Page 35 of Iron Princess
“It’s a drink usually made by island people. I was gifted those bowls by a village elder in Fiji.”
From the photographs around his loft, I assumed he was well traveled, but tossing out phrases likevillage elderin Fijimakes me think that his travel is nothing like that of the distillery employees going on their cruises to Mexico out of Port of New Orleans. One more thing I’ve never done.
“Fiji? Wow.”
“I prefer it to Tahiti. Less commercial. Plenty of remote places to get lost. Good people too.”
He sounds so sophisticated and I’m ... not.
“I’ve never left the state of Louisiana.”
This time, he turns to stare at me. “Really?”
I shake my head. “No. We didn’t have the money growing up. Vacation as a kid was a day trip to the city. Watching a funeral parade