Page 62 of Things We Burn

I hated the photo. All it was was a snapshot of the most terrible moment of my life.

Kane’s gaze softened as he must’ve heard the pain in my tone. “I don’t love it of me, although I do look handsome.” His fingertips trailed over the image of my face. I’d expected it to be contorted in worry or horror, but my features were calm, eyes intent on Kane. Except my hands. They were gripping on to the sides of his helmet for dear life.

“My warrior woman,” he murmured. “You leapt through crowds, security, bounded onto that track without hesitation.”

“You can’t know that,” I argued.

“Seen the videos.”

I cringed. There was a video. Of course, there was. This was the age of social media, of the viral posts. Everyone wanted their fifteen minutes.

“I’ve never had anyone care about me.” He grabbed my cheek, not unlike he had when he was lying there. “Other than my brother, but that’s different. We cared about each other because we were all we had. I’ve never had a woman care about me enough to run through a stadium without pause and stare at me with utter calmness while ordering me to live.”

My throat constricted at the intensity, the palpable sincerity in Kane’s words. This was him. Unafraid to jump in the air on a motorcycle, unafraid to speak his feelings, to show his emotions.

“You can consider that a standing order,” I told him. “Because I love you.”

The simple words took everything to say, to admit to myself. Loving someone gave them power. Loving someone meant indescribable pain if you lost them.

Kane’s eyes swam with emotion that hit me square in the chest. Tears he didn’t seem embarrassed of swam in those endless eyes of his.

“Greatest gift I’ll ever get, hearing those words.” His thumb brushed my lips.

And there I was. Done for.

Kane was in the hospital for two more nights. He discharged himself against the doctor’s wishes. Against my wishes.

We’d argued about it.

And though I’d dug my heels in and put on my ice queen façade, I’d lost that one.

“I’ve spent plenty of time in a room I couldn't leave,” was his explanation. “I know my body. And, babe, I’m rich. We need a doctor, I’ll hire one to come to the apartment.”

It would’ve sounded obnoxious and arrogant coming from anyone else, but not Kane.

And I couldn’t argue against him not wanting to feel caged again.

So I didn’t fight him being released.

I was surprised and elated when he discharged to my place instead of his. Although I did try to point out that his borrowed brownstone had much more spacious bathrooms and more room in general. He could technically walk, but I could tell that each slow step pained him.

“That place isn’t home, Chef. And even if that fuckin’ penthouse wasn’t being remodeled, that place wouldn’t be home either. Especially after that fancy designer is done sucking all the personality out of it. Your place, to me, is home.” He grasped my neck. “Youare my home.”

And what could I say to that? My apartment had never felt like home either, until I walked in with Kane, carrying his duffel—which he insisted on, despite his bodyguard, Mike, following us in.

Mike was necessary because of the paparazzi. They had been camped outside the hospital in droves. They followed our SUV from the hospital to my apartment, swarming us in the lobby.

I’d gone from spending time alone with Kane to seeing the full brunt of his fame, turbocharged by the accident and the photo of us going viral.

I supposed it didn’t help that I had a small dose of fame being a chef. Nothing like Kane, but things did come up if you googled my name.

Heidi, the owner of my restaurant, had called countless times, leaving messages about Kane having a table at the restaurant as soon as he was healed.

I loved Heidi. She was a self-made woman who gave me the freedom to design a menu and run a kitchen, only requiring that I do the bare minimum interviews for publicity. But she was a businesswoman, meaning her respect for my privacy only went so far. And with me and Kane being on the front page of … everywhere, this gave the restaurant even more social cachet.

Kiera had already reached out to me to let me know the countless offers I was getting for sponsoring cookware, for magazine pieces, social media deals. She knew that I’d refuse them all, but she wanted to let me know I was officially ‘on grid.’

My mother and sister had called too.

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