least partly sexual, and I noticed it right away. You seem like you understand each other without having to talk. One night when you’re both feeling it, why not? It doesn’t have to mean a long-term relationship, or a change of orientation, or anything at all ... save that you’re two attractive people who decided to go for it one night. Plenty of lesbians have had sex with men, and a few even keep doing it if and when the mood strikes. Gold stars are pretty rare.”

Unable to keep working while this insanity was going on, he stopped typing and looked at her. She was wearing an expression of pure innocence, but by now he knew her just well enough to see the tease behind her arboreal eyes. He decided that his only escape was brutal honesty.

“She offered to have sex with me, once.”

“She did? Don’t tell me you said no! Oh, Luke, you did, didn’t you?”

“I did. I was sorely tempted, but I declined.”

“But why?”

“Because I wanted to remain both her friend and her favorite customer.” Luke went on to tell her the story of the night she’d propositioned him and the conditions she’d attached to that proposition.

Kathryn didn’t show the slightest bit of surprise at his tale, but when he was done she interjected, “You know it had nothing to do with the bar. That wasn’t a serious threat. She didn’t want to mess things up with her best friend, and neither did you.”

He shrugged. “Probably. It’s true that I don’t want to lose her.”

“She’d probably still have sex with you, you know. If you asked the right way and didn’t get weird about it afterwards, everything would be fine.”

While he didn’t drop anything else, he very nearly sent his laptop clattering to the floor. “Why are we talking about this in the first place?”

“I like her.”

Another odd non sequitur. “What makes you think she’d actually have sex with me? She doesn’t like men’s, uh, organs unless they’re artificial and portable.”

Kathryn shrugged. “Say what you want. There’s a way to make it happen without ruining your friendship or making you give up your favorite hangout. I suspect she wants it, and I’m pretty sure you do too. Figure it out and you just might get lucky. Though you definitely shouldn’t brag about it, because that would piss her off.”

Luke was alarmed to realize that his cock was straining against his jeans. He casually adjusted his position so that she couldn’t see it ... not that she appeared to be looking ... and attempted to change the subject.

“Do you have friends around here?”

Her wistful expression, one he was learning she quite often wore when she thought his attention was elsewhere, returned. “Not nearby, no. I have a few in the city, but the majority of my closest friends are scattered around the globe. We take trips together sometimes, though even that’s less common now that most of them have kids.”

“Why not invite them here? L197. Yes, that one up there.”

“You haven’t been around long enough to realize it, but there’s nothing to do here.”

He paused for a little while, pretending to concentrate on the wine’s label, before asking the obvious followup question. “Then why did you move?” If she says “because Bill wanted to” I might have to reconsider my opinion of both of them.

“Do you enjoy living in the city, Luke?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“What do you like most about it?”

“The restaurants, the bars, the sheer number of options, but most of all the energy.” It was a pat answer, but he’d been asked this question often enough by people who didn’t share his affection that he had it memorized.

“I deliberately fed on that energy when I first moved there, and I both drew on and radiated my own when I was a lawyer trying to power her way to the top. Once I wasn’t, I found it exhausting to be surrounded by energy that I no longer had the tools to deal with. And it’s a bad place for...” She stopped, reconsidering her next words.

“But you still come into the city. If you didn’t, we wouldn’t have met.”

“Do you like rollercoasters?”

Another tangent. “Sure, I suppose. Yeah.”

“Would you like to be on one all the time?”

“Certainly not.”

“How do you think you would have answered when you were ten?”

He grinned. “Bring it on!”

“Exactly.”

Ah, I get it. She’s torn between two worlds, and now she’s stuck in this one. “So, what was the other thing you were going to say?”

She was clearly avoiding his eyes, and he gave up any pretense of working to wait for her answer. “It’s not a good place to be together. With anyone. It takes more than it gives.” Her tone hardened just a little bit. “It still does.”

He wanted to talk more about this, for it encapsulated and explained all his dissatisfaction with the superficiality of his relationships, but he felt like he was wading into treacherous waters and instead attempted to tiptoe around the shoreline. “You’re still trying to find your balance.”

“If only it were that easy. We make our own balance, Luke. By who we are, by the choices we make. Then things change, and the balance does as well.” With a wan smile, she glanced up at him. “Just like wine as it ages.”

Time to let her off the hook. “Just like wine. Okay, um ... L198 next.”


Luke was standing in the kitchen, sipping on another glass of grignolino and trying to decide what to cook, when he finally exhaled the tension he’d been storing up all day. He was exhausted, he was exhilarated, he was ravenous, but most of all he was conflicted. Spending an entire day with Kathryn, even while doing nothing more interesting than inventory, had been no less intoxicating than their unexpected meeting at Wendy’s bar. Aside from when topics seemed fraught, they talked together so easily, so fluidly, that it was like they’d been friends forever. Friends who didn’t know each other very well ... at least not yet ... but friends nonetheless.

Or lovers? As before, Luke found it impossible to tell whether or not she was flirting with him. She’d told him that she maintained a low-level flirtation as the antidote to a protective shell, and he knew that there was no way to separate his interpretation of her words and actions from his own desires, but he still couldn’t quite figure her out.

Why offer to work with me, all day, every day, knowing how I feel about her? Is she trying to torture me, does she just not care, or is she offering me an opportunity that I can’t see how to grasp? And speaking of opportunities I don’t see how to grasp, what the hell was that paean to Wendy all about?

He settled on spatchcocking and roasting a chicken, cutting out the backbone and splaying it wide, then spreading cubed potatoes, onions, and herbs around the bottom of the pan while the oven warmed up. Retracting one of the curtains concealing the lake-facing window, he pushed the button that opened the two panes that had screens; this was high-temperature roasting, all too likely to set off a smoke alarm. The vent hood and the ceiling fan were called into action, and when the chicken was finally in the oven he descended into the cellar, grimacing at his temporarily abandoned workstation as he imagined Kathryn sitting across from him.

I’m going to spend some of my big dollar wine ration right now. Why wait? He went straight for the Bordeaux, dithered for a while, and finally extracted a Lynch-Bages 1982 Pauillac. It was nowhere near his price limit, actually, but he was still nervous about testing it, and — probably due to the vintage’s reputation — Bill and Kathryn owned a lot of it, so they were unlikely to mind the loss of a bottle. Nursing it up the stairs so the sediment wasn’t disturbed, he carefully decanted it ... all the necessary professional tools were among the equipment he’d requested ... and poured a glass. The herbs and bubbling fat from the oven were quickly overwhelmed by dark fruit, rich earth, and antique furniture. He plopped down on the sofa and hummed with pleasure. After which he winced, remembering that all other sounds of pleasure in this apartment, at least since his arrival, had come while he was doing unspeakable things to himself and picturing Kathryn.

