Which deepened Evangeline’s disappointment she couldn’t talk to her friend about all that had happened the last few days.
“Either way, Leenie, either way,” Amélie replied.
Evangeline smiled at her and again tucked into her salad.
* * *
That evening, in her car, Evangeline turned the corner on her street holding her breath.
Hers was one house from the end. It wasn’t a long street, and she expelled her breath seeing Branch’s truck parked in front of her home.
She drew in a breath again and tamped down the hope.
This had been her struggle all day.
She’d lost hold on it that morning after what had happened with Branch. His taking her in his arms. His sharing all he’d shared. His words. His irate concern. His exposure of hints of his personality. His calling her his Domme. His request to connect with her physically in a deeper way. His calling her “baby” and “honey” and …
Angie.
No one called her Angie.
That was all Branch’s.
And she loved it.
But a day had passed, and outside of striping his ass, telling him he was making dinner and stopping him right before he walked out her door to leave her mark on his cock with her lipstick, she had not left him with any instructions. She had not made certain that he checked in so she could be certain she was on his mind in an effort to make sure that mind didn’t take him places she didn’t want it to go.
So seeing his truck in her drive was a huge relief.
But she knew she had to go cautious and keep her expectations low.
Giving a man, even one like Branch, two orgasms he clearly enjoyed and perpetrating a mild break to the point, after he received one, he couldn’t wait to pull her into his arms was a step in the right direction.
That didn’t mean he didn’t have a whole day to retreat.
One obstacle down, she thought as she parked under her carport, he’s here.
Now, onward.
She grabbed her purse and attaché, opened her door and threw her legs out.
She experienced another hint of relief when she entered the house and saw him strolling, wearing cargo pants again, this time switching it up by wearing a navy tee that did very nice things to his eyes, from the family room to the kitchen.
The TV was on and the air was filled with delicious smells.
She looked at his face.
Damn.
He’d used that time to retreat.
He was there. He’d clearly cooked. He’d made himself at home, watching television while waiting for her to arrive.
But he was not relaxed and at ease.
His discomfort was not awkward like it had been the night before, but it was there.
And his expression was remote.
No “Honey, I’m home!” then.
And no welcome-home kiss.
She sensed Branch didn’t kiss even if this was an intimacy that usually the Master or Mistress would prohibit or grant during play.
But they were not in a club’s playroom, where the scene was all there was.
They’d been in her bed and on her couch in her home.
He’d had opportunities to take a kiss.
He’d had opportunities to show he wanted one.
He’d taken neither.
Evangeline did not allow the depth of her disappointment at this to pierce the carefully controlled bubble of hope she was nurturing.
But she still recognized the disappointment.
“Hey,” she called, giving him a small grin and tossing her attaché and purse on the counter by the door before she cleared it and closed it behind her.
“Hey,” he replied. “Work good?” he asked.
“Yes. Busy. Maybe too busy. I need to slow down.”
He made no reply, just stopped by the island and regarded her.
She advanced slightly, getting close-ish, putting a hand on the island to brace herself to lift a foot and slip off her slingback. “You? Good day?”
“Good as they can be.”
That wasn’t a very upbeat answer.
“Started out all right, though,” he continued.
She slipped her other shoe off and gave him a look and a raised brow.
“All right?” she asked.
His mouth moved not exactly in a grin and he gave one shake of his head before he changed the subject.
“Chicken enchiladas.”
She stared. “Homemade?”
“I got a dick but that doesn’t mean I can’t cook.”
“Of course not, a number of the best chefs are men.”
“A majority number,” he returned.
“That’s only because when something as,” she lifted her hands and did air quotation marks, “common as cooking hits elite status, men horn in and take all the glory when there are thousands, probably millions of women who could kick their ass given just a toaster oven to build miracles.”
“Don’t doubt that,” he muttered, the blankness in his eyes no longer totally blank.
There was a light there, dim, but with anything Branch gave her, she’d take it.
“Is dinner ready?” she asked.
“Whenever you are,” he answered.
“Great, honey,” she whispered and watched the light in his eyes flash out instantly.
She stood, feeling its absence like it lit her soul and all had suddenly gone dark, but she powered through that quickly, trying to figure out what flipped that switch to “off” while continuing to speak.
“I’m going to go get changed. You want to dish up? I’ll be back in a second.”
“Got it covered,” he muttered and started moving around the kitchen.
She carried her slingbacks up the stairs and quickly changed into a slouchy, dip-backed knit top in electric blue and a pair of dark-gray, drawstring, soft-knit yoga pants
She piled her hair up on her head and psyched herself up all the way down the stairs to persevere.
It was day three. She was a recently-brought-back-to-life Mistress with the most challenging sub she’d ever had on her hands. He was an experienced sub so her challenge was not about that. Her challenge was vastly different and vastly more important. And she was facing it coming off another sub whom she had not read was also challenged.
One of the totality of differences between Branch and Kevin (for they were not alike in any way) was that, whatever was screwing with Kevin’s mind, he’d hid.
Branch wore the fact that he was damaged and he didn’t want to be fixed like a badge.
She turned the corner of the stairs and saw him on her whiskey-leather, deep-seated couch in front of the TV.
Her plate was sitting on the coffee table and there was a glass of red wine beside it. Steam was coming off the plate, and as she walked toward him, she saw the humongous portion he’d served on it looked delicious.
She also saw Branch had not achieved a new level of comfort in her house after spending time in it, cooking in it, hanging in it and being played with right in that very space he sat, on the edge of his seat, again hunched over his plate, eyes to the TV.
He looked to her and she saw in the time it took her to go upstairs and change, the blank he’d slammed down had turned void.
He’d retreated since that morning.
But in the last ten minutes, he’d withdrawn.
Damn it.
She didn’t do anything but walk around the back of the couch, take her seat and claim her plate.
“Looks good,” she murmured.
“Good,” he murmured back.
“Thanks for pouring me some wine,” she said.
“Not a problem,” he replied.
She took a bite and watched him eat, eyes to the TV.
Wow.
It was good.
“Delicious, Branch.”
“Glad you like it, Evangeline.”
Evangeline.
Not Angie.
Damn.
His gaze turned her way and he said, “Don’t have HBO. Heard this was good. Been wanting to catch it for a while. Is it cool with you?”
She looked for the first time to the television and saw there was an episode of True Detective on, first season.
He’d pulled up HBO GO.
She’d never watched it but had always intended to.
She looked back to Branch and said, “Yes. Haven’t seen it but I’ve wanted to.”
“Want me to start it at the beginning?” he offered.