Chapter 11
Eleven
Considering how it had looked, Kane got off easy. A lot of bruises, a broken wrist and a ruptured spleen were what he had to show for crashing into the ground on a motorcycle flying sixty feet in the air.
I’d vocalized my shock at his injuries and lack of life-threatening ones. Kane had shrugged. “What can I say? I know how to crash, babe.”
It terrified me how blasé he was about death, his proximity to it.
It terrified me and shook at drawers I’d closed, locked and forgotten about inside myself.
The urge to run from him, from this, was tempting. Especially with the ‘I love you’ hanging in the air. My relationships ran their course far before such things could be uttered. I made sure of that.
We were in a private room at Mt Sinai. The room didn’t look so much like a hospital room but a suite at a hotel. I guessed that was what power and money and fame got you. Before this happened, I ranted on about the inadequacy of care in this country, but as horrible as it made me, I was grateful for the treatment Kane was receiving. That Kane had the best doctors in the country making sure they didn’t miss anything. Making sure he didn’t die.
I slept there.
Not on the lush pullout bed across the room. No, Kane had demanded I curl up in the —admittedly bigger than regular—hospital bed with him. I’d fought him on it at first, but he’d simply said if I didn’t, he’d get up and go to the pullout. It wasn’t a bluff.
I wasn’t exactly hard to convince.
I wanted to be close to him. Feel his skin, smell him, have his heart beating against my cheek.
Which is how we went to sleep, until Brax woke us up in the morning with the clearing of his throat.
Seeing the man at all, let alone first thing while feeling emotionally hungover, was not my favorite thing to do in the morning.
I tried my best to plaster on a fa?ade for Kane’s sake.
It helped that Knox was at his side. His eyes were on the two of us. He wasn’t smiling, but the edges of his lips were almost turned upward. An almost-smile.
The warm look I gave him was not forced.
“Don’t get enough attention as it is, brother?” Knox asked dryly.
Kane leaned over to kiss my head before replying. I self-consciously tried to sit up, feeling uncomfortable, cuddling in bed with him with the two men standing over us.
Despite his injuries, Kane’s grasp was firm, so I couldn’t move unless I wanted to fight him and risk hurting him. So I relaxed back.
“Maybe I just wanted the good drugs without the judgment,” he teased. “And to get Chef to try out her hands at being my nurse.” There was a sexual innuendo that I didn’t think I would have a carnal response to, but damn, I did.
I didn’t miss the way Brax rolled his eyes.
“Just came to ensure you’re okay,” Knox said.
“Got nine lives. You know that, brother,” Kane waved off his concern.
Knox’s lips were no longer turned up. “You’re fast runnin’ out of those.”
There was an uncomfortable moment before Knox said, “Avery, take care of him.” The request felt sacred somehow, like he trusted me.
“Of course,” I told him.
He nodded once, didn’t acknowledge Brax, then left.
Brax tried to stay. Tried to go over interviews he’d scheduled.
“Not doin’ any of that shit,” Kane interrupted him.
“Kane—”
“I’m not doin’ it,” Kane repeated, not hiding the impatience in his tone. “I’m tired. I’m getting too old for this shit. This,” he gestured to his arm which was in a cast, “is not gonna be a money grab. No publicity bullshit. I’m gonna stay in New York with Chef until I feel like going back.”
“But we’ve got the Winter Games. I’ve already got a physical therapist who said if we work hard, you’ll be in fine shape for them,” Brax pushed, splotches of red creeping up his neck.
“I don’t do fine ,” Kane barked. “I do it when I want to. If my body is ready by then, it is. If it isn’t, then it isn’t. Ain’t pushing shit. Deal with it.”
The disdain in Kane’s tone was unmistakable.
It was shameful for Brax. To be dismissed. I didn’t know if that was something that happened often, but I doubt it since Kane was so easygoing. I knew it was doubly embarrassing to be shut down publicly, though, in front of me.
For a split second, Brax’s gaze shot to me, and I felt the pure loathing in it.
I remained placid, even though that made my fingertips numb.
Brax blamed me for this. However insane that was. When a man felt emasculated, he usually looked for the nearest woman to blame.
I made a mental note to be careful of Brax. He’d want to punish me for this.
He looked back to Kane, wearing a tight smile. “I’ll take care of it. You may want to take care of this.”
He threw down the rolled-up newspaper he’d been holding.
Kane was on the front page.
With me.
