Page 31 of Things We Burn

“What’s your address?” he asked, leaning me against the bike. He’d kissed me senseless prior to this, so I didn’t have the wherewithal to do anything but rattle off my address, let him put a helmet on me and get us on the bike.

Riding through the city on Kane’s bike had quickly become my favorite thing in the entire world. The cool breeze, the lights flashing by, the roar of the bike. I had no responsibilities but to hold on to Kane and let him take the wheel. It was thrilling.

Peaceful.

Peace…

Something I’d never known until I met Kane “The Devil” Rhodes.

“This is your place, huh?” He had walked inside, doing a slow spin to take in the entire area. It didn’t take more than a spin. And it didn’t need to be a slow one either.

My studio apartment was big by Manhattan studio apartment standards. The sleeping area held enough space for a queen bed, two side tables, a trunk at the end and even a set of drawers stacked neatly underneath the large window that looked out at the skyline.

The entrance separated my sleeping area from my living area, which consisted of a green velvet sofa that had admittedly seen better days but was soft and comfortable and covered with throw pillows and blankets Kiera had bought. Kiera bought most any and all decorative objects that didn’t serve as a direct function of the apartment.

I was a bare bones kind of woman. I didn’t spend a lot of time on the couch, certainly not enough time to flip through hundred-dollar coffee table books or burn candles that likely cost the same.

My flowers were fake, which again, was Kiera’s doing, only after she fought relentlessly to get me to brighten up my space with fresh flowers. I didn’t see the point when they’d eventually die.

So because of my friend, my apartment had aslightbit of personality and wasn’t totally devoid of warmth. The personality wasn’t my own, though. It was borrowed from my best friend, who knew me well enough to make it look like me. Or attempt to. My personality and interests were one in the same: my job.I didn’t have time for much else and didn’t define myself by anything else.

The kitchen was small, with new appliances that I’d purchased when I’d bought the apartment. I hadn’t bothered to do much other than that, so the shiny appliances looked out of place against the faded linoleum and yellowing paint.

I had never been self-conscious about my apartment. When I was outside the kitchen, I found myself around a lot of wealthy people—despite my best efforts. Regardless, I had never felt pressure to live up to the expectations of others.

I didn’t feel the need to own outrageously expensive bags or jewelry. I liked good quality clothing, but it was simple pants, shirts, tees. I hadn’t needed to prove myself to anyone. My food did that.

With Kane’s eyes on my living space, I wasn’t embarrassed about how small it was, how all of the furniture was second hand… But I was mindful of the quiet markers of wealth I’d caught off the man. The expensive but not splashy watch, the low-key but well-made clothes. The general way he carried himself. Oh, and the fact that he was world famous.

He was renting an entire brownstone. Hispenthousewas being renovated, no doubt by some outrageously expensive interior designer. Not that he seemed like the kind of person bothered by all that, I just knew that’s how celebrities rolled.

I didn’t feel judged, having the rich and famous daredevil in my compact apartment. But I felt … naked. And the man had seen me naked. I wasn’t someone who considered her apartment her sanctuary or anything. I wasn’t someone who searched for sanctuary, beyond my kitchen. Chaos, noise, movement … that was what I relished. Therefore, I wasn’t in this small and quiet apartment more often than I needed to be.

It was with Kane’s presence that I realized I didn’t have a space that reflected who I was. Unless you counted the huge,gleaming kitchen and the stainless-steel appliances, cleaned to the point of shining every day—everything cold and hard and lifeless. Until I got in there and sparked the fires, brought in fresh produce and scented the air with food. Which I hadn’t done in a long while, admittedly.

“Not impressive enough for you?” I asked him without snark. I was genuinely curious as to what Kane thought of my apartment. I didn’t think he was the kind of person to judge based on possessions, but I couldn’t know him completely in the short time we’d spent together.

In my experience, people with money and power were excellent at putting on acts. Some of them were genuine and good people. Most had been at some point before the opulence and the sharpness of the world turned them into something entirely different.

Kane’s eyes shot to me. “I’mplentyimpressed by you, Chef, and I’m not someone impressed or otherwise by real estate. It’s just … not what I was expecting.”

I leaned against the counter. “Interesting. And what were you expecting?” Again, I didn’t ask the question with any bite or offense; I was simply curious as to what kind of image Kane had built of me.

He moved to my bookshelves which contained countless paperbacks that had been bought with good intentions yet hadn’t been touched, and recipe books so worn, some of the covers had been almost ripped away entirely.

I didn’t cook using recipes often these days, but starting out, I made it my mission to learn everything I could. It was the old adage, ‘you’ve got to know the rules in order to break them’ or some such thing. I wanted to know food, cuisines, front and back. Every technique, from every culture, I took it upon myself to master.

“Well, from what I gather, you’re somewhat of a celebrity chef…”

“Ugh, I am definitelynotacelebrity chef,” I rolled my eyes, spitting out the two words with distaste. “I have not appeared on a single reality show bearing my name, I don’t judge cooking competitions, and I haven’t slapped my name on a line of subpar cookware sold at big-box stores.”

I had been offered each of those things, with money that made Kiera’s eyes pop but hadn’t swayed me in the slightest. Kiera had tried to convince me the first few times I got the offers, but now she understood the answer would always be no.

Kane winked at me. “Okay, tell me how you really feel.”

I smirked. I guessed that was a little snarky. “I’m not judging chefs who go that route—”

“Yes, you are,” he interrupted. “Which is fine with me. You don’t have to get political with your answers. I like the truth.”

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