Page 32 of Things We Burn

I licked my lips. His eyes followed that movement, and my nipples pebbled. “Okay, I do judge them,” I admitted slowly. “But I’m sure they judge me on my snobbery about how they earn their living.”

“Or maybe they’re insanely jealous of your principles.”

I shrugged. I didn’t have friends amongst my contemporaries in the culinary world. Partly because I didn’t party like a lot of them did, and I wasn’t friendly. But also because the world was competitive. “Doubt it.”

“Anyway…” He peered at me after putting a book down, his eyes twinkling. “I won’t say the C word since I now know it’s a trigger, but from what I understand, you’re awell-knownchef at a restaurant that charges fifty dollars for a salad. I can’t presume to understand how payroll works, but I do know it’s your name on the door.”

I nodded, understanding where he was going with this.

“Though the neighborhood is good,” he continued, speaking of the Upper West Side. “And I know the criminal cost of rent in this city, I’m guessing at this stage in your career, you could get a one bedroom if you wanted.”

There was no judgment, just curiosity. Kiera had said the same thing, many times, urging me to go apartment hunting with her.

I shrugged. “I like the building. It’s close to the restaurant, and I don’t need more than this.” I gestured around my living room slash kitchen slash bedroom.

After putting down a well-worn recipe book, his piercing eyes searched my features. “You really mean it.”

I nodded. “I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

Though Kane made it his business to really look at me when he was staring, the weight of it, in my apartment of all places, was suddenly too much.

I moved to the kitchen, deciding I needed to busy my hands, even though they’d been busy all night. I couldn’t just stand there with Kane ogling at me.

“What are you doing?” he asked, looking down at the counter.

“Making dinner,” I explained, following his eyes.

“Dinner?” he repeated, his lip curled in disgust. “This is what the Michelin Star chef cooks herself for dinner?”

I bristled, leaning back and folding my hands across my chest. “There is nothing wrong with a humble peanut butter and jelly.”

“You’re not wrong,” he agreed. “I’ve consumed many in my life and have been perfectly satisfied. But I’ve also eaten your food which made me realize that I’d never been truly satisfied until I put something you made in my mouth.”

My knees trembled, and my stomach did a weird flip thing all the way down to my pussy.

Kane looked up at me, his irises dancing with hunger and mischief and palpable sexual energy. “You are capable of creating greatness. And you deserve to eat better than peanut butter and jelly.”

I stared at him, slack-jawed for a second or two. Then I composed myself, clearing my throat. “I cook food all day. Wonderful, complicated food. Every waking hour is concerned with menus, with the most minute details from where the fish is obtained to the garnish on the plates. Whether or not parsley puree should be squeezed, spooned or left off completely. I do not have the energy to make any more decisions about garnishes and proteins. It’s cliché, but I’m sure it’s on par with the house cleaner living in a mess or therapists being craziest of them all. I’m sure with your chosen profession you take it easy when you’re not racing motorcycles or hurtling down the side of a mountain or whatever. You’re more careful.”

Kane had been staring at me intently as I spoke, hanging on every word. I’d never had anyone, let alone a man, listen to me with such rapt attention.

Okay, that was a lie. Everyone in my kitchen listened to me like that, taking notes of the most minute details.

But a man, a romantic partner, never had. Granted, I didn’t have a whole lot of experience with romantic entanglements, but the few I’d had rarely listened without a phone in their hand, one eye on the TV or just a general glazed look in their eyes.

The weight of having the attention of a romantic partner, of a man like Kane, was hard to stand under.

He didn’t speak for a long time, just stared with his intensity, with that smirk that held something deeper, something more reverent and something all too heavy for a Tuesday evening.

“I was more careful when I didn’t have an audience,” he said finally. “But I’m beginning to understand there’s nothingcareful about me right now. I’ve never been in more danger than standing here in this apartment.”

My heart tried to escape my chest. I got his meaning, what laid beneath his words.

Me.

Us.

Was there an us?

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