Month of Sundays (8 page)

“What’s the difference?” She was surprised to find herself capable of rational thought. She hadn’t felt this drawn to someone since…well, never.

Griffin led her to an empty mattress in the back of the bar and waited for her to get settled in before she sat (okay,
lay
) next to her. “The difference is when you peel a grape, you have to do it slowly, sensually, and very carefully. When you peel an onion, every time you think the job’s done, you pull back another layer. Getting to the center takes longer than you think it should.”

“How long do you think it would take for you to get to my center?”

Griffin laced the fingers of her right hand through the ones on Rachel’s left. “It would probably take me a month of Sundays, but I’m willing to put in the time if you are.”

“What are you proposing?”

“One date each Sunday for the next…” She paused while she did the math in her head. “Seven and a half months. I get to know you while I peel the onion one layer at a time. I woo you, not with my body but with my mind. Something, I have to say, would be a first for me.”

“What do I get out of the deal?”

“A trip around the world without ever leaving New York.”

“How do you plan to do that?”

“That’s for me to know and you to find out.” Griffin’s right thumb slowly slid against the space between Rachel’s left thumb and index finger. Back and forth. Back and forth. The movement was as sensuous and hypnotic as a snake charmer’s
pungi
. “Do we have a deal?”

A month of Sundays. The expression was as quaint as the idea that Griffin would like to spend thirty days—no—thirty
Sundays
courting her instead of trying to get into her pants right away. The thought simultaneously intrigued and frightened her. Intrigue won out.

“Deal.”

“Where would you like to go first?”

Rachel leaned forward until her lips were no more than a breath away from Griffin’s. When Griffin’s gray eyes darkened, Rachel moved past her mouth and close to her ear. She could hear Griffin’s breath quicken. She could see her pulse beating at the base of her throat, its rhythm matching the insistent pounding between Rachel’s legs. “Surprise me.”

“Gladly.” Griffin’s free hand slid across the nape of Rachel’s neck, raising goose bumps on the sensitive, newly exposed skin. Her lips parted.

Rachel’s heart trip-hammered in her chest. Was this really happening? Was Griffin Sutton, the sexiest woman she had ever met, about to kiss her? She watched Griffin’s lips move inexorably closer to hers.

“May I bring you something to drink?” the waitress asked.

Rachel ordered a Manhattan, Griffin a bourbon on the rocks. Griffin looked around as if waking up from a dream. Rachel knew the feeling. She looked down. The fingers of Griffin’s right hand were still wrapped around hers. Perhaps the dream didn’t have to end.

“What’s your favorite childhood memory?” Griffin asked.

Rachel reflected on family vacations, school recitals, and outings with her friends. All of them had been enjoyable in their own right, but they had paled in comparison to the Sunday afternoon excursions on which she and her parents used to embark.

“When I was a kid, I loved going to open houses with my parents. Every Sunday morning, my mother would scour the real estate supplement in the newspaper. She’d find listings in upper crust neighborhoods we could never afford to live in, then the three of us would put on our Sunday best, jump in my dad’s Buick Regal, and drive around looking for realtors’ signs. We’d tour all these houses we had no intention of buying, then have lunch somewhere and fantasize about what it would be like to live in the places we’d visited.”

“Which one would you have loved to live in?”

“If I tell you, you have to promise not to laugh.”

“Cross my heart.”

“You have to keep in mind that I was ten.”

Griffin squeezed her hand. “I promise I won’t laugh.”

Does she make everyone feel this special or just me?

“It was a seventies-style bachelor pad with mirrors on the ceiling, wall-to-wall shag carpeting, and an honest-to-God bear rug in front of the fireplace.” She stopped when Griffin began to guffaw. “You promised you wouldn’t laugh.”

“I’m not laughing. I have something in my throat.”

“Yeah, I think it’s called mirth. What’s your favorite memory?”