By the time he was ready for a second glass, the chicken was done. He haphazardly carved it into quarters and sat at the table, eating like an animal, pulling limbs and joints and muscles apart with his fingers while drinking like a king. The stem of his wine glass was slippery with chicken fat.

This is as close to sex as I’ve gotten since I came here. Certainly closer than going through entire boxes of tissues. In the absence of the real thing, I suppose it’ll have to do.

Deciding that finishing off an entire half-chicken — well within the realm of possibility given his current hunger — was gluttony beyond the ability of his exercise regime to allay, he artfully separated the rest of the edible bits and tucked them in the fridge, froze the bones and the remaining herbs for stock, washed his hands (and his chin), and pulled a clean stem from the cabinet so he could enjoy the rest of the wine without the glass slipping from his fingers.

He didn’t even own a television at home, but the apartment featured an enormous screen that dropped from the ceiling at the press of a button, and he allowed himself an unusual evening-ending indulgence when he realized that one of his favorite movies, Big Night, was available on demand. He finished the last sip of Bordeaux as the bankrupt sibling (and Marc Anthony) reassembled the morning after their ruinous party, regrets and crushing hangovers intact, for restorative eggs, empathy, and wordless despondency.

Though he didn’t run through any more tissues that night, his dreams were filled by Kathryn writhing naked on the cellar floor while his tongue moved inside her. A few feet away, Wendy stood and glared at them, criticizing his performance and shouting out suggestions.


I hope I didn’t clog the shower, he worried as he ran along the rocky shoreline. I guess I was backed up after denying myself last night. The path was difficult going; difficult enough that he reluctantly admitted defeat. Instead, he stripped his running gear and dove into the chilly water for an energetic swim. He hadn’t brought a towel, so he stayed naked as long as possible as he walked back, pausing to get dressed when the boathouse was within sight, then stripping again the moment the apartment door closed behind him. He’d just reopened the door to squeeze excess water from his clothes when he heard a call from the driveway.

“Luke?”

In a panic he sprinted up the stairs, dropping his wet clothes on the bathroom floor and leaping into the shower. Crap. I left my wet shoes in the entryway.

A few minutes later, one towel wrapped around his waist and another draped around his neck, he peeked through a barely opened bathroom door. No one. He dressed as quickly as possible, wondering if she’d seen him in the entryway and curious what she’d think or say if she did. He immediately hardened in his jeans, and though he tried his best to will his tumescence away, nothing seemed to...

“Good morning, Luke. You left your shoes by the door. They’re kinda soaked, so I put them outside in the sun to dry out.”

Kathryn was standing at the top of the stairs wearing single-color — and, as a result, even more revealing than yesterday’s, for the details of her flesh were no longer obscured by patterns — yoga pants and a surprisingly low-cut long-sleeved top. If there was a curve or line out of place anywhere, it wasn’t apparent to him. Her hair looked like she’d added some curls since yesterday. He was breathing heavily from exertion and anxiety, and desperate for a way to hide his erection. But anything he did would only call attention to it, so he braved it out.

“I went for a run along the lake, but it was too rocky. So I decided to swim instead, I hadn’t brought a towel, and...”

“You went left, didn’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“Next time, go right. You can do about three miles before having to turn around.”

“Ah. Well. That’s, um, great. Thanks. Good advice. Yeah.”

She cocked her head. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, just ... still catching my breath.” Please go back downstairs. Please go back downstairs.

“Well...” She seemed unconvinced. “Alright. See you soon, though? We don’t want to start too late.”

“Yeah, I’ll be down in a minute.” He desperately wished for more than a minute to take care of his problem, but knew it would risk her coming back upstairs to inquire why he was taking so long. And so, doing his best to think of rotting fish carcasses, dead bunnies, and his evil eighth grade math teacher, he descended the stairs, entered the cellar, and got down to work. If he’d looked at a clock along the way, he would’ve realized that, despite Kathryn’s warning, they were actually getting an early start. But he didn’t.


I hoped that concentrating on work would help my erection go down. I hoped that not looking at her for a while would do the same. But...

The moment they swung into their routine, she started asking him questions that made the previous day’s interrogations seem the very essence of propriety.

“So, how do people in the city date these days?” Why does she want to know that? Little did he understand that he was being maneuvered into an inevitable checkmate.

“We don’t, really.”

“What do you mean?”

“No one dates anymore. They ‘hang out,’” he air-quoted. “They go somewhere for drinks or a few small bites ... rarely anything like an actual dinner where you sit down and talk to the person all night, face to face ... and whoever issued the invitation to ‘hang out’ pays. And then...”

“And then?”

“L255. You know.”

She chewed her lip, considering. “So you go through the motions of eating and drinking like you’re on a date, but you’re really just wasting time before having sex?”

Please go down. Please go down. “It’s not quite that easy. The drinks are a chance to change your mind, or to fuel up, or to relax enough to go ahead with it. But yeah, that’s kinda how it is. You pay the toll and then you hook up or go home. It’s pretty soulless, actually.”

“Have you ever not paid?”

He grimaced, as this was a perpetual annoyance of his. “No. Never. Not once.”

“And you’re upset about it.” She reads me so well. Why the hell can’t she be single?

“I’m not upset about the money. I can afford it. But yeah, I suppose I am. No one ever offers.”

“A few drinks doesn’t really sound like an unacceptable downpayment for a little nookie.”

Another bottle fell to the mat. Flustered, he picked it up and handed it to her. “L256. And I can’t believe I’m hearing the ‘paying for dinner obligates one to offer sexual favors’ argument from a woman.”

To his surprise, she started cackling, and it was a long while before she stopped. “Oh no, no, no, Luke. I don’t think that at all.”

“So what do you mean?” His frustration was elevated by the fact that he was suddenly annoyed at her for no reason he could identify, as if she was an inquisitor picking at an unexpectedly sensitive wound.

“People buy drinks for each other and pay for someone else’s dinner all the time. Apparently, I’ve offered to sleep with half of the city if that’s how the expectations work. Bill and the Mayor might be having carnal relations as we speak.” Despite himself, Luke guffawed; the image was decidedly unpleasant. “But that’s not the actual expectation. You’ve got it wrong. It’s not an exchange of goods and services, it’s like the entrance fee to an amusement park. Some of the best rides in the park might cost extra, while others might be free. Concessions, games of skill ... they all cost a little extra as well. When it comes to dating, at one point that extra cost might’ve meant owning a suit and tie, or knowing a few good restaurants that can handle a last-minute walk-in on a Thursday night, or even having a handful of semi-secret cocktail bars in your back pocket. You can see all the obvious analogues to courtship, love, and especially to the naughty bits. But before you can do anything else, you have to pay to get into the park itself. That’s meeting the person on whom you have designs, wherever that might be, and making it clear that you’re interested in what might happen next. What seems different, at least from what you’re saying, is that the modern version of the entrance fee is now an all-access pass.”