I widened my eyes in horror.
Then I looked up to Brax who now had a self-satisfied smirk on his face.
“I’ll leave you both,” he said before turning on his expensive loafers and leaving.
I couldn’t see him, but I knew he was smiling because he’d landed a blow. One of many to come.
Kane grinned at the photo that was plastered on pretty much every news site—I’d found this out by frantically googling, noting all the missed calls from the restaurant and people who had seen it. I’d deal with that … later.
It was a picture of me. Me after pushing past every official and kneeling at Kane’s side, his arm reaching up to my face.
“Fucking love this photo,” he muttered.
I gaped at him. “You love a photo in which you are suffering from a ruptured spleen and narrowly escaped death?”
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 fa?ade, 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. “ You are 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.
I was putting that, all of that, away in the back of my mind to focus on when Kane was not still pale, walking slowly and carefully in a cast.
Even though he was far from fragile, considering we had sex the moment Mike left the apartment.
He didn’t go far, though. He was posted outside the front door.
It was all surreal. The security guard, the throngs of people outside my apartment building. The articles crawling over the internet like locusts. The missed calls and texts. The only ones I’d returned were from my mother and sister, hoping to stop them from calling or even worse, showing up unannounced.
Neither of them were extreme sports fans, but they were both mothers, and my own mother seemed to be trying to make up for the failures she thought she made with me after my father died. My sister, well, even though she was six years younger, she too wanted to take care of me.
I didn’t let either of them my entire life, and I wasn’t about to start then.
Plus, I had a tatted daredevil to take care of for the foreseeable future. That was my priority. I pushed all the other stuff away into folders in my mind.
“Right,” I said, closing the door. “You, there,” I pointed to the couch. “I’ll get food, water and set up your pills with a chart to track when we dose and how much.”
I turned to get started on those things, trusting Kane’s ability to shuffle the short distance.
But he grabbed hold of my hand with his uninjured wrist.
“No, you’re not doing any of that.” He swiped his tongue along his lip. “We’re going to the bedroom, and you’re gonna ride me.” His tone was drenched in authority. Desire. Hunger.
And although plenty of my own desire cropped up at his words, I swallowed it down, bugging my eyes at him. “Kane, you can’t be serious. You’re technically supposed to still be in the hospital right now. You have instructions to do nothing strenuous.”
Kane wasn’t swayed, stroking the inside of my wrist with his thumb. “That’s why you’ll be riding me, doing all the work.” He winked.
“I’m too heavy for that,” I groaned.
Kane’s gaze darkened, and his brow furrowed. “You are not too heavy for anything,” he snapped. “Most especially riding my cock. You gonna argue some more, or you gonna make me prove my point by carrying you to the bedroom?”
Hands on my hips, I glared at him. He wasn’t bluffing. “Kane, you cannot carry me. You were discharged from intensive care an hour ago.”
“Don’t care if I was pulled back from the gates of Hades two seconds ago, I’ll be carrying my woman to the bedroom.”
When he bent as if to do it, I held up my hand to stop him. “Fine,” I snapped. “We’ll go. But I’m not happy about it.”
He grinned in satisfaction. “Oh, yes you are, Chef. I can tell that pussy of yours is already wet.”
I pursed my lips.
He wasn’t wrong.
“Come on,” I huffed.
Kane chuckled as we walked to the bedroom.
“What’s so funny?” I barked over my shoulder.
“You,” he replied as we entered my bedroom. “Acting all pissed about riding my cock when I know you’re as desperate for it as I am.”
Again, I kept my lips a thin line, sucking in a breath through my nostrils. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
Kane cupped my cheeks, tilting my head upward. “Only way you could hurt me, Chef, is if you leave me to walk this world without you. You gonna do that?”
I almost flinched at the intensity in his words, the possessiveness. Sure, Kane had been plenty possessive before, but this was different. Much different.
“No,” I said without hesitation.
His lips pressed into mine. “Good,” he growled against my lips. “Now ride my cock.”
“Chef.”
I was coated in a thin layer of perspiration, riding Kane.
He was right. My body had been desperate for this. Aching. Yes, I’d been ready and happy to forgo my own needs for Kane, but I was selfishly elated to know that he’d needed this. Us.
I’d realized we hadn’t done this since before he left. Since before I’d watched him tumble through the air, since I’d spent time thinking I was going to lose him.
