Page 3 of Hunting Little Hope
I’d watched the entire thing instead of joining in. Listened to the conversations going on around me instead of speaking. Smiled politely and then excused myself early.
This was not me. I didn’t do that.
I mingled.
Made friends.
Even if those friendships always ended up being only surface-level, I was the queen of meeting, mixing, and making connections.
For someone who’d crossed the country for a dating event, I’d played it painfully safe.
I swung my legs out of bed and padded across the room, pulling the curtain back to let the morning in. The Ranch looked different in the bright light of the morning sun. Dew clung to the grass, and a few people walked the paths with mugs in hand, moving at an unhurried pace.
I pressed my lips together and turned away from the window.
After a quick shower and an even quicker internal pep talk, I dressed and headed toward the main cafeteria where they’d told us all to meet for breakfast. The dining area buzzed with low conversation and the clink of cutlery. I grabbed a tray, filled my plate, kept my head down, and found a seat near the window.
During my pep talk in the mirror this morning, I’d promised myself today would be different. But first, I needed something in my tummy.
The first scheduled event was mid-morning, and by the time I ate a breakfast sandwich and made my way to the sign-in area, the disappointment from the night before had settled into determination.
A long table had been set up outside one of the smaller halls. I slowed as I approached, scanning the people around it. Placards depicted different meet-and-greet options for guests. These included a Caretakers’ Workshop, Dominants’ Roundtable, Submissives’ Discussion, and one that had my steps stuttering.
Littles’ Creative Hour—Art class with Master Gavin.
I wasnotjealous of missing out on an hour-long art class with a world-renowned artist.
I shook off the lingering feelings and then noticedhim.
He was older than me by a good ten years if the delicious gray in his hair was anything to go by. His broad shoulders stretched the fabric of his button-down, with sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms. The gray in his hair and stubble was mixed with thick dark hair, cut into a short and tidy style that suited him perfectly. He sat comfortably, spine straight, forearms resting on the table. His entire presence shoutedDominant.
His attention lifted as I approached, gaze steady and unhurried. His focus on me—even though not intrusive and overbearing—was enough that I felt suddenly very aware of myself.
My pulse quickened as my mouth watered.
Watered!
I smoothed my expression into one of my practiced, friendly masks and stepped closer.
“Good morning,” he said, voice low and even. Warm and welcoming. “I’m Master Lee Mulder. Excited for your first day?”
“Yes,” I responded, nodding quickly. “Very, thank you, Master Lee.”
I was not surprised in the least that this man was a Master. Every ounce of his being told me that he thrived by being in control.
And every ounce of mine wanted to submit to him.
“Great.”
His smile shifted, brightening just a fraction—I guessed at my use of the term Master so he had verbal confirmation I wasn’t a Dominant myself.
“Name?”
“Hope.”
The effect was immediate. His eyebrows lifted slightly, and his smile deepened, reaching his eyes this time. “Hope,” herepeated, and my name sounded so good coming from his mouth. “That’s a lovely name.”
Heat crept up my neck before I could stop it. “Thank you,” I said lightly.