“Every year for the Fourth of July, my family would have a clambake on the beach. Each of us had assigned roles. My brothers would dig the fire pit, my father would gather the rocks to line the bottom of the pit, my mother and I would collect seaweed to place between the layers of food, and my grandparents would ‘supervise’ the entire affair. My favorite is the one we had before my brother Kieran left for college because I knew that was the last one we’d have while we all lived under the same roof. We still have the clambakes, of course, but they aren’t the same. Because when the food’s gone and the fire’s out, we head off in different directions. We don’t pile into a wood-paneled station wagon and go back to the same house.”

“I’m sensing a theme. Food and family are a part of everything you do.”

“It’s true. I’m nothing without either one.”

“Then why are you single?”

“If I knew the answer to that question, I don’t think I’d be single.”

“Can you see yourself being married with kids some day?”

Griffin pulled back. “I get the feeling if I say no, it could be a deal breaker.”

“Not necessarily.”

“If I squint real hard, I can see myself being married. A mom? Not so much. I love children, but I don’t want one of my own. I’d rather be the fun aunt who takes the kids to the beach, teaches them to surf, and takes them home, not the mom who has to get them off to school every morning and stay up half the night worrying each time they get the sniffles.” Griffin sipped her drink. “You look disappointed.”

Rachel felt that way, too.

“Did I give the wrong answer?”

“The truth is never right or wrong. It just is.”

And sometimes, the truth hurts.

Rachel arrived at Jane and Colleen’s place an hour early so she could help with any last-minute preparations. She wanted to pat herself on the back for managing to climb the four flights without breaking a sweat, but her arms were too full to accomplish the feat. She had been working out for just a week and she wasn’t even halfway to her goal weight, but she felt better than she had in months.

She banged on the apartment door with her elbow, being careful not to spill the contents of the Crock-Pot in her hands. Jane let her in and ushered her to the kitchen, where Griffin was conducting a master class on the fine art of preparing the perfect pot roast.

“The secret is to caramelize the meat first. Season it, put it in an oiled Dutch oven, and brown it on both sides on medium-high heat for about four minutes. That seals in the flavor.”

Colleen and a few early arrivals were gathered around her. They hung on every word. Colleen’s boss, Dieter Bock, and his boyfriend, Kevin Reynolds, were part of the crowd. Kevin studiously took notes as if Griffin would be giving the guests a pop quiz after dinner.

I’d better pay attention unless I want to get left behind.

“Where can I plug this in?” she whispered, indicating the slow cooker. After Jane cleared some counter space between the toaster and the electric can opener, Rachel plugged in the Crock-Pot so the white chicken chili could heat through.

Griffin winked at her as she continued her lecture. The playful gesture made Rachel as giddy as a teenaged wallflower whose crush on the most popular girl in school had just proven mutual, but her giddiness was offset by the fact that she and Griffin didn’t want the same things out of life. She wanted to meet someone and settle down. Griffin enjoyed playing the field.

It’s a good thing we’re just friends.

She leaned against the counter and listened in as Griffin finished her impromptu cooking lesson.

“Set your oven for three twenty-five, add beef broth, the vegetables of your choice, and
voilà
. Three hours later, you have a roast so tender it practically melts in your mouth.”

The more Griffin talked, the more Rachel hoped the wonderful aroma emanating from the oven was the pot roast she was teaching everyone to prepare.

Dieter rubbed his hands together. “I can’t wait to try it.”

Kevin arched an eyebrow. “You must mean hers, not yours.
You
could probably figure out a way to burn water.”

Dieter playfully swatted Kevin’s butt. “This is true, but you didn’t marry me for my cooking.”

The comment prompted a spirited—and ribald—conversation about size comparisons between “real” and latex members that raised the temperature in the room by several degrees.

“Small, medium, or large?” Dieter asked Griffin.

“Put it in terms she can understand.” Kevin turned back to Griffin. “Carrot, cucumber, or eggplant, Chef
Girl
-ardee?”

