Hell!
Dinner is always served at eight during theRousseau chalet holiday—a tradition as crisp as the linen napkins folded into swans at each place setting. Our housekeeper, Racquel, who has been here forever, ensures that the staff delivers in the way our family has celebrated holidays for many years—I think some of the traditions date back to the time whengrand-mèrewas a young bride.
The food is traditional French, which is why the dining room smells like rosemary, garlic, andconfit de canard.
The long oak table gleams under the golden light of the chandelier, polished to a soft, almost reflective sheen.
Dozens of white tapers flicker in antique silver holders.
The centerpiece is a low arrangement of white amaryllis, eucalyptus, and silver-painted pinecones nestled into a mirrored tray.
Outside the tall windows, snow falls in elegant flurries, frosting the trees and rooftops in white. Inside, soft textures, warm lights, and winter greenery echo the scene beyond the glass—an effortless harmony between the world outside and the space within.
I smile with practiced ease at Ransom when he rises to help me take my seat. He’s a gentleman when it comes to things like this.
Another way of saying it is that he’s old-fashioned.Stuffy.
After Ransom, I gravitated towardmen nothing like him. They were my age and not in serious professions. Didn’t always make rent money.
For the past year, I’ve had a few one-night stands,very few. When you live in a lab and are an introvert, it’s easier to watch some porn and give your vibrator a workout than head to a bar and hope you meet someone who isn’t “pump and dump.”
Also, I think Ransom ruined me for other men.The son of a bitch.
“Red or white?” he asks, even though he used to know I’m all white all the time when it comes to wine. The sulfites used to clear red wine give me a headache, so I try to steer clear of them.
“White, please,” I reply politely, hurt that he’s forgotten.
Me?I remember everything.
His favorite wine is Masseto from Tuscany. A wine named after the rock-hard clusters of blue clay that form on the vineyard's surface.
His favorite book isThe Color Purple.
His favorite movie isCasablanca. A romantic movie? I know. Surprised me, too.
His favorite TV show isThe Wire.
His favorite meal iscassoulet.
He watches basketball as if it were a religion.
He doesn’t like turkey, which is why the one time we spent Thanksgiving together, I roasted a duck to go with the fixings.
He likes to hold my gaze when heeats me out.
He likes to watch me ride him, his hands on my breasts, kneading, torturing my nipples.
He likes to rest his cock in my mouth after he comes, just for a moment, wanting the warmth.
He….
I shift, rubbing my thighs together. I can smell his cologne. Hear his voice. I’m like a bitch in heat.Pathetic.
“I thought you were going to try Europe for your postdoc?” Uncle Bob asks me, as we wait for Racquel to finish serving the appetizer: smoked veal in a clear bouillon.
Mama has outdone herself this holiday season by snagging Chef Pascal, a Michelin-starred chef who trained under Alain Ducasse himself, for the chalet. Hence, we’re having gourmet meals, and thanks to Aksel, who’s collaborating (that’s the word he used) with the Chef, every dish is superbly paired with wine. However, since I don’t drink red wine, Aksel ensures that there is a white alternative.
My brother is very democratic when it comes to wine, even though his politics are way to the right, like my father’s and unlike Freja’s and Mama’s.
