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)
Yet I nodded.
Kane kissed me hard and quick before putting on my helmet and getting me on the bike.
I pressed close to him as we rode through the streets. The air had more of a chill now, so Kane ensured I wore more layers, even though he was only wearing a thin tee and a leather jacket.
“Do as I say, not as I do,” he’d joked when I’d pointed that out.
The motorcycle was my preferred mode of transportation. I had no idea how I’d go back to the subway or cabs. Two weeks. Two weeks without Kane. The thoughts followed me through the city until we stopped at a curb.
I got off the bike, looking at the businesses around us. Most of them were closed up, except the one with the flashing neon sign—Inked—which I guessed was our destination.
Kane’s hand closed firmly around mine, lifting our intertwined hands to kiss mine before walking us into the tattoo parlor.
“William,” Kane grinned at the man at the counter before clapping him in a man-bro handshake.
“Rhodes,” the tattoo-covered man greeted, smiling. The smile looked at odds with the rest of him. It was warm, boyish even.
And he was not boyish. Even sitting, I could tell he was well over 6′. He was wearing a black tank top that showed off bulging muscles and skin that was covered in tattoos. I couldn’t find a piece that wasn’t inked. The tattoos ran up his neck and covered his shaved skull. There was script underneath both of his eyes.
The eyes that were blindingly green, moving from Kane to me. His smile remained for me. Again, warm, friendly.
“William,” Kane waved to me. “This is my woman, Avery—”
“Hart,” William finished for him. He stood, rounding the counter so he could come shake my hand. “I know who you are. I’m a big fan.”
I felt my eyes widen, taken aback. I could count on one hand the amount of people who had recognized me on face value. I didn’t do press. The handful of interviews I did rarely included a photo—on my insistence—and the ones that did were not really indicative of how I looked on a daily basis because of the makeup and the lighting and the general polish.
But it had happened, mostly by cooking students who followed the comings and goings of the culinary world and read the publications I was featured in. Never by six-foot-something giants covered in tattoos.
“Your food is incredible,” he added, still shaking my hand enthusiastically. “Your twist on duck l’orange was revolutionary.”
I smiled. Genuinely. Despite finding it hard to take compliments—even though I teetered between overly cocky and battling imposter syndrome—somehow, William made it easy.
“Thank you,” I told him. “That dish is a particular favorite of mine.”
He nodded, finally letting go of my hand. “It’s my death row meal. Along with your twist on Mille-Feuille. Paired with a bottle of Villa Wolf Gewürztraminer.”
It was surreal to have this man talk about delicate desserts and a white wine that presented first with flowers on the palate. I instantly liked him.
“What are you doing with this gutter rat?” he asked teasingly. “He wouldn’t even know a soufflé from a soup.”
Kane laughed good-naturedly and had been watching the exchange between the two of us with a warm smile on his face.
“She’s slumming it, and I’d appreciate you not pointing it out since I’m planning on holding on to her until she comes to her senses.” Kane squeezed my hand.
William shook his head. “Avery Hart is nothing but a master of the senses, brother, you’re fucked.”
Kane’s eyes twinkled, then went serious. “I surely am.”
The jovial atmosphere left for a moment, leaving me feeling overwhelmed by the seriousness of the moment. We were no longer caught up in a chaotic and adventurous fling. It was something … more. And it scared the shit out of me.
A clap jerked me from my thoughts.
“So what are we in for today?” William asked, looking between the two of us. “Avery, you looking to get some ink?”
I laughed at the absurdity of that. “Me? No.”
I didn’t judge anyone with tattoos. In fact, I liked them a lot. I was fascinated with Kane’s. Part of me wanted to be a person who could cover her skin in something so permanent. Most of the chefs in my world had at least one.
I just didn’t think I could pull it off. Tattoos were at direct odds with everything I thought about myself.
“One day,” Kane said, rubbing my arm, and I gasped at him in shock. “But no, today, you’ve got the pleasure of permanently scarring me.”
“Great,” William stood from his seat. “Come on back.”
And just like that, we were walking through a large room that smelled of antiseptic and ink, buzzing mingling with the hard rock playing over the speaker.
Surprisingly, the tables were separated by partitions, and a lot of them were occupied. Not sure why I was surprised. Just because I didn’t consider getting a tattoo at midnight didn’t mean there weren’t plenty of people who did.