Amidst his uproarious laughter, he faced the truth of what she was saying. Beautiful, sexy, funny, and insightful. Dear god, how am I ever going to survive this?

When he finally calmed enough to speak, he asked, “So what was it like when you were dating?”

“Back in the Pleistocene, you mean?” There’s that wistful look again. “I don’t really know. I didn’t date much. Not in the traditional sense, anyway.”

“Sorry, Kathryn, but I don’t believe you. You’re asking me to picture a world in which men everywhere are blind and dumb.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I had offers. So many offers. But I was concentrating on my studies. And ... well, I didn’t accept invitations to go on dates very often. I’m not saying I didn’t have my share of idle encounters or meaningful relationships. A few were even serious. But dating — the whole ritual of it — took time, energy, and attention, and I rarely felt like I could spare all three.”

He could tell she was concealing something, but guessed by the look on her face that it wasn’t a subject she wanted to talk about, so he instead attempted to connect his own experience to hers. “I was more or less the same, actually. No lack of apparent interest — though not that many offers, either; this was high school, after all — but few acceptances. It wasn’t until I was working full time that I started saying yes. Or asking, for that matter.”

“Really? Bill showed me a picture of you in high school. I can’t believe you weren’t fighting them off with a stick. Or with your stick.”

To this Luke had so many potential reactions, coupled with an utter inability to respond out loud with any of them, that he nearly slobbered on himself as he marinated in indecision. Kathryn was smirking in the way that only someone who knows they’ve scored an incontestable point can.

“Uh, thank you? Anyway, I wasn’t. I was kind of a dork, actually. Even if I’d said yes, I don’t think I would’ve known what to do.”

“Well, anyway,” she announced with an abrupt change of tone, handing him L257 without him having to ask, “I was just thinking that I probably shouldn’t have let you pay for my drinks.”

“But ... no, Kathryn, I was more than happy to. If you’ll remember, Wendy made me...”

She fixed him with a stare full of patent disapproval. “Wendy didn’t make you, you did it of your own volition. And you know why you did it, too.” Raising an eyebrow, she allowed herself the faintest smirk of satisfaction as she delivered the killing blow. “Sorry it didn’t work out, but I hope ten-year-old you enjoyed the rollercoaster.”

He felt like he was on the verge of detonation, even as he burned with embarrassment. This is ridiculous. Why am I letting her bait me like this? She really is just torturing me. Suddenly, he saw an escape route.

“Well, I got work out of it, just as I hoped. So I guess it was worth it after all.”

She punched his upper arm, hard. “Jerk.” There was nothing but mirth and affection on her face, but his tricep stung for a long while.


After lunch — chicken and arugula salad with the last of the grignolino — Kathryn ducked out for a few minutes to take a call. Luke was a dozen bottles in before she returned, and while her dark aura of unhappiness was clear to see, he tried not to pry and restricted himself to the barest amount of communication necessary to proceed with their work.

But she couldn’t restrain herself for long. “Bill has to make an emergency trip to LA.”

As neutrally as possible: “L269. Tonight?”

“He’s on his way to the airport right now.”

Should I invite her over for dinner? Should I say I’m sorry? Should I ... oh hell, Luke, stop thinking with your dick and do what you’d do for a friend.

“I’m sorry to hear that. If you want ... and you don’t have to if you’d rather be alone ... I mean, I’m going to make dinner anyway. You’re more than welcome to join me. But it’s your choice, obviously.” Waaaaay too many disclaimers, dude.

When she finally met his eyes, it was with neither kindness nor gratitude.

“What do you mean, ‘sorry’?”

“I ... I didn’t mean anything. I just ... well, unexpected changes of plans can be annoying, and I ... uh...” He ran out of words, for the displeasure in her expression was growing fiercer by the moment.

“I didn’t ask for your sympathy!” Before he could apologize again, she was gone.

That went well.


The rest of the afternoon, dinner, and the slowdown to sleep were filled with thoughts of, and worry over, Kathryn, but he kept his distance even as he berated himself for his clumsiness with words. Though it still wasn’t entirely clear why what he’d said had upset her so much.

There was no self-pleasuring, before or after bed, and when he ran the next morning it was on the empty road.


An hour after he started work, Kathryn entered the cellar. Her eyes were red and swollen. He didn’t need to ask why. Without word or greeting, she sat down and started handing him the exact bottles he needed at the exact moment he needed them. He suddenly realized that she’d possessed this skill all along; that she’d only tolerated his calling out bin and slot numbers because she wanted to keep the conversation flowing.

Close to another half hour of silence passed before she finally spoke. “Luke, I’m sorry about yesterday.”

Trying to maintain an air of nonchalance, even though his heart was heavy with anxiety, he shrugged. “Nothing to apologize for. My words were ill-chosen and I probably didn’t say any of the right things to make up for it. I’m the one who should be sorry.”

“No. No, you’re not. You didn’t say the right things, because there were no right things to say. Once I was determined to be angry, you had no chance. Your mistake was being the only person available to be the target of my anger. Anyway, I’m over it now. Well, no ... not over it, but I’m not going to be angry at you. You didn’t do, or say, anything wrong, and I’m really upset at myself for acting that way.”

“Okay. Well, if there’s something I can do to make things better, let me know.”

“There is. Just keep talking to me like it never happened. Today, why don’t you ask me questions? I’ve asked you a lot, and I’m aware that I’ve been avoiding yours. It’s my turn to answer for a while.”


Lunch was rapidly approaching, yet he’d learned far less about her than he hoped. Her answers, while earnest on their face, were full of evasions and elisions. He was slowly piecing together a suspicion that there were significant traumas somewhere in her past, but it was hard to work around them without knowing what they were or when they occurred. Finally, frustration got the better of him and he pushed harder.

“Have you always been like this?”

“Like what?”

“So guarded?”

The pall that came over her features filled his lungs with lead. Oh, fuck. Now I’ve really said the wrong thing. The absolute wrong thing. I should...

“I don’t mean to be mysterious. Not really. It’s an especially bad look alongside a femme fatale image that I never wanted but can’t seem to shed. But sometimes I can’t help it.” In contrast to her earlier elusiveness, she was looking directly into his eyes as if pleading for understanding, and to his surprise her hand was resting atop his. As always, he felt like he needed to immerse it in an ice bath to counteract the sheer heat of her touch. “It’s part of the armor, and not just the professional kind. I don’t think I’ve managed to conceal the fact that my childhood was horrible beyond imagining. If you really want to know, I’ll tell you why one of these days. But I hope you’ll believe me when I say that you don’t.”

