Page 20 of Selling Innocence

I stirred the food in the pan, swaying my hips as I worked. I hadn’t cooked much before, back when I’d lived in those big houses with staff or at the boarding schools. However, upon moving out on my own, I’d found I enjoyed it.

It felt like I was an adult, like I was actually taking care of myself as I made food to sustain myself.

“There is something damn pretty about a woman cooking. Also, you look more comfortable in the kitchen than I’d expected.”

I tensed at Vance’s voice, wondering just what game he played at now. He set off alarms in my head each time he spoke, and I’d learned to listen to those.He was too smooth, and with him, I constantly felt like I danced to his tune.

Vance hopped onto the kitchen island as he watched me. At least him being contained there made me feel more confident that he wasn’t going to do anything weird.

Probably.

“I like cooking,” I admitted.

“Yeah? I never learned.”

“Is that why you were drinking a smoothie?”

“I can manage a blender, at least.”

“How have you gotten to your age and not learned?”

Vance gestured at himself with a smirk. “You know my last name’s Moore. I’ve got the sort of money that means I never had to learn.”

His words made me pause. It made us seem similar, which I hadn’t expected. Then again, we’d both grown up rich, right?

It was one of the reasons the great playboy artist Vance Moore was so well known. He was a talented artist, sure, but that wasn’t the only reason for his success. He’d come from serious money, already had a well-known name. As the youngest son of a family of politicians, he’d been the bad boy, the mess-up, the womanizer while the rest of his family settled down and got serious.

I thought back to Nem, to how much she’d accomplished and how horribly I’d fallen short.

Guess we’re a lot alike…

Except, unlike me, Vance didn’t seem bothered by his place as the second-best offspring. Instead, he embraced it. I wish I could do that.

“I didn’t cook much at first either,” I said. “I had chefs, and they never let me into the kitchen.”

Vance chuckled, his shoes tapping against the cabinet doors as he swung his feet. “I remember making cookies one time when I was six. The second I went to open the oven, Taylor, our house manager, walked in and had a heart attack. He was so worried that a precious Moore child might burn themselves.” Even though he laughed, the sound didn’t strike me as joyous or happy.

I understood that stifling feeling. People always thought the other side was better, that others had no problems. We showed that wasn’t true at all.

No matter how great a person’s life looked from the outside, they still had problems.

“Careful!” A shock of pain went through my wrist a moment before I found myself yanked backward. I dropped the spatula, which bounced against the tile floor.

Vance pulled me quickly to the sink, then turned the cold water on full. He put the small red burn on my wrist under cold running water in the sink. I yanked at the surprise, but Vance held me still.

Which brought him right up against me. His gaze was hard as he stared at the mark, his eyes empty.

The expression threw me.

I’d seen Vance snarky, arrogant, seductive, but never like this. It was as though he saw something terrible, some bottomless pit that threatened to pull him into its depths.

“Vance?” I asked, whispering his name because the moment felt too charged.

“You should protect your hands,” he answered as though he hadn’t heard me, his voice thin and pained. “They’re all you have, at the end of the day. Artists should always protect them.”

“I’m okay.” I wasn’t sure what else to say, the moment so thick that I struggled to breathe in at all. “It’s just a tiny burn.”

Vance swallowed hard, then yanked his hand away from me. That hand and the black gloves were drenched, along with the sleeve of his shirt. It turned the light gray fabric dark.

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