“Fuck you, Kevin,” Griffin said good-naturedly as everyone shared a laugh at her expense.

“Only if you’re packing nothing less than a cucumber,” he shot back. “You can save the carrot sticks for the salad bar.”

Rachel waited for the laughter to die down. She topped off Griffin’s glass of chardonnay, hoping the extra alcohol would loosen her tongue. “You haven’t answered the question. Carrot, cucumber, or eggplant. Which is it to be?”

“It depends on if I’m giving or receiving.” Her suggestive look made Rachel’s stomach turn cartwheels. “What about you?”

Rachel could feel everyone else’s eyes on her, but the only ones she wanted on her were Griffin’s. Those beautiful steel gray ones that captivated everyone who gazed into them, herself included. Her, especially? Her desire for Griffin—to see her, to talk to her, to be around her—was growing by the minute. How long would she be able to hold it in check?

“You know what they say: sometimes it’s better to give than to receive.”

Griffin’s eyes twinkled devilishly. “If we’re flexible enough, we can do both at the same time.”

Kevin fanned himself with his notebook as if he were a Southern belle in desperate need of shade. “I don’t think this conversation is what Clement Moore had in mind when he wrote ’
Twas the Night Before Christmas
.”

“Christmas is two days away,” Colleen said. “So technically, this is the night before the night before Christmas.”

Kevin waved one hand dismissively. “Semantics.”

Other guests began to arrive and the small apartment quickly filled with people. Griffin’s pot roast was the runaway winner for favorite dish. Surprise, surprise. Rachel’s chili, however, finished a close second. Griffin ate most of it herself, helping herself to two large bowls.

“This is fantastic.” She stared at the remnants of her second serving like a fortune-teller reading leftover tea leaves. “You’ve crafted a wonderful mélange of flavors.”

“I’ve never had a mélange before,” Jane said.

“That’s the
only
thing you haven’t had, lover,” Colleen said. She shook her head when Jane offered her some of her favorite Riesling.

Rachel noted the group’s resident sommelier had limited herself to ginger ale all evening. She hoped Colleen wasn’t coming down with something. Half the people she knew had colds or viruses or both. Not unusual for this time of year. If Colleen had become the latest victim of an already brutal winter, it would explain why she wasn’t her normally perky self when she and Jane came to visit on Saturday.

“Do you mind if I guess the ingredients?” Griffin asked.

“Be my guest.” Rachel was confident Griffin wouldn’t be able to tell all the components she used simply by tasting the finished result. She had left out the jalapeños at Colleen’s request, but she had practically emptied out her spice rack to make up for their absence. If Griffin identified even half the items she had thrown in, she would be mightily impressed.

Griffin dipped her spoon into the bowl and swirled the soup around her mouth as if she were at a wine tasting.

“Chicken, obviously. Chicken broth.” She paused as if her taste buds were recalibrating. “Northern beans—dried, not canned. Garlic—no, garlic
powder
. Green chilies. Cumin. Onions. Oregano. Cayenne pepper. Olive oil. Cloves. Monterey Jack cheese. And paprika for a bit of heat. How did I do?”

Rachel gaped at her. “I kept waiting for you to leave something off the list, but you didn’t miss a thing.”

Jane unleashed an appreciative whistle. “Talk about a talented tongue. What other tricks does it do?”

“You’d be amazed.”

The rest of the guests moved on to another topic of conversation, but Rachel couldn’t let the previous one go.

“How
did
you do that?” she asked Griffin as they moved to the couch.

Griffin looked casual yet elegant. Her pleated tuxedo shirt and pinstriped bow tie were paired with frayed jeans and canvas tennis shoes. She sat with one long leg folded underneath her. Her other leg rested against the outside of Rachel’s knee. When Griffin stretched one arm across the back of the couch and leaned toward her, Rachel felt hemmed in. But in a good way.