Page 40 of Bronson

The conversation is pleasant. The atmosphere pleasant. I find myself having a nice time. With a nice boy. Sure, there’s no passion there, but who knows? Passion can grow.

Right?

We chat about his class, my work. We have a few things in common—we were both born in New York, we both love our jobs and the people we serve. He shyly admits that he thinks of his students as his own children. I confess to calling my patients my family.

He’s very sweet.

He orders a bottle of chilled white wine and pours me a generous glass. Neither of us can make up our minds on what we want to order, so we agree to each order something different and share with one another. He will request the manicotti; me, the chicken parm.

The hostess delivers the breadsticks, then leaves the table.

He wants to know how I started working at the home. I gloss over the ugly details and tell him about the rosy parts of it. My first class, learning how to work all the machinery. I keep my face a pleasant mask, but I shift in my seat, remembering the plug. The spanking, the dominance.

The hostess comes back, looking a bit harried. She asks if we have anyone joining us and will we be requiring additional place settings.

I look to Peter. He says no, just the two of us. She gives a curt nod and hurries off to the kitchen.

As soon as she’s gone, I’m sensing a huge shadow looming over our table. I assume it’s the waiter.

I look up, ready to place the order.

Bronson.

He’s impeccably dressed in a light blue button-down shirt and charcoal suit. There’s a single red rose in his lapel. His dark eyes are locked on mine. His jawline is tense.

My heart beats harder in my chest. Heat rises in my face. The scent of his cologne fills my senses.

“What are you doing here—” My words are cut off by his introduction to Peter.

“Peter Dobbins, pleasure to meet you. Bronson Bachman.” How does he even remember Peter’s last name? Bronson holds out his huge hand to Peter. Shooting me a confused look, Peter slides his hand into Bronson’s. Bronson pumps it up and down, hard. Peter winces.

“Good to meet you? Sir?” Peter says, more a question than a statement.

“No need for sir. I believe we are the same age,” Bachman says, hovering by the table.

“Ah. Sure. Um…” Peter’s eyes flash to mine. “Do you two know one another?”

I cross my arms over my chest. I shoot Bronson how dare you daggers from my eyes. “Mr. Bachman, if you’ll excuse us⁠—”

“I’m her boss,” Bronson says to Peter. He’s ignoring me.

“Was my boss,” I sniff. After being dismissed for the day, I decided I am quitting. I just haven’t yet informed Bronson.

Finally looking at me, he says, “I am still her boss. And a friend.”

“Not a friend,” I say.

Peter looks terribly uncomfortable.

Bronson’s nostrils flare. He speaks, hissing between his clenched teeth. “I’m an acquaintance. Who desperately needs to speak with her. There’s been a misunderstanding.”

I narrow my brow at him. “Has there? Whatever you need to say to me, you can say to Peter.”

“You left your coat.” Bronson holds out his arm. Gorgeous lays neatly folded over it.

“I don’t want that coat. Now, please leave us to order our dinner,” I say. I do want you, Gorgeous, forgive me!

Fumes practically billow from his ears.