Page 71 of Things We Burn

Kane sucked his teeth. “Although I like to make things complicated, I don’t want to do it for you.” He brushed his lipsagainst mine. “But I’ll come pick you up at closing time. We’ll take a ride. Then I’ll find a nice little alleyway where I can fuck you on the back of my bike.”

Technically, Kane had not been cleared to be on the bike. But he was on it anyway.

Although my libido was quelled at the prospect of the night ahead of me, a tiny ember burned at Kane’s promise.

There it was, something to focus on to get me through the night. Gerald would be long gone by the end of service. He’d be unable to keep himself from the front of house, the attention.

“That sounds perfect.”

I’d go into the restaurant early, prep, claim my space, and by the time Gerald sauntered in, I’d be myself, I’d have my power.

A few hours of service and this night would be nothing but a memory.

My skin was stinging as I stumbled into the alley, daylight assaulting me. I squinted against it, my eyes adjusting. My heartbeat was still in my throat, and it took me a couple of seconds to focus.

In those couple of seconds, someone had come rushing toward me. Though it made no sense, I thought it was Gerald—even though this figure was much larger and coming from the street, not from inside the restaurant.

Regardless, I let out a cry and flinched away from the strong hands curling around me.

“Chef.” Kane rubbed my arms, pulling me close to him. “Baby, it’s me.”

I relaxed instantly, my breath blowing out in one heave. I was safe. Kane was there.

It felt like moments prior I’d left him in my apartment, so sure, so confident that I was untouchable now with age, with the illusion of power.

Kane kissed my head and gave me a much-needed moment to find myself.

After that moment passed, he held me at arm’s length, eyes scanning over my body as if checking to make sure I wasn’t bleeding somewhere. His gaze lingered on my stinging cheek, and his face went blank. Utterly blank.

Yet his eyes were cerulean fire.

“What happened?” Two words. Cold. Demanding.

Dazed, I just blinked at him for a bit. I should’ve asked him why he was there, how it was that fate had intervened to have Kane there at that moment. Eventually, the words seemingly came out on their own. “I, um, it’s… Gerald. He’s here for an event at the restaurant tonight. He wasn’t supposed to be here. No one was. And…”

The events of this afternoon mashed together like a lucid nightmare. Me thinking I was claiming some sort of power by getting there early to prepare. Gerald obviously thought the same thing.

I turned because I felt him rather than heard him.

He was the reason I was always on guard, even in my own kitchen.

“Avery,” he drawled. “It’s been a long time. You look ravishing.”

I wanted to gag with his eyes on me. My hands froze from where I’d been chopping herbs, the knife in my hand clattering onto the cutting board.

He strolled around the large kitchen, making a show of cataloging the appliances, dragging his finger along counters to check for dirt. He grinned, holding up a finger. “Sparkling clean,” he reported in his thick accent. “I’m not surprised.You’ve earned, what, two Michelin Stars since you’ve taken over this kitchen? I’m so proud of you.”

The words rang in my ears as I tried to adjust to the reality of seeing Gerald in my kitchen, my safe place. My success. My powerhouse.

He’d aged. Obviously, he had. It had been over a decade since I last saw him in person. Of course, I hadn’t been able to avoid seeing his smug face in magazines. But those pictures had been airbrushed and retouched.

Now he looked … old. The drinking, the late nights and the stress of the restaurant business had taken its toll. His hair was still peppered with gray but mostly dark brown. Which meant he likely got it colored to look just the right amount of sprinkled with gray. He’d obviously had Botox since his skin looked overly tight and shiny, his dark brows just a little too manicured.

Conventionally, he was attractive. The perfectly-trimmed mustache, full lips, structured jaw, broad shoulders. He was tall and trim, except even his exquisitely tailored suit could not hide how the paunch of his stomach was hanging over his belt.

I’d been captivated by him. Not by his looks or the accent or the way he carried himself. No, by his food. By the way he’d redefined cuisine, the flavors he married, the flavors he created.

I’d been so enamored by the flavors he created that I’d missed how rancid he was on the inside.

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