He flipped his hand to grab hers. It was the most intimate contact they’d yet shared. “Kathryn, I believe you. But I’m terribly sorry anyway.” Unfortunately, he could all too easily imagine what it was she didn’t wish to say, and he tried to put down his righteous fury at whoever hurt her. They aren’t here. She is. “We can talk about something other than you for a while.”

“No, Luke.” She broke their contact, but as she did she looked unexpectedly vulnerable. “Just ask me a different question.”

“Okay. Here’s something I’m curious about: how did you learn about wine? Was it when you started dating Bill, or were you into it before?”

Her silence and strange, nervous tics went on so long that he feared he’d asked an even worse question.

“It started in college. I was relatively poor, so wine with dinner wasn’t on the agenda. One of my first actual boyfriends was really into sauvignon blanc. Until then I thought that all wines tasted like various kinds of synthetic fruit, but I’d really only tasted things that came in boxes and jugs. I’d never had anything that tasted like grass, peppers, and so forth. It was different, and that was fun.”

“We didn’t last all that long as a couple, but while we were together we went to wine tastings just for something fun and cheap to do, and after we broke up I kept going. They were usually free, so why not? Only every once in a while could I afford to buy anything, but a year later I had a magnificent ten-bottle collection in a box under my bed. I felt like a queen. They were all perfectly nice wines for someone with no money, but I couldn’t afford to take the next step. And then...” Again she paused, chewing her all-too-inviting lips. To his annoyance, he realized that he was hardening again.

“And then?” he encouraged.

“A few years later there was another boyfriend. More serious this time. We were in law school, and eventually we moved in together; as much for financial reasons as for love, though there was just enough of the latter to make it sensible. He enjoyed wine as much as I did. Food, too. We went to tastings together, challenged each other, read as much as we could in our minimal spare time, and bought what we could afford despite our meager budgets. And then...” He could tell she was skipping well ahead in the story, but remained politely silent. “And then it was my birthday, and we scraped the money together ... god, it took months of saving ... for a bottle of Ridge Monte Bello. The ‘83.”

“Wow!” Luke exclaimed, unable to mute his enthusiasm. “That’s a great vintage for Monte Bello.”

She smiled, though it was suffused with a forecast of oncoming sorrow. “It was. It is. It’s also my birth year, and you’ll eventually discover that there’s some in the cellar.” At last, I know how old she is. For god’s sake, she looks like she could be in her twenties, yet Bill’s in his fifties. The lucky bastard kinda robbed the cradle, didn’t he? “So we planned a special night to drink it together.”

Again she paused, clearly fighting her emotions. He wanted to reach out and comfort her, but she was closing in on herself, and he wasn’t sure physical comfort was what she needed at the moment.

“We spent all day assembling a châteaubriand from scratch. Including the pastry. It was the most fun we’d ever had in the kitchen, and also the most we’d ever spent on food. Anyway ... the dinner was fantastic, the wine was even better, and it was all really...”

“Romantic?” I hate this story. How very petty of me.

“Yes, romantic. One thing led to another, of course. The food, the wine, the occasion ... well, we were lost in the moment and we got a little careless. Everything was blissful for a few weeks, but then...” She stopped, patently tortured by the memory and unable to continue. And then, with a flash of insight, he understood.

“Oh! Oh, Kathryn. That must have been...” I have no idea what to say. “What did you do?”

Obviously grateful for his understanding and easy acceptance, she forged on. “Nothing, at first. I was in a blind panic, of course. So was he. That one lavish night aside, we were barely scraping by. A child was out of the question without at least one of us working a full time job, and there was no way either of us were going to drop out of law school, even temporarily. I was mired in impossibly difficult classes and I focused on them as much as I could, ignoring what was growing inside me and putting off a decision, trying to make sure I stayed near the top of my class so I could maintain the scholarships without which I couldn’t afford tuition. And then, one day...” She gulped, tears streaming down her cheeks, and he could no longer help himself. He rushed to her side, holding her hands in his, silently bidding her to continue or stop ... whichever she wanted ... but desperate to assure her that she wasn’t alone.

“Too much stress, too much anxiety, too little sleep, not enough of the right foods ... all stuff I could have handled on my own, perhaps, but too much for two of us to deal with. I still don’t remember it happening, but I passed out on the lawn while rushing from one class to another. I woke up in a hospital feeling utterly wretched, tubes everywhere. And I woke up alone, which was its own form of awfulness. I’d missed almost a week of classes, I’d lost ten pounds of my own body weight, and I’d lost the baby. I’d also lost the ability to have another one, because I’d been on the lawn for several hours before someone figured out I wasn’t just taking a nap. There was internal bleeding followed by an infection that eventually led to surgery. A month or so later, I also lost my boyfriend.”

“Jackass,” Luke muttered, sotto voce. She heard him anyway.

“No, no, please don’t be too angry at him. We were never the same after that. Neither of us. Miscarriages fatally damage a lot of relationships, some vastly more committed than ours, and what happened to me was significantly more deformative than a miscarriage. If he hadn’t broken it off, I would have. He never said so, but I think he secretly blamed the loss of the baby on me for working too hard and ignoring the demands of my body. I know I blamed him for a lack of sympathy and support, both during and in the aftermath. Anyway, long story short, I finished law school, went to work, and then...”

“ ... and then you met Bill.”

Without warning, she yanked her hands from his, leapt to her feet — sending her stool tumbling to the ground — and ran from the cellar and out the door.

Two days in a row. Great work, Luke. Just great.


It was time for lunch, and though he wasn’t hungry, the still-vivid memory of her story reminded him that he should try to eat anyway. Before heading upstairs, he stepped outside for a breath of fresh air and was surprised to find her leaning against the wall, right next to the door. He readied another apology.

“Take the rest of the afternoon off.”

“But I...”

“But nothing. You’re working really hard, and even faster than you otherwise could have now that I’m involved. You’re already way ahead of schedule, trust me. Take the afternoon off. Please.

He couldn’t resist the raw emotion in her plea, though he was still bewildered by her almost violent mood swings. “Okay.”

“Grab a few bottles ... nothing complicated ... and two glasses. There’s some cheese in your fridge. Bring that too. Meet me by the lake in twenty minutes.”

He looked up. Thick clouds were rolling in, threatening rain, and it was more than a little chilly.

“It’s not exactly beach weather.”

“That’s appropriate, because I’m not exactly in a beach weather mood.”

She left, and he went inside to change into warmer clothes.


Toting two bottles — a well-chilled Montlouis and a slightly chilled Brouilly — with cheese, bread, a quartet of glasses, and a handful of stubby knives, he crossed the gently sloped lawn and stepped onto the narrow band of coarse sand that constituted their private beach. She was nowhere to be seen. He looked right, then left, scanning the horizon. Could she be in the boathouse?

“Luke? Over here!”