I rode him harder, desperate for the fullness of him inside me, the friction, the aliveness and the free fall of another orgasm.
“Chef,” Kane repeated in a low grunt.
I stared down at him. He was clutching my neck, eyes on me.
They were clouded with desire, cords in his neck protruding, telling me he was close to finishing. But the ferocity of his arousal was something else. That same intensity as before, only deeper. Unending, it seemed.
“I love you,” he murmured, low and deep.
My body twitched as the words branded me.
“I love you,” I panted.
He hauled me down for a kiss.
“Milk my cock, then.”
And I did as requested.
After we were done, I cooked Kane lunch. It was the first time I’d cooked for him in my apartment. It felt … odd. Domestic, somehow. When I was in my kitchen at Inferno, I’d cooked him versions of the dishes we made there—heartier, with much bigger portions, but they were still sophisticated dishes. I’d been hiding behind techniques and fanfare.
No longer feeling the need to hide, I didn’t do that this time. Kiera had already stocked my fridge before we got back, so it was overflowing with all the things I’d requested and many I had not.
Champagne, beer, caviar and also packaged snacks that a third-grader might eat. I’d shaken my head with a smile, thinking of my friend as I began making something.
It wasn’t from any of my recipe books. It wasn’t something I learned to cook in professional kitchens.
No, it was my mother’s chicken soup.
“It’s a well-worn cliché, but it’s true,” she told me, chopping celery. “Chicken soup, the kind full of nourishing and warm ingredients, helps soothe illnesses and injuries, and it warms the soul.”
I didn’t know why I made it, serving it with crusty French bread. Maybe because I wanted to take care of Kane, which didn’t come natural to me, so I borrowed from my mother.
Or because I was practicing some kind of therapy on myself since these past few days had made me think of her more than I had in years.
I’d served up a heaping bowl of soup with bread for Kane and given myself a much smaller portion. My stomach was still churning from everything that had happened the past few days.
“You’re not eating enough.” He frowned as his eyes shifted between our bowls.
“I’m not recovering from a ruptured spleen and broken bones,” I informed him snippily. “Eat your lunch.”
He grinned. “Heard, Chef.”
I smiled into my bowl.
We were in the living room after I cleaned up and forced him onto the sofa with an old paperback from my bookshelves, since he didn’t watch TV. A benign fact about him that I found incredibly charming.
“Babe, you gotta get to the restaurant,” Kane said, glancing up at the clock and shifting in a careful way that told me he was in pain.
“I’m not going to the restaurant.” I looked at the clock too, to calculate how long it had been since his last dosage.
Since we were within minutes of his next dose, I went to where his pill bottles were lined up in order to get them ready.
A hand at my wrist stopped me. The one that wasn’t in a cast, and regardless of his injuries, the grip was ironclad.
“You’re not going to the restaurant? For me?” Despite the strength of his grip, there was something vulnerable in his tone. Something small. With a stab to my heart, I thought of the story Kane told me about his past, about not feeling loved, special. A little boy whose mother chose her own happiness before him.
“Yes,” I said, my voice as soft as I’d ever heard it. “I’m not going to the restaurant because you are more important.”
He didn’t say anything for a long moment, just stared at me. “Love you, Chef.”
My heart pounded at the weight of those words. He said them with such power, such certainty it took my breath away.
It was like in each different situation, environment, the words meant different things, settled in different places.
“I love you too,” I forced myself to reply, the words hardest to say this time around, for whatever reason.
Something was slotting into place. Kane was slotting into place. His presence, the way he smiled, the way he spoke to me, the way he kissed me. In that moment, it truly fit into me, permanently.
A large part of me panicked and wanted to run. But the whole world was watching now, so there was nowhere to run to.
And even if the world wasn’t watching, I knew I wouldn’t run.
That scared me even more.
“I need to get out of this apartment,” Kane declared.
It was the next day, late afternoon. Kane had slept over twelve hours. I had gently roused him to give him his medication, he’d slurred some unintelligible words then hit the mattress again.
I slept little. Not only did I have alarms for medications, but I was also watching Kane, ensuring his chest was rising and falling, chewing my nails while worrying about him.
Chewing my nails. A nervous habit I’d stopped the moment I stood in my first professional kitchen and the head chef took one look at my hands and told me I wouldn’t last the day if I had to deal with stress by gnawing on my body.
I’d scrolled through my texts, shooting messages off to Kiera to let her know everything was okay, thanking her for the food.
