Page 55 of Things We Burn

I told myself I didn’t need to, the look, the act said it all.

But mostly it was because I was too damn terrified of what it meant.

I didn’t see Kane for two weeks after that night.

Two agonizing weeks. I worked fourteen days straight—not uncommon for me—and I did twelve-hour days—also not uncommon. Every second was busy, full of decisions, of menus, of practice plates, of sourcing the exact fish I needed at the docks and negotiating prices.

There was not a moment to think about a romantic entanglement.

Or at least there shouldn’t have been.

But every minute, every second, Kane was there. At the forefront of my mind. His rough, callused hands running over my skin, his cock pumping inside me, his arms crushing me to his body in his sleep.

And every time I heard, “Yes, Chef”—which had to be hundreds of times a day—my pussy tingled, and my knees weakened, thinking about the rough and guttural way Kane said it. Then my mind flashed to those two words, inked into his chest.

I missed him, to put it simply. Even though it was infinitely more complicated than that. It felt like my cells were dying without him. Like I wasn’t entirely alive.

It was an obsession we had for each other, pure and simple. It couldn’t have been healthy, it sure as hell was dangerous, and it was bound to burn itself out at some point. But I couldn’t find myself caring. For once, I was being reckless with my time, my energy and my heart. I’d deal with the fallout when it came.

I did find myself watching the clock like a hawk all day, waiting for the time to strike so I could leave the restaurant with enough time to go get ready and make it to the arena.

Kane only flew in today. Because of the way his schedule worked, he had to go straight to the arena to prepare. I could’ve seen him before the show, but that would’ve meant I would’ve had to leave the restaurant even earlier. And I needed to be there to prepare, to school my staff, to basically control everything I could. It was enough that I was taking time off for a man.

Unheard of.

It was my challenge, my punishment to myself, that I would not get to see him until after the show.

Kiera was coming with me. Because Kane offered her the tickets as well, and I didn’t like the idea of going alone. I was not a person who enjoyed crowds or had been to any kind of event like this.

I needed Kiera. And she was more than happy to oblige.

She also helped pick my outfit.

No, sheboughtmy outfit.

She was already at my apartment when I got there, waiting at the door with a large shopping bag in one hand and a bottle of champagne in the other.

“Outfit,” she announced, holding up the bag. “Dutch courage.” She held up the champagne. “Since I’m betting you’re close to breaking out in hives at leaving the restaurant on aSaturday night in order to go to a place that is so far out of your comfort zone it may as well be another planet. Which Jersey technically is.”

Not for the first, or even the hundredth time, I was infinitely grateful that the universe brought me a friend like Kiera.

A friend like Kiera who somehow knew exactly what kind of outfit to put me in for attending an extreme sports event where I wasdating—that seemed far too pedestrian of a word for what Kane and I were doing—one of the biggest stars in the show. One of the biggest stars on the planet right now. Despite not having any social media accounts or time to follow entertainment news, I scrolled religiously, reading articles on Kane blowing through the globe, flying through the air on a motorcycle, walking through the airport in Wayfarers, face in a phone, texting me.

Well, at least I assumed he was texting me since we’d rarely gone more than an hour without some kind of contact, unless he was actively competing.

Which was tonight, the last of the Supercross events he was competing in.

Kiera and me. Because no way could I fathom going to this event on my own. Me. Who ran kitchens all over the world. Me, who had done everything alone since I left home at seventeen.

Jeans. That’s what Kiera had bought for my first public appearance as Kane’s girlfriend—if that’s what I was—and for the first time I’d see the man in weeks.

I owned jeans. Didn’t think that they were particularly spectacular or special.

But these jeans were something else. They fit me like a second skin; the denim was faded perfectly and sculpted my butt in such a way that I thought it was witchcraft. She had also got a simple white tank. Again, it didn’t sound like anything extraordinary. But something about the thick, ribbed fabric, theway the sleeves curved slightly inward to be more flattering on my arms to accentuate my chest and flatten my stomach.

Then she put me in simple sneakers and slung a bunch of gold necklaces around my neck.

And she tamed my hair into slightly more manageable but still wild curls. Did makeup that was subtle but made my eyes pop and my lips look impossibly perfect. My green eyes were almost glowing, the high blush on my cheeks emphasized the cheekbones and made my heart-shaped face look both sultry and soft at the same time.

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