Trudging toward her voice, he finally reached her hiding place. It was a most unlikely rock formation in which the stone had gradually eroded away, leaving what looked like benches and backrests, all within the enveloping “arms” of what was obviously a sturdier type of rock less susceptible to erosion. It was as close to an entirely natural dining table as could possibly be imagined. After marveling at it for a while, he sat next to her, tugging the already extracted cork from the chenin and pouring some of the pale amber liquid in their glasses.

She sniffed, then took an experimental sip. “Chidaine?”

“Yep. Well done. Though you don’t get the usual credit for that guess, because it’s obviously chenin blanc and it’s the only Montlouis you own. Something I’m going to change, by the way.”

They were through their first glass and onto their second before she began to speak.

“Luke...”

When that was as far as she got, he turned to look at her. He realized that this was the first time he’d ever seen her in natural light, though under the clouds and in her current mood it made her look as pale as a waning moon. Still impossibly beautiful, though. She was bundled in several layers of what appeared to be men’s shirts, tucked into herself like she wished to disappear; smaller and sadder than he’d ever seen her. He knew that whatever she was about to say, it was unhappy and deeply personal.

“You’re going to figure this out sooner or later, and since I already forced you to get everything you were thinking out in the open, I might as well say it now. Bill and I...”

Oh god. Oh god. Am I ready for this?

“Bill and I are ... well, I don’t know how Bill and I are. Sometimes we’re absolutely fine, and we definitely still love each other, but...”

Well, damn. Also: damn me for being disappointed that she’s still in love with her husband. One of these days I’m going to have to figure out a way to stop being a myopic jerk.

“ ... but ever since we moved here, he’s been so busy. We were already apart way too often. About six or seven months ago, a bunch of deals he’d negotiated went to hell all at once. None of them were his fault, but he has to be available to fix things, and unfortunately they’re mostly overseas. One’s in Dubai and almost solved, but the bigger problem’s in Hong Kong, and there’s no telling how long that will take.”

“And he still has to go to LA?” Oops. That was the wrong thing to say. Or at least the wrong time and place to say it.

She glanced at him, disapproval in her eyes. “It’s not what you think.”

“I don’t think anything.”

“Yes you do. Luke, don’t lie to me. I’ve asked you this twice now, and here’s the third time. Please don’t make me say it again. Ever. I ... I can’t take lying from you.”

I still have no idea what that means.

“Bill wouldn’t ever cheat on me. He just wouldn’t. It’s not his way. He doesn’t have the time, for one thing. But even if he did, I think I’d be fine with it as long as he was honest with me.”

“You would?”

“It doesn’t bother me as much as it’s apparently supposed to. Does that make a modern, enlightened woman, or does that make me a fool? Maybe both? Oh, I don’t care what anyone else thinks. It doesn’t matter anyway. He never will.”

I guess that answers my own selfish question. Though it raises several more that I really shouldn’t be thinking about.

“To the question you’re so desperately trying not to ask...”

“Kathryn,” he hastily objected, attempting to head off the answer despite his ravenous curiosity, “the reasons against asking it are good ones.”

Staring across the lake at some unnamed point on the other side, she shrugged. “You’re right, and I wouldn’t have answered it anyway, but that’s not what I was going to say. I was going to suggest that when one discovers something beautiful, the worst mistake one can make is to start examining it for the inevitable flaws, looking for reasons to throw it away.”

At this she fell silent for a while, and Luke contemplated her words until she continued.

“I thought that by moving here, we’d be together. I thought it was the city that kept us apart, but I apparently failed to consider that leaving the city didn’t make it go away. We lived there and we were apart more than I wanted. Now we live here and we’re apart more than ever.” Luke didn’t know what to say, so he refilled her glass and stayed silent. “The more successful he becomes, the more he works. The more he works, the more successful he becomes. That’s to be expected, of course. But it’s not just that. The deals he’s making ... he’s entangled in politics, and international finance, and other people’s scandals. He’s never done a single thing wrong, yet it consumes all his time and most of his emotional energy trying to be the most honest man in the room. He and I, we...”

Again, he waited for her to finish.

“We used to be so close. And now it’s like I have to call his secretary to get on his schedule.”

He didn’t need to ask what she was talking about, nor did he much admire himself for the opportunistic delusions that raced through his head. Suddenly, he felt her hand brush against his upper thigh. Great. Just what I need. Right on cue, he swelled straight down the inside of his leg towards the place she’d touched him.

“I want you to know something: in a way, telling you this makes you one of my closest confidants. I’ve never talked to anyone else about this quite so openly, so you know something about me that no one else does. I ... I trust you, Luke. Please, whatever you do, don’t betray my trust. Ever. I couldn’t bear it.”

That’s about the fourth time she’s said something like that to me, but I don’t understand it any better than I did the first time. The usual inferno of seduction in her bright green eyes was supplanted by desperate pleading that would have been difficult to ignore from almost anyone. From her, he never had a chance.

Taking a risk, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Without a moment’s hesitation, she leaned her head against his. She was trembling, and he squeezed her closer while trying to decide if this was comfort between friends or another step on the road to conflagration. Well, why not both?

They talked their way through the afternoon, revealing secrets few — and sometimes no other — knew. She snuggled closer as the clouds descended, the air grew colder, thunder echoed across the water, and the barometer threatened. They’d finished the Montlouis and were halfway through the Brouilly when the first drops fell.

The rain felt like absolution and release from of all their tension. Laughing like children, they scrambled through the onrushing deluge until they arrived at the door to the guesthouse. Impulsively, she leaned forward to kiss him on the nose — it was the sort of quick peck a parent might give a child, though for him it was also a lightning strike straight to the groin — and fled to the house. A few minutes later she texted to decline his dinner invitation, explaining that she was emotionally exhausted and needed to sleep.

His fire burned right through dinner and long into the night, escalating his depletion of the local tissue supply.


Kathryn opened the door wearing a robe so thick and luxurious it looked like a royal vestment. There was an enormous mug of steaming coffee in her hand.

“Good morning, Luke. It took me a minute to figure out who could possibly be ringing the doorbell this early on a Saturday.”

Stop imagining what she’s wearing underneath the robe. Stop imagining what she’s wearing underneath the robe. Stop imagining what she’s wearing underneath the robe. If that’s how great her bed hair looks ... no, stop thinking about that too.

“I was wondering if I could use the gym?”

“Of course. I’m sorry, where are my manners? Come in. Coffee?”

“Not before I lift, but thanks.”

“You know, even though the door wasn’t locked, I gave you a key for a reason.”

“I felt uncomfortable just walking right in.”

“Don’t worry, Luke, you’re safe. I rarely walk around the first floor naked.” She was teasing him again, clearly delighting in the effect it had on him. “More seriously, sometimes I like to sleep in. You’re lucky this wasn’t one of those mornings. Just use the key next time, though it’s unlikely that the door will be locked unless no one’s here.”

