Page 120 of Things We Burn

“No,” Kane said.

Hands on my hips, I gave him a patented Avery Hart, head chef glare. “What did you just say?”

He didn’t so much as blanche. “You heard me, Chef. Finish what you need to finish, then you go sit down, and I’ll bring everything over.”

“Kane,” I sighed in exasperation. “I’m pregnant, not terminal. I can carry plates.”

“I know.” He dipped a finger in the pesto, his pink tongue darting out to lick it off. “But you just cooked a whole ass meal, on your feet for at least an hour when you haven’t done that in months. Your center of gravity is off. You could make it over there with plates, but I don’t want you to.” He jounced his eyebrows “And this smells like it promises to be the best meal I’ve had in months, and I don’t feel like eating it off the floor because my pregnant woman got clumsy.”

“I’m not clumsy.” I narrowed my eyes, though my insides danced at his warm, teasing tone.

The corner of his mouth turned up. “I’m not chancing it. Finish plating, Chef.”

I glared at him then went back to work wiping and garnishing the plate. “Getting ordered around in my own kitchen,” I muttered, forcing back the smile wanting to curl my lips at him calling me Chef again.

“I won’t make a habit of it.”

“You better not.” I looked at the plates. Not exactly Michelin star, but I already knew it was good. Great, really.

“Okay, go sit your ass down.”

I tilted my head up to gawk at him. “I thought you weren’t making a habit of ordering me around.”

“I lied.” I caught the twinkle in Kane’s eyes before he leaned down to kiss me on my nose, cradling my stomach lightly. “You’re too cute when you’re pissed. Now go, I’m hungry.”

I swallowed my smile and heeded his order, feeling lightheaded. It had nothing to do with being on my feet.

“Well, that was the best thing I’ve eaten in my fuckin’ life,” Kane declared, leaning back from his clean plate.

Mine was clean too.

It was pretty good.

It felt nice to cook again. To feel hungry again. To enjoy food, my one passion.

“I bet the baby fuckin’ loved that,” Kane continued, looking downward. “Is she doing somersaults in glee right now?”

My previously relaxed energy disappeared.

Dread invaded my bones.

“I haven’t felt her move,” I whispered, horrified.

Kane reached over, his hand settling on my stomach. “What do you mean?” he asked, rubbing again.

My blood pressure boomed in my ears. “I mean, I haven’t felt her move in … since you left, since you said goodbye. Hours ago.”

Hours.

“I was distracted,” I whispered, guilt thickening my words. “With you, the mortgage stuff, the ‘taking care of us stuff,’ the apology you’re owed. Then the cooking, and I got … swept away. How could I not notice she hadn’t moved?”

The room began to spin.

“Chef.” Kane’s hands rose to either side of my neck, his eyes on mine.

“Breathe,” he commanded.

I struggled to obey.