Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 154728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 619(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 619(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
“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.”