“Okay, okay,” he held up his palms in surrender, hoping to distract her from the bulge developing in his shorts. “Anyway, I should probably...”

“How long will you be, do you think?”

“My usual workout’s forty-five minutes, but this is unfamiliar equipment, so ... maybe an hour?”

She frowned. “I was going to invite you to join me for post-workout coffee, but that’s a little later than I’d like, and if I drink that much I’ll regret it. How about this: I have some work to do this morning, but why don’t you come by after lunch and use the pool?”

Luke gulped, trying without success to imagine the scenery. “I’d love that, but I don’t want to disturb you.”

With an insouciant swish of her robe, she turned and headed for the kitchen. “I didn’t promise I’d be there, did I? Anytime after two. Just let yourself in and go straight through to the back.”


Though he ached all over, it was the good sort of post-workout ache he was always happy to suffer. Tugging his swim trunks into position, he studied himself in the mirror. He’d worried about excess indulgence in food and beverage while away from his disciplined city routine, but if he was suffering any ill effects, they weren’t yet visible.

And speaking of things not being visible, these trunks are baggy enough that, if she does make an appearance, she’s unlikely to notice what it does to me.

A few minutes later, he adjusted a reclining chair until it faced the sun and began applying sunblock, doing his best to avoid imagining any of the clichéd poolside scenarios. Plenty of time for those later tonight. When he’d covered everything he could reach, he donned his sunglasses and leaned back, pretending that he was basking in paradise. A paradise with an all too tempting apple. A few minutes later, he was asleep.

The scrape of metal against concrete woke him from his slumber, and he opened his eyes. The sun had shifted while he dozed, and a large umbrella now shaded almost a quarter of the patio. It rustled and scraped as a slender form in diaphanous wraps rolled and dragged it into position.

“Can I help?” he offered.

“No, I think the helplessly feeble woman can manage her own patio furniture all by herself.”

“I’m sure she can; meanwhile, would you like any help?”

Her laugh was magical. “Stop being a smart-ass and get over here.”

Together, they easily maneuvered the heavy base to her preferred position. Despite being outside on a warm day, and despite the protection of the umbrella, she was covered neck to ankle, which meant that opportunities for surreptitious gawking were nonexistent. Having done his good deed for the day, he started to return to his own chair.

“Aren’t you fully cooked on that side?”

He looked down, poking his flesh. “Close. But I couldn’t reach my back, so...”

“Turn over. I’ll do it for you.”

What? Really? Oh god. Cautiously lowering himself so he didn’t drive his burgeoning erection straight through the chair, he turned his head to the side and watched as she approached with a small tote bag. He tensed when her shadow fell over him, willing himself to remain still and hoping he wouldn’t do something embarrassing, like climaxing the moment she touched him.

A fine mist fell upon his shoulders. Then another, and another, covering his shoulder blades and trailing down his back.

“There. All done!” She’d never even touched him. He raised his head to look at her. Despite her overly large sunglasses, he could tell by the mirth written elsewhere on her face that she was still in the mood to tease him. “Mr. Bronson, surely you didn’t think I was going to come over here and rub lotion all over your back while cheesy seventies porn music played in the background? You have to acquaint yourself with classier erotica.”

He groaned. She’d gotten him. Again.

“Now: I’m close to the end of a fantastic book, so no talking until I’m done. If you’re thirsty, there’s iced tea and beer in the fridge. The wine cabinet is right around the corner, near the walk-in pantry. Help yourself to whatever you’d like.”

He did, by staring at her from behind the protection of his own sunglasses. This is great. I can look all I want without...

“And stop staring at me.”


It was measurably hotter than when he’d arrived. He went inside to get some iced tea, offering to bring her some as well. When he returned with two glasses already sweating with condensation, he noticed the perspiration glistening on her forehead. Rather than returning to his own chair, he plopped down next to her, sharing her shade.

“It’s a scorcher.”

She lowered her sunglasses and raised an eyebrow at him, bemused. “A ‘scorcher’?”

Smiling, he shrugged. “I think it’s pronounced ‘scorchah.’ Learned it from an Aussie pal of mine and it stuck. Anyway, it’s hot.” Please take the hint. Please, please, please take the hint.

Sighing, she swigged a significant portion of her iced tea and stood. “Yes, I suppose it is.” Deliberately avoiding looking at him, she reached behind her neck and unbooked some sort of fastener, elegantly gathering up her wraps in one smooth motion. It was at that moment that young Lucas Bronson passed away, dead of a heart attack long before reaching the age of thirty.

Kathryn in yoga pants was stunning. Kathryn in a designer dress was ravishing beyond belief. Kathryn in a bikini...

Breathe. You have to breathe. Remember to breathe. Hey, Luke? Luke? LUKE!?! You’re going to pass out. Just inhale. There you go. And now exhale. Good. Keep that up. Not that, the breathing.

Every inch of her revealed flesh was perfection, an achievement all the more impressive for just how few inches remained unrevealed. Her breasts — his suspicion that they were disproportionally fulsome for her otherwise slender frame was finally confirmed — swelled past all three sides of the taut black triangles that made a token effort to conceal them. Her stomach and back were without flaw. Her legs were even more shapely than he’d guessed, their seemingly endless lines drawing his eyes upward to the faint outline of the folds pushing against their own insufficiently sized triangle. The inviting roundness of her buttocks, fully on display save for the beginning and end of the thin string that tunneled between them, literally begged for his hands. Or his tongue. Or his...

She gracefully returned to her chair, picking up her tea and her book, saying nothing while Luke gawked, gaped, and only barely avoided drooling. Finally, she sighed.

“Thank you. As always, I’m flattered. But isn’t your chair over there?”

Chastened, he rose — trying to hold his drink between his tented trunks and her eyes — and sullenly walked away. As he did he heard her whisper, “Down, boy.”

While she must have noticed that he stumbled and spilled tea all over his chair, she remained politely silent.


“Okay, Luke. Penance and purgatory are at an end. Slide your chair over here so we can chat.”

As he toted his chair, towel, and empty glass to her side, he muttered, “Or it’s just beginning.”

“If you choose to look at it that way, that’s really not my problem.” She was lying on her stomach, which only served to emphasize the extraordinary curve of her buttocks, and his resistance was crumbling. “Would it be easier if I started commenting on just how good you look with your shirt off?”

Down, boy. Down, boy. Down, boy. He plopped onto his stomach out of sheer self-preservation. “Now you’re torturing me for no reason.”

“I most certainly do have a reason. But do you remember how I praised your restraint at Wendy’s bar the night we met? Focus on that.”

Biting back a thousand intemperate and lascivious replies, he asked if she needed more tea. While his offer was genuine, he was also considering the possibility of ducking into the first floor restroom for a quick release, as he was already teetering dangerously close to the edge. Relief might be a ... relief.