Though my fingers itched to do so, I did not look at the numerous articles about Kane and myself.
I’d already made the mistake of looking at social media when Kane posted the photo of the two of us with the caption ‘My Chef.’
It had millions of likes. Millions. The numbers didn’t mean much to me, but Kane was famous. It came with the territory, I guessed.
The mistake was looking at the comments.
I’m surprised the fat pig managed to run to his side without passing out.
Kane usually dates models, what gives?
He can do better, she needs to stay in the kitchen.
I thought I was unaffected by mean comments—I’d had plenty in my time. But my stomach had pitched, and I’d bitten my lip until I tasted blood before forcing myself off social media.
I was not a self-conscious person, especially about my appearance. If someone I respected said something negative about my food, that hit. If someone I didn’t know, didn’t respect, insulted me about my appearance, it rolled right off my back. It was pedestrian, tactless and weak, to make insults like that.
I didn’t know why the comments bothered me. Maybe because there were thousands like that. Thousands.
That’s what I was in for, being with Kane. Constant attention, constant dissection. It made my skin crawl. The spotlight was already singeing me to the bone.
But that bone, that charred bone, already belonged to Kane.
I was stuck with him. Branded by him.
So like I was practiced at doing, I shoved those thoughts away, those comments, those fears.
I let him sleep. Woke up and rode him—not before performing oral sex, an act I’d never enjoyed until Kane—then made us coffee and breakfast.
Normally, we’d go to the café and bakery on the corner to sit outside, despite the crispness to the air, to drink our coffee and eat our pastries. But not with Kane’s injuries and not with the paparazzi.
Ferris was running the errands I normally did for the restaurant, and it made my hands itch and pulse spike. I’d trained him for such things. He’d come with me on numerous trips so the restaurant wouldn’t burst into flames if I was ill or died suddenly.
Still, I was firing off text messages to him all morning, ensuring he was doing everything right. Which he was—I’d trained him well.
Then there was the act of being in an apartment with Kane with nothing to do. We’d had sex twice, and it was great and lasted a decent amount of time. And I was cooking breakfast and lunch, cleaning up afterward which killed time too. But even after all of that, I was left with an exorbitant amount of free time.
A cleaner came in once a week, so I couldn’t go and scrub toilets to keep my hands busy.
“Chef, relax. You’re giving me a heart attack with all that tension,” Kane instructed from the sofa, paperback in his hands. He’d already tried to convince me to go in to work, but I’d refused. Firmly. He’d relented, allowing me to cook, clean, care for him.
Until now.
“Relaxing is not something I’m trained to do,” I informed him.
He laughed. The sound was deep and throaty and oh so sexy. “Not many people need to be trained to do it, but I’ll consider it my honor.” He patted the sofa beside him.
I went to him, and he instantly pulled me into him, kissing my head and inhaling. “You smell like you, food and sex,” he hummed. “My favorite.”
I sank into him, enjoying the hardness and softness of his body, his own scent … for about a minute.
“What now?” I asked, tensing.
Kane laughed again. “There is no what now when you’re relaxing. That’s the point.”
“Right,” I said, my voice strained. I waited another minute. “I don’t like it.”
Kane burst out laughing now, wincing at the full body shudders. I scowled at him, not liking him being in pain.
“This may take a few sessions,” he conceded.
“Or never,” I scoffed, trying to get up. Kane’s arms tightened around me.
“Where you goin’?” he asked into my hair.
“I’m making you a chocolate cake.”
“That’s not relaxing.”
I gave him a side-eye. “It is to me.”
He watched me for a moment, eyes dancing with amusement. “I’ll allow it, Chef.” He leaned in to kiss my nose.
I rolled my eyes, and he smirked, leaning back to go back to his book as I prepared to make the cake.
That filled in some time. Though the cake wasn’t overly difficult or extravagant, so it was already baked, chilled, frosted and eaten before we went to sleep, the dishes used to eat it on washed and put away.
Wiping some frosting off his lips, Kane said he needed to get out.
I’d tried to argue against that, since he’d just gotten out of the hospital, but Kane made it clear he wasn’t budging on this choice.
Though I was hesitant about the world outside, I sagged in relief.
“I’ll get my purse,” I practically jumped to my feet. “Where are we going?”
“Closest bar to get a beer,” was his response.
I froze. “You’re not supposed to drink with your medication.”
He arched a brow. “That’s just a recommendation from tight ass doctors; it won’t kill me.”
