Read Online Month of Sundays by Yolanda Wallace - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Yolanda Wallace
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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
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
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