“No, but thank you. I’m actually thinking we should switch to wine.”

“We should. This is turning into a decadent and beautifully unproductive afternoon.” When she turned her face toward him, he was pleased to see that she was smiling. “You’re staying for dinner, of course, so pick something light.” He was already getting up, wondering just how quickly he could finish himself off and return with the excuse that he’d been dithering over the selection. “After all, we don’t want to blow our load all at once.”

Instead of ejaculating into a tissue, Luke spent the entirety of his time in the bathroom dabbing blood from the knee he’d skinned when he tripped and fell onto the hard concrete patio, courageously saving the glasses from extinction by sacrificing himself.


By the time he returned, she was on her back again. It was impossible for him to look at her without his eyes drilling into her incredible breasts, so he replaced his sunglasses and kept his eyes closed. About his treacherous organ he could do nothing at all.

“All better?”

“I think so. Must have been some sort of crack in the concrete.”

“Obviously. I’ll be sure to have that looked at. What are we drinking?”

“What do you think?”

“It’s light. Deceptively flavorful. A little bit of spice, a lot floral ... actually, now that I think about it, it’s not as light as I first thought. I tastes like it should be sweet, but it’s not. I taste rocks, too. I honestly have no idea. Torrontes from Argentina? But those are usually so much simpler and more cloying.”

He sighed. “How can you be so good at this without formal training? No, it’s not torrontes, but everything else you said was right. It’s a dry muscat from Alsace. Léon Beyer. He’s an ultra-traditionalist and more than a bit of a crank and curmudgeon. Which, of course, is an excellent thing for a winemaker to be.”

Her lips puckered. “We own this?”

“You don’t. Remember those cases I had sent here a few weeks ago? This is one of the bottles.”

“I wasn’t around for that, so Irina must have been here when they arrived. But you brought wine? For heaven’s sake, why?”

“Don’t worry, it’s included in the bill,” he said with a grin. “Part of my job is to introduce you to wines that fit your palates and the way you eat. Which — at least among high-end wine collectors — is decidedly against the grain. Dry muscat ... not a common thing to begin with ... is right up your alley.”

There was a period of quiet while she twisted to make herself more upright, pulling the glass to her lips and taking another contemplative sip. He glanced over as she did, just in time to see her stupendous breasts strain against their containment. “You’re right, this is utterly delightful. Why have I never tasted it before?”

“Compared to thirty or forty years ago almost no one makes it anymore, there’s not enough demand to make it profitable, and only a tiny fraction of what is made is sold outside Alsace. Technically, this one isn’t even available in this state, but we can get around that.”

“Mmmmm,” she purred as she laid flat again, “liquor bootlegging. Are you going to turn us into criminals, Mr. Bronson? That’s a naughty thing to do to a pair of scrupulously honest lawyers.” It looked to him like she was deliberately arching her back, emphasizing her breasts and stretching the already insufficient material to the breaking point, forcing him to look away again lest his injuries mount.

“No. There are ways ... well, it’s not worth discussing in detail, and that’s probably better if plausible deniability becomes an issue,” he joked. “I just have to talk to a few people and make the arrangements.”

Another long silence followed. Then: “Luke, do you miss your friends?”

Sighing, he admitted, “I don’t actually have many friends.” Producing the requisite fingers for air-quoting, he continued, “I have a million ‘friends,’ of course — the wine world’s nothing if not convivial — but people I’m on ‘come bail me out of jail’ terms with, not really. Well, except for...”

“Wendy?”

“Yeah. I guess she’s she’s probably my best actual friend. It’s strange, because we see each other less often than many of my industry ‘friends.’ But if I had to make the proverbial one phone call to someone other than my parents, it’d likely be to her. Is that weird?”

“No, it’s not weird at all. I told you: you two are closer than you realize. You just haven’t figured it out what that means yet.”

“While I appreciate your continuing efforts to hook us up, I repeat that Wendy remains enthusiastically committed to ladyparts and the ladies to which they’re attached.”

“Oh, I’ve no doubt about that. I didn’t say you were going to date. I just ... you’re selling each other short, dancing around the obvious because you’re not romantic prospects for each other. The next time you see her, I want you to promise me that you’ll think of her less like a drinking buddy and more like a close friend. A close friend who, by the way, also happens to be way hotter than I think you realize.”

His mind in turmoil, Luke considered her words. Do I treat Wendy like a pal? Like a buddy? Am I putting up barriers because we’re not going to sleep together or have a relationship? That’s kinda obnoxious of me, if so. I always feel like she puts up her own barriers, but... He scanned through his memories ... nights full of banter, wine, and teasing interspersed with moments of true kindness ... and realized that Kathryn had a point. I do take her for granted, and I keep her at a distance because we’re not going to get naked. And she’s also right about another thing: Wendy’s incredibly attractive. Why haven’t I admitted that until now? I guess it’s hard to tell sometimes, with those ridiculous outfits she wears, but she is.

“You’ve come to the inevitable conclusion that I’m right, haven’t you?”

“I admit that it’s starting to become tiresome. Can’t you just be wrong once in a while? It would really help my ego recover.”

When she didn’t respond, Luke turned to look at her. She was gnawing on a fingertip and looked to be distressed.

“Kathryn, while I feel like I’m doing this far too often and should probably just learn to shut up, I apologize if I said something wrong.”

“No. No, you didn’t. Not really. It’s just that being wrong usually turns out badly for me.”

“Not used to it, eh?”

With the back of her hand, she slapped him on the chest. “Not what I meant. I’m sitting here remembering the last time I was wrong and struggled to forgive myself. It was a long time ago, and I haven’t allowed myself the luxury of repeating the experience.”

This is one of those inflection points. Do I ask? Do I let it go? He (and the wine) decided to be bold. “Do you want to talk about it?”

She tensed. “Did Bill ever tell you how we started dating?”

His erection wilted at the thought, but he acknowledged that he had.

“Well, that wasn’t the first time I’d approached someone so brazenly. My final year of law school, I completely swore off relationships — I had my fair share of hookups to release the tension, but only with people I knew I’d never have to see again — and focused like a laser on my studies. I started the year fourth in my class and ended it second, so it was all worth it. Anyway, there was a professor that I was completely sure was flirting with me. To this day, I can’t understand how else to explain his behavior if he wasn’t. I ignored it, then I resisted it, and finally I cautiously flirted back ... just enough to keep him interested but at arms’ length. The truth was that I was incredibly attracted to him, even though all the power dynamics were twisted and he could’ve been fired if we followed through, but I wouldn’t actually give in while he was still my professor. I figured I could keep him wiggling on the hook right through to my final grade. Which was spectacular, by the way.”

