Page 67 of Things We Burn

“Closest bar to get a beer,” was his response.

I froze. “You’re not supposed to drink with your medication.”

He arched a brow. “That’s just a recommendation from tight ass doctors; it won’t kill me.”

I scowled at him. “No, it may not, but it can interfere with the medication’s effectiveness and can slow the healing process.”

“Chef.” Kane stood, making his way to me where he settled his hands on my hips. “The crashes and injuries I’ve had, I could almost get my PhD in medication. Trust me, a beer isn’t gonna do shit beyond sate my thirst. And when you have one too, it’ll help you obtain that mystical act of relaxation we’re looking for.”

I chewed on my cheek as I considered that. I was a rule follower. And it said on the labels to not drink alcohol. I didn’t think doctors put that on there for shits and giggles.

Then I looked around the four walls of my apartment, and they suddenly began closing in.

“Okay, I’ll get ready,” I conceded. “One beer, though.” I pointed my finger at him.

“Yes, Chef,” he replied dutifully. Then his brows furrowed. “Get ready? You said you were going to get your purse. You don’t need to get ready; you look great.”

He looked down at my body lazily as if to prove a point.

I was wearing jeans—because I didn’t own sweats, hadn’t had the occasion to wear them, although after today, I got the appeal. My jeans were not the magic jeans Kiera bought me. These were regular, worn jeans, paired with a plain black tee and a cashmere cardigan.

My hair was pulled up in a low bun, tendrils escaping out, and I wasn’t wearing makeup.

Normally, I wouldn’t think twice about leaving the house like this. Normally, I didn’t have thousands of people saying negative things about my appearance.

But then I looked at Kane, saw the hungry glint in his eyes, the appreciation. All of the comments melted away.

So I got my purse and jacket while Kane grabbed his coat, then we walked out.

Kane made casual conversation with Mike, who had refused to come inside and sit down but had accepted coffee, lunch and chocolate cake. I was happy to hear he hadn’t slept against the door.

Mike was tall, muscles on every inch of his body, had close-cropped hair and an overall air that spoke to being former military. He looked menacing, deadly. But he was friendly, even though he barely smiled.

He’d also done well at scaring the scant remaining reporters lingering outside my apartment. They followed us down the street, though, at a distance. It was harder for paparazzi in New York; too many people and too many other important events to cover. I tried to act natural, tried to relax under Kane’s arm around my shoulder. He didn’t seem bothered, nor did he seem in pain, even though the walk to the bar was half a block.

I saw that he’d lost some of his color when we were seated, and his smile seemed strained.

“Kane,” I hissed. “If you push yourself too hard…”

“The day a walk to a bar with my woman pushes me too hard is a day I’m getting put in the ground.” He reached over to take my hand. “That day isn’t coming for a long while.”

I didn’t smile at him but forced myself to relax somewhat.

The waitress who came to take our drink orders spoke solely to Kane. I might as well have been invisible. Though Kane wasn’t having that, barely looking at her, his hands constantly on me.He was polite to the waitress but also made it clear that her heavy flirting and pushing her chest out was going nowhere.

Our beers arrived, and I sipped mine daintily, not wanting to be impaired while taking care of Kane.

He didn’t force conversation, seemingly content holding my hand and drinking his beer. He also ignored the people who had taken photos of us on their phones.

I tried my best to do that too.

Then I tried to mimic him, enjoying the silence, the beer, listening to the low music and conversations around us.

I failed at that. My eyes darted around the bar and my fingers twitched.

And then I thought about things to say. I didn’t do small talk.

“I lost my father when I was thirteen,” I blurted in the dead voice I always used when speaking about this subject. Though I had spent my entire adult life telling strangers and friends my father was dead, every time I said it out loud, it stung. The little girl inside me who wanted her father, hurt so desperately, it was hard to keep the tears in.

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