Page 33 of Things We Burn

He left the words hanging there for a long time before he rolled up his sleeves, striding toward the kitchen to open the fridge.

He surveyed the contents, clicking his tongue.

I couldn’t be entirely sure what was in there—maybe an old takeout box or some expired condiments. A bottle of champagne that Kiera had put in there, since she was of the opinion that one must always have champagne in the fridge ‘in case of emergency.’

“You’re a chef,” he chastised, popping his head over the door. “And this is what you have in your fridge?”

I couldn’t deny it, so I didn’t respond.

He looked from me to the fridge then went to my cupboards.

“Well, I do love a challenge,” he muttered as he leaned into the fridge and grabbed the champagne. “Open that, won’t you, Chef? Then go and relax, although I have a hunch that word isn’t even in your vocabulary. Sit, watch your man perform a miracle if you must.” He winked. “Otherwise, drink, read, watch TV. My only requirement is that you get off your feet.”

I looked at him as he opened cupboards until he found a frying pan, setting it on the stove. He didn’t ask me where anything was.

I was still holding the champagne.

He looked over his shoulder at me, raising a brow.

“I’m hoping to fuck that you have proper glasses for that.” He nodded to the bottle. “I’m a heathen; I’ll drink out of a coffee mug if I must, but you deserve better.”

“I have glasses,” I replied robotically. I did because like the champagne, Kiera ensured that I had champagne flutes. I also had Bordeaux, pinot and cabernet glasses. Not because I drank a lot of wine but because on the off-chance I did have a glass—usually with Kiera—I needed to have the proper vessels.

Same with all of my pots, pans, knives and cutlery. Everything was top of the line, out of place in the faded-paint cupboards.

“This is for a celebration,” I finally said, referring to the champagne.

“Every day we’re walking this lump of rock hurtling through space is a time to celebrate,” Kane quipped. “And finding you on this hunk of rock is reason to celebrate. Open the wine, Chef.”

The last part of his sentence was uttered lower, his tone sultrier.

I did the only thing I could do. I opened the wine.

“This was amazing,” I said honestly as I set my napkin on my empty plate.

Somehow, Kane had made a meal for us using the scant amount of ingredients in my kitchen. Linguine. With caramelized onion, garlic and some fried pancetta I had in the fridge. Simple. But everything done right—the exact balance of flavors, the pasta perfectlyal dente.

“Glad you liked it, Chef,” Kane replied. “We’re going grocery shopping tomorrow, to ensure you have food in your fridge to sustain life.”

I gaped at the offhand comment.We.Plans for tomorrow. I had a million things to do for the restaurant tomorrow. Like I did daily.

But I couldn’t say no to going grocery shopping with Kane. Something so pedestrian. Something so … normal.

“People, men most especially, don’t cook for me,” I said instead of addressing the grocery plans. “And if they do, they don’t do it three nights in a row.”

“There a question in there, Chef?” Kane asked, lazily playing with a tendril of my hair.

He did that, touched me. Often. As if it were normal. As if he were unable to keep his hands to himself. Even when we sat at my already compact table, he’d wrenched my chair closer to his so our sides were pressed together.

“Why?” I asked.

There was a lot more than a question about the food in that word. Why was he here still? Why me? In my googling, I knew I looked nothing like the women he usually dated. Models. Stunning, shiny, slim.

I was not ugly, but I was not stunning. Definitely not shiny. I always had more than one hair out of place, too busy to be worrying about beauty routines. And despite the sporadic nature of my meals, I was not slim. Food was my life; I needed to actually consume it in order to be good at my job. Plus, I had a naturally curvy body. Being slim wasn’t in the cards for me.

Kane, although he hadn’t known me for long—four days, was it only that?—seemed to understand that the single word wasn’t a simple question.

He stared at me, still toying with my hair. “Because, Chef, I’ve never tasted anything like what you cook. Never looked into someone’s eyes and wanted to drown in them. And I’ve never felt more anchored to this hunk of rock than when my hand is on you. When I’m inside you.”

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