“I admit it was mercenary and manipulative, but I felt like I’d won the round without anyone getting bloodied, and graduating without having to deal with that kind of drama was such a relief. A few days later, on my way to pick up copies of my exams from a different professor, I ran into him in the hall. We talked, I finally let my inner flirt loose, and we arranged to meet for drinks. I don’t remember who asked who, but it was probably me. In retrospect, that’s probably where it all went wrong, because I failed to understand that, for him, it was more about pursuit than capture. I got all dolled up, and ... oh hell, Luke, I was totally into the idea of being with him. I was ready. There was no way he’d say no, right? There might be some dirty looks if we were seen together in public, but no one would lose their job over it. And I was pretty clearly advertising my availability.” Luke must have looked confused, because she added, “It was quite a dress.”

“We met at a fancy bar far from campus, and I was all over him. Not physically, but verbally. But no matter what I said he seemed unfazed and uninterested, even somewhat cool. Finally, encouraged by more than a few cocktails, I told him straight out, ‘I want to go to bed with you.’ I think it was the most forward thing I’d ever done; I’d said it in much filthier ways to others, but only after we’d already been together, and certainly never on a first date during which there’d been no other physical contact. I expected that he’d injure his shoulder signaling for the check and we’d be in his car making out like teenagers a few minutes later. Instead, he leaned away from me and frowned, looking for all the world like I’d just suggested we commit a violent crime.”

“He started a high-minded lecture about propriety and reputation, but if he finished it I’ll never know. I grabbed my purse and fled, utterly humiliated. I didn’t leave my apartment for three days, and went far out of my way to avoid crossing paths with him again.”

“But,” Luke interjected, “what’s so bad about that? I mean, I’m really, really sorry to hear that you were humiliated, and he’s obviously a blind and pompous ass, but people — granted, maybe not you — get rejected all the time.”

She frowned at him. “Yes they do. What doesn’t often happen is that the details of their rejection, down to the smallest turn of phrase, become a story shared far and wide among the law school faculty. Which, of course, eventually filtered down to the students.”

“Fuck. I’m so sorry.” Luke’s fists balled. He hated that sort of reputation-damaging whisper campaign about anyone — he could all too clearly imagine what conclusions were drawn by those who heard it — and for it to have happened to her...

“I’ve never gone back. I’ve skipped all my reunions, I don’t answer donation solicitations. If my name appears in the alumni magazine it’s not due to any communication from me, and I won’t even set foot in the town. Eventually, I had to forgive myself, and I did. But I was determined to make that the last time I blindly charged into something without making absolutely sure I wasn’t misreading the situation, until...”

“Bill.”

“At least that time I was right. Anyway, this is almost certainly a character flaw, but I don’t like to be wrong. Ever. Being wrong hurts people. Usually me.”

He wasn’t quite sure how to take that, but decided to probe deeper. “For me, being wrong has sometimes led to interesting things.”

“Like?”

He stared at her as meaningfully as he could, considering they were both wearing sunglasses.

“Oh ... right, of course. Well, it’s yet to be determined whether or not you were wrong.”

What does that mean? Is she saying what I think she’s saying? Nah, can’t be. It’s just my imagination running wild again. She finished her glass and held it out to him. He extracted the dripping bottle from an ice bucket and poured her some more.

“And now that I’ve shared that embarrassing story, I’d like to remind you that you never answered my question.”

“I’m sorry, I’ve been distracted. Remind me?”

“Do you miss your friends? Or even your ‘friends?’” She didn’t actually form the air-quotes, but he heard them as clearly as if she had.

Luke stared at the blur of sunlight filtered through her umbrella. “Not really.”

“Why not?”

“I thought maybe...” He stopped, mortified by the risk of speaking out of turn.

“Oh Luke, I’m sorry. Of course we’re friends, especially after yesterday. You saw me at close to what passes for my worst these days, and you were there when I needed you. I won’t forget that. But wouldn’t you enjoy a social life? Even if it’s only every once in a while?”

I’d enjoy getting laid with a partner more attractive than my hand, but you’re making it impossible for me to even think about having sex with someone else. “I suppose, maybe. Things are ... focused, here. Not that I don’t love the focus. And I’m obviously enjoying myself a great deal right now. But sure, it’s nice to just sorta let go of obligations now and again.”

Kathryn sat up. He couldn’t help but admire her body, and his arousal came rushing back. She was unfathomably beautiful, incredibly sexy, and wearing so very little.

“I’m going to take a shower, and then I’m going to get started on dinner. You should actually use the pool before you go. Feel free to shed the chlorine with the outdoor shower if you want — there should be plenty of towels in the shed — or go back to your apartment if you’d rather, but either way make sure you’re here by five. You’re also more than welcome to stay and hang out with me, though for the sake of etiquette it would probably be better if you wore shoes and a shirt to dinner.”

“You’re going to cook?”

“I’m a woman of nearly infinite talents, Mr. Bronson. Don’t you forget that.”

Great. More teasing. She’s going to reduce me to a pile of extremely horny rubble before this job is over.

Consumed by a sudden need to cool off, he removed his shades and took an enormous leap into the refreshing water. By the time he emerged, she was gone.


Dinner was delicious. Dinner was Italian. Dinner was full of succulent wine (perhaps a little too much), great food (definitely too much), and scintillating banter (never enough).

Dinner, in other words, was its own form of purgatory.

Choosing discretion over temptation, Luke quickly rinsed off by the pool, then returned to the guesthouse to properly shower and change. When he arrived at her door, precisely at five, he was immediately confronted by the fact that, while Kathryn had also changed, she wasn’t wearing all that much more than she had at the pool. A tied-off white cotton top left her stomach and a fair expanse of cleavage exposed — if she was wearing a bra, it wasn’t visible through the opaque material — and she’d paired it with a tight, sarong-style floral skirt that decidedly flattered her shapely buttocks and regularly left one of her legs uncovered as high as mid-thigh.

She’s doing this deliberately. She has to be. No one dresses like this, especially to cook, by accident.

By the time they were reduced to nibbling on cheese and sipping the dregs of a now-mismatched wine, Luke was beside himself with arousal. If I don’t leave soon, I’m in danger of doing or saying something I’ll regret.

She walked him to the door, this time bidding him farewell with a body-crushing hug that mashed her soft breasts into his chest and just barely avoided leaving her with a similar impression of his inconsolably erect manhood. Before he could turn around and let himself out, she grabbed his hands.

“I have a surprise for you.”

“What kind of surprise?”

“You know what the word means, right? Be outside and dressed for a day on the lake by nine.”

“Whatever you wish, Lady Maddox.”

“That’s Lady Lloyd Maddox to you, Mr. Bronson.”

Bowing theatrically — he ignored the light back-of-the-skull spank she delivered with a laugh — he left, fearing that tonight’s countdown to sleep would be the messiest one yet.

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