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)
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.