Allie shrugged. She’d been wondering the same thing all morning. “I don’t know. We didn’t actually talk about it. I assumed I’d just wait to hear from him, but now I think I’ll send him an email and ask.”
“Sweetie, just call him and demand his time.” Her friend tapped her temple. “Stupid, remember?”
Allie laughed. “I remember. Okay, I’ll call him.”
“Good. And when you talk to him, you can tell him I think he’s an idiot who’s too blind to see what’s right in front of his face.”
“How about I leave that to you? You’re family. And he won’t threaten to spank you.”
“I thought you liked that?”
She grinned. “Oh, I do.”
The banter with her best friend was cheering her up. So was the idea that she could take back some of the control in the situation by initiating her next meeting with Mick. She was going to have to in order to work past his walls, and maybe her own, too. Only time together would tell. If she had to force that time with him, she would. Dom or not, the ball was going to be in her court, and Mick would have to play by her rules for a while.
* * *
ALLIE HAD SPENT the rest of the afternoon organizing the PowerPoint presentation she was putting together for the Dolcetti expansion. Knowing the stubborn streak that ran in her family, she understood it was a long shot, but it was important to her to try—it was something she’d thought about and wanted to do since she’d first started culinary school. It was why she’d gone to learn the art of pastry to begin with. And putting her business plan together was also an excellent way to distract herself from the circling thoughts about Mick. She was dying to call and talk with him now that she’d made the decision, since he’d encouraged her to press the issue with her family, but she also knew guys usually needed some downtime to process things.
At nine o’clock she stood up from the kitchen table and stretched, poured herself a cup of dark coffee from her new French press and inhaled the rich aroma. Good coffee always felt like a luxury to her, one she’d become used to when living in Europe. Just because she was feeling the need for a little self-indulgence she added a spoonful of sugar before finding her cell phone and going into the bedroom to make the call. She set her coffee mug on the nightstand, sat on the bed and plumped a few pillows behind her. Why was her heart racing?
Calm down.
She did some yoga breathing before dialing Mick’s number.
“Reid here.”
“Mick, it’s me, Allie.”
“I’m glad. If it wasn’t, I’d know my caller ID was broken.”
“Oh. Yeah. Right.”
He chuckled and she closed her eyes in embarrassment.
Idiot.
“So,” she started, “I just wanted to talk to you. We haven’t done any checking in today.”
His tone sobered instantly. “You’re right. I should have. You okay?”
“Yes, fine. I hung out with Marie Dawn today, which was good. But . . . Mick, in my experience it’s always good to check in with my Top for a day or two after play, depending on how hard the play was, or the emotional response . . . if there’s another layer going on beneath the actual play. Which there is with us.”
“Fuck. You’re right and I’m sorry. Totally irresponsible of me not to call. It’s not like me. I got a call right after lunch and I’ve been wrapped up in this project all day. But I shouldn’t have let myself get too distracted to follow up.”
Follow up? Was that all she was to him—a task on his to-do list? But she knew he was covering for emotions he wasn’t ready to deal with. Making excuses. Still, it stung.
“Yes, well . . .” She didn’t know what else to say. And she realized she was a little mad, too, at his response. Or lack of response.
After a tense moment of silence, Mick swore under his breath. “Allie, look, I am sorry. I leave in the morning for a business trip. I have to go to Atlanta for a couple of days to scout out a new venue, meet with a new client. But I’ll be back on Thursday. We can see each other then.”
“Okay.”
She hadn’t meant to draw out the last syllable, hadn’t meant to sound so irritated. She was caught between the need to be honest with him and the fear of driving him away. But this wasn’t high school, or even college. And they’d both been in the kink community long enough to know how this stuff was supposed to be done. Total transparency was always the best option.
She took a breath. “Mick, if you have even an hour to spare, I could really use seeing you tonight. I can come there if that’ll be easier. But I need to see you.”
He was silent for a moment, and both the anger and the hurt that had been lingering inside her all day surged in her chest. Was he really going to turn her down?
Finally he said, “Sure, come on over. I’m still packing for this trip so it’s better if you come here, if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind. Is it okay if I come now?”
“Yeah, sure.”
They hung up and she raced around the house looking for the right shade of lip gloss, pulled on a clean tank top, found a belt for her low-slung jeans and put on her new sandals and a pair of silver hoop earrings. At the last moment she shucked her way out of her clothes and put on clean—sexy black lace—lingerie.
We’re just talking.
Maybe. But one never knew. And even worse than being caught in an accident wearing shoddy lingerie was being caught in a surprise sexual encounter with less-than-stellar undergarments.
She locked up the house and jumped into her aunt’s old Coupe de Ville, fired up the big engine and made her way to Mick’s place, trying not to think about how unsatisfying their conversation had been, or the fear that was still simmering low inside her.
Parking was awful in his part of town, but she found a spot only two blocks away. If it had been almost any other city in the world, she would be nervous walking alone at night through the narrow streets, but this was her town.
Hers and Mick’s.
She found his place, an old plaster-over-brick painted in a rich terra-cotta. It was covered in flowering vines, as so many of the older buildings in the French Quarter were. She’d always loved how most of the city had the scent of flowers overlaying the mild scents of decay and old plaster, the exotic cooking smells. Even the car exhaust added something to the mix that was the distinct urban perfume of New Orleans.
She looked up and saw lights shining down through the windows on the second floor, where he’d told her his flat was. Her pulse grew warm and thready knowing she was going to see him. That he was going to touch her.
Hell, he’d better touch her. She needed to feel his arms around her. Needed to feel the reassurance of skin against skin even more, maybe.
But if that phone call had been any indication, he was probably still too shut down from the intensity of their night together, their open conversation, to give her what she so desperately needed from him. She didn’t want to need it, damn it. But the simple fact was that she did. Because it was Mick. Because when it came to him she was always a little desperate and needy. And maybe she was in a more intense state of subdrop than she realized, because “desperate” and “needy” were not like her at all. She sighed. Not when it came to anyone but Mick.
Tears stung her eyes, and she shook her head, tried to shake them away.
Stop it. Stay in the moment. Don’t project.
She inhaled, tucked her car keys into her purse and knocked.
She heard him coming down the stairs, and her heartbeat accelerated. To her horror, the tears burned even hotter behind her eyes.
“Goddamn it,” she muttered—just as he opened the door.
“All right. I guess I deserved that,” Mick said.
“No, it wasn’t you. It was . . . I’m just . . .”
A tear plopped onto her cheek and she started to turn away, but he took her hand in his.
“Hey,” he said gently. “Where you going, baby?”