I scowled at him. “No, it may not, but it can interfere with the medication’s effectiveness and can slow the healing process.”
“Chef.” Kane stood, making his way to me where he settled his hands on my hips. “The crashes and injuries I’ve had, I could almost get my PhD in medication. Trust me, a beer isn’t gonna do shit beyond sate my thirst. And when you have one too, it’ll help you obtain that mystical act of relaxation we’re looking for.”
I chewed on my cheek as I considered that. I was a rule follower. And it said on the labels to not drink alcohol. I didn’t think doctors put that on there for shits and giggles.
Then I looked around the four walls of my apartment, and they suddenly began closing in.
“Okay, I’ll get ready,” I conceded. “One beer, though.” I pointed my finger at him.
“Yes, Chef,” he replied dutifully. Then his brows furrowed. “Get ready? You said you were going to get your purse. You don’t need to get ready; you look great.”
He looked down at my body lazily as if to prove a point.
I was wearing jeans—because I didn’t own sweats, hadn’t had the occasion to wear them, although after today, I got the appeal. My jeans were not the magic jeans Kiera bought me. These were regular, worn jeans, paired with a plain black tee and a cashmere cardigan.
My hair was pulled up in a low bun, tendrils escaping out, and I wasn’t wearing makeup.
Normally, I wouldn’t think twice about leaving the house like this. Normally, I didn’t have thousands of people saying negative things about my appearance.
But then I looked at Kane, saw the hungry glint in his eyes, the appreciation. All of the comments melted away.
So I got my purse and jacket while Kane grabbed his coat, then we walked out.
Kane made casual conversation with Mike, who had refused to come inside and sit down but had accepted coffee, lunch and chocolate cake. I was happy to hear he hadn’t slept against the door.
Mike was tall, muscles on every inch of his body, had close-cropped hair and an overall air that spoke to being former military. He looked menacing, deadly. But he was friendly, even though he barely smiled.
He’d also done well at scaring the scant remaining reporters lingering outside my apartment. They followed us down the street, though, at a distance. It was harder for paparazzi in New York; too many people and too many other important events to cover. I tried to act natural, tried to relax under Kane’s arm around my shoulder. He didn’t seem bothered, nor did he seem in pain, even though the walk to the bar was half a block.
I saw that he’d lost some of his color when we were seated, and his smile seemed strained.
“Kane,” I hissed. “If you push yourself too hard…”
“The day a walk to a bar with my woman pushes me too hard is a day I’m getting put in the ground.” He reached over to take my hand. “That day isn’t coming for a long while.”
I didn’t smile at him but forced myself to relax somewhat.
The waitress who came to take our drink orders spoke solely to Kane. I might as well have been invisible. Though Kane wasn’t having that, barely looking at her, his hands constantly on me. He was polite to the waitress but also made it clear that her heavy flirting and pushing her chest out was going nowhere.
Our beers arrived, and I sipped mine daintily, not wanting to be impaired while taking care of Kane.
He didn’t force conversation, seemingly content holding my hand and drinking his beer. He also ignored the people who had taken photos of us on their phones.
I tried my best to do that too.
Then I tried to mimic him, enjoying the silence, the beer, listening to the low music and conversations around us.
I failed at that. My eyes darted around the bar and my fingers twitched.
And then I thought about things to say. I didn’t do small talk.
“I lost my father when I was thirteen,” I blurted in the dead voice I always used when speaking about this subject. Though I had spent my entire adult life telling strangers and friends my father was dead, every time I said it out loud, it stung. The little girl inside me who wanted her father, hurt so desperately, it was hard to keep the tears in.
But I’d trained myself. To lock that down. Keep my voice even. No tears. Tight smile and a thank you when people told me how sorry they were.
Kane didn’t have pity or sorrow in his eyes when I spoke, didn’t rush to give condolences. Nor did he seem surprised at the information coming out of nowhere.
"You were close,” he surmised.
I nodded, releasing a heavy exhale. “My mother and I had a … difficult relationship. Have a difficult relationship,” I corrected. Even after years passed, me no longer being a teenage girl clashing with her mother, we never really repaired things. Because it was more than that. Deeper than that.
And although my mother tried hard—still trying to this day to bring me close, I had my walls up. Didn’t let her or my sister Maisie in.
