Page 47 of Carter

He crosses his arms over his chest. He has his right leg casually crossed over his left thigh.

He’s having a great time.

I ignore my audience and focus on what Mary taught me: Get your potatoes boiling before you do anything else. They take the most time. Chop the veggies small and even. Pan on medium. Heat up the oil first, before you put anything in there. Garlic first, always garlic first. Then onion, then the veggies. Last, the meat. I slice. I dice. Pretty soon I’m so focused on what I’m doing, I find I’m enjoying myself. As I cook, I forget my exposed bottom. Carter and I chat about our days. We laugh.

Yummy smells begin to waft through the kitchen. I stir my pan. The food actually looks good. Hey, I’m cooking!

I serve the food onto two plates. He takes them from the counter, carrying them over to the table. I want to pull up my clothes before I sit down. I give him an inquiring look. Which he ignores.

So I sit my bare, still throbbing ass as gingerly as possible onto the wooden chair.

Ouch.

My traitorous pussy gushes at my predicament.

He takes the first bite. I stare at him in anticipation. He smiles and says, “Delicious.”

I take a bite to see for myself if he’s just being generous. The veggies are tender but still have the right amount of crisp. The potatoes are creamy, the garlic and butter making my mouth water as I chew. My brows rise in surprise. A feeling of pride wells up in my chest.

He takes my hand in his, holding it on the tabletop. He says, “I knew you could do it. You just needed a little help focusing.” He gives my hand a squeeze.

I kind of want to stick my tongue out at him. But my ass hurts too much to risk repercussions.

12

Sasha

The day of the funeral has come.

I shouldn’t even be going. Since we aren’t yet married, I’m not officially a Bachman. But Bronson made an exception for me, as John is related to Carter, and Brett was like a father to John. I think Bronson’s decision to allow Carter to include me is Bronson’s way of holding out an olive branch to me.

He knows how hard I’m working to get the hang of this whole submissive wife thing.

I’m trying my best, but the gods know I’m a work in progress.

I carefully pack my—what should I call it? sausage potato pepper, best made with your ass hanging out—dish into my lidded casserole pan. I tuck it within the soft fabric of the carrier Mary has gifted me. It’s blue and white checked, with two strong handles. The material it’s made of will keep the food hot until it comes time to serve it.

A week ago, after I’d finally nailed fried chicken—Carter’s favorite—she’d handed it to me, pride radiating from her face, and told me I’d graduated from her cooking school.

Holding the straps, I walk to the foyer. A glimpse of my reflection catches my eyes. I barely recognize myself.

My long, dark hair hangs over my shoulders in soft, tumbling curls. During Paige’s last visit to the Village, Bronson had invited us over for an impromptu grill out. While the men were discussing dinner on the patio, she’d grabbed my hand, tugging me upstairs. She insisted she show me how to use a curling iron. It’s not fair—you have such beautiful hair and just looking at it, I know it will hold a curl all day long. Let me show you.

She pushed me down into a chair, strong for her tiny size, and got to work, pulling and tugging my hair into tendrils. When she was on her last strand, Carter had entered the room, telling me it was time for us to go home. His eyes lit up when he saw me, saying, “Daddy likes.”

His unexpected words made a rush of heat melt through my core and a tension rise between my legs.

It made Paige giggle.

So today, I took special care to curl it myself. And it doesn’t look half bad.

My fitted, sleeveless white dress—Carter reverently told me we wear white as it’s a celebration of life, not death—looks stunning against my olive skin. I’ve never really been one to wear light colors.

And in my hands, my stylish food carrier. The picture of a domestic goddess.

“What has happened to you, Sasha?” I breathe to my reflection. But on my face is a wide grin.

A horn honks and I rush out the door to meet Mary. She’s driving John’s red Porsche Panamera. We will meet our significant others at the site of the burial. Though what all the ceremony entails, or if there will even be a burial, I have no idea.