He started the bike and took off outof the plaza, zipping through the cool night with smooth efficiency. I clung tohim, enjoying the ride and the flight of butterflies tumbling around my belly.
To calm my racing pulse, I focusedon the city zooming by. The night air was crisp and just damp with the heavydew that settled on the ground in these middle of the night hours. The streetswere mostly dead, leaving plenty of room for Killian to navigate smoothly.
I stared into darkened shop windowsand down dark, quiet streets. The stoplights gleamed red and green, glitteringon the pavement under a night sky filled with sparkling stars.
There was something about this timeof night that made me feel so achingly at home, comfortable. These were thehours I lived for and the life I was getting used to living.
I would never have a traditionalnine to five job. I would never wake up with the dawn and get home in time tomake a normal dinner. I would, hopefully, always head to work at odd hours andstay until everyone else was safely tucked away in bed.I would always fall asleep closer to the timethat everyone else woke up and drag myself out of bed not long after so I couldget to the market in time for the freshest ingredients. I would never lookforward to the weekends because I got them off. No, I would anticipate them fortheir busy chaos, for the crowd-filled dining rooms and even later nights.
This was the life I chose. The lifeI fought to have.
The life I fought to keep.
Killian turned down a tree-linedstreet with a gorgeous limestone church on the corner. Tall, narrow spiralsreached toward heaven, a golden bell nestled between the two. My heart thumpedat the quaint beauty of his street and then twice more when we pulled up to acool looking bungalow, complete with a covered porch and blue front door.
He parked his bike in the garagebehind the house and grabbed my hand as soon as I’d slid off the seat. Wedidn’t talk as he led me through his back door and into his kitchen.
Love at first sight. Maybe not withKillian, but definitely with his kitchen. Granite countertops, glass-doorrefrigerator, huge, stainless steel range. The center island stretched long andwide, scattered with fresh fruit and a massive wooden cutting board, one sidewas sprinkled with flour and a discarded dish towel. His house smelled likebaked bread and roasted garlic and everything wonderful.
Killian went about flicking on lightsand setting his things down. I unbuttoned my chef coat feeling silly in workclothes.
I imagined the first time at hishouse to be better planned. I’d pictured a sexy outfit and hair that hadn’tbeen smashed beneath a helmet and wild from a night working in my kitchen. I’dalso hoped to be perfectly groomed in all the right places and not covered inkitchen grease and pickle juice.
But to be fair, Killian never didwhat I expected him to do. And we never happened like I expected us to happen.So, this was all fair play.
He swung open his beautifulrefrigerator. “Water? Beer? Wine?”
“Water and wine, please?”
He pulled out two cold bottles ofwater and tossed me one before stepping into his pantry for the wine. As heopened the bottle and set it aside to rest for a few minutes, I took a seat atone of his iron barstools. “Your house is gorgeous.”
One of his shoulders lifted in acasual shrug. “It’s a little much for just me. But it’s like my one hang-upfrom growing up in the system. I wanted a nice place to come home to. And Iwanted space. I wanted privacy.”
I stared at him, wondering if maybethat wasn’t all. Maybe that was all he wanted to admit to me tonight, but therewas more from his life in foster care that left scars.
Not that he hadn’t come outperfectly adjusted, but I knew better than anyone that our pasts marked us inways we couldn’t escape. They shaped us into the adults we were destined to bewhether we wanted them to or not.
It was up to us how we used thoseexperiences. We could let them own us, or we could let them be the journey theywere meant to be, the stepping stones to a better life, a better self. Eachmoment, good or bad, a tool to give us the strength we needed to be the personwe were supposed to be.
Finally, he poured my glass of wineafter I’d downed most of the water. He brought it over to me, taking the stoolnext to mine. “How was your night?”
Twisting the stem between myfingers, I swirled the crimson Cabernet until it made a tornado in the glass.“Ezra stopped by,” I said without looking at his face.
When I looked up, Killian’sshoulders were tense, and the humor had drained out of him. Tension thickenedthe air. “He told me.”
I found myself ensnared by hisheated glare. “Is that what you want to talk about?”
His chin dipped once. “He mentionedthat he offered you Bianca.”
I swallowed against the absurdityonce more, still unable to believe that happened. I’d replayed the conversationso many times by now I had started to wonder if it had actually happened or ifI’d somehow imagined it. “Crazy, right?”
“No, completely understandable.Ezra’s not an idiot—I knew he’d come for you eventually.”
My chest hollowed out, my heartdropping to my toes in disappointment. “You don’t sound pleased.” I wanted tomake an excuse for Killian’s boorish behavior. I wanted to explain away hisdisappointment with me being offered a full kitchen. What was it with men andtrying to keep me locked away? Fury boiled in my belly, spreading withacid-fueled frustration through my blood.
Killian shook his head, adamant. “Iknew this was going to happen for you. I just didn’t realize it was going tohappen so soon.”
“Well, not everyone thinks I have anissue with salt,” I bit back. I was so done with defending my career toegotistical maniacs. Done. Over it.