“My dad was my best friend,” I added with a smile. “He was the one who taught me how to cook, developed my love of food. We’d spend Sundays cooking together, Saturdays going to new places to try new food.” I could almost taste the Ethiopian we had on a rainy afternoon, the spices hitting my palette.
I pulled at a thread on my cardigan. “I felt like he understood me in a way neither my mother nor my sister did.”
My mother and sister shared the same interests, they were emotional, they liked to watch rom-coms, go shopping. And though they always invited me along with them, I always felt out of place.
“Your sister younger?” Kane asked.
I nodded. “Six years.” I thought of Maisie. Was it the distance between us in age that made us so different? “She’s got two kids,” I told him, thinking of my niece and nephew. When was the last time I saw them? One Christmas ago? Two? “Had the first when she was twenty, with a colossal asshole, the second after she got rid of the colossal asshole at twenty-three.”
My sister being a young mother, staying in the same town we grew up in, further solidified the relationship between my mother and her. The two of them talked to each other daily, and my mother was over there constantly, to see her grandchildren.
There was a stab in my heart, thinking of the family I’d put myself on the outside of.
“The guy she’s with now. He good to her?” Kane asked.
I toyed with the label of my beer, discomfort swimming through me. “From what I can gather. I’ve met him a couple of times. He doesn’t drink too much or give my sister black eyes, so that counts as a win.”
Anger blazed in Kane’s gaze. “Tell me someone dealt with him, and if they didn’t, I’ll make a phone call.”
He was serious. I didn’t know what a phone call would entail, but there was a violence simmering below the surface of Kane’s expression that I’d only seen when I’d spoken about Gerald. Whether or not his fury was because of his mother’s past or because he cared so much about me, I didn’t know. He wanted to avenge a sister he’d never met, he was a good man.
“No, I dealt with him.” I looked away from his intense scrutiny, taking in the bar’s decor.
When he cleared his throat, I looked back at him. The violence remained in his expression but the corner of his mouth was turned up. “You dealt with him?” he asked.
“You’re not the only one who can make phone calls to teach assholes lessons.” Though I didn’t make a whole lot of friends throughout my culinary career, I’d given and gained respect from people along the way. Some of the people were Italian. Old school Italian who’d promised if I needed any favors done, they would be there as a thank you for putting in the right words for them at the right restaurants. I hadn’t expected calling in those favors until seeing my sister’s black eye.
I hadn’t lost a wink of sleep over her ex-husband’s stay in the hospital with two black eyes of his own and broken bones, delivered in order to get the message across.
My sister, to that day, thought he was mugged.
Kane inclined his head. “Color me impressed. Your dad would be proud.”
That hit me square in the chest.
“Maybe.” I took a swig of my beer before chewing at my lip once again. My father had been fiercely protective of us both. He’d been larger than life in many ways, but I didn’t once remember him raising his voice nor condoning violence.
Kane leaned across the table then grabbed my face. “Your dad would be fuckin’ proud, Chef.”
I wanted to burst into tears. I didn’t. “He wouldn’t be proud to know I only talk to my mom and sister twice a year,” I whispered. “Christmas and birthdays. I don’t even call them on the anniversary of his death. I send flowers.”
I picked at the label on my beer bottle, unable to look at him while I admitted the shameful thing I’d carried around for years.
“They do something. Every year. And they invite me. Every year.” I shook my head in disgust at myself. “I just don’t have the courage to go. I don’t think I belong with them. It split us in two. My father dying. Them on one side, me on the other. And maybe a part of me likes it that way because I don’t have to be as close to them, so it won’t hurt as much if something happens to them.” I looked up at Kane. “Which is why you make me want to run. Because if something happened to you, it would destroy me.”
There it was. The admission of all admissions. The most I’d laid myself bare to a man ever.
Though I’d never been close to this fear of losing another man since my father, since I realized men I loved could be lost.
Kane didn’t break my stare. There was not an ounce of judgment for my abandonment of my family. “It is my singular duty on this planet to keep you intact, Chef,” he murmured. “It’s also my duty to make promises I can keep. I can’t promise nothing will happen to me. Even if I was an accountant, I could get hit by a cab crossing the street.” He picked up my fingers to kiss them. “But I vow I’ll do everything in my power to ensure I stay here with you.”
It was a pretty promise. A lovely one.
But nonetheless, the reality remained… I would lose Kane.
Maybe not to the grave, like my most recent fear. But a small, intuitive voice inside me told me I would lose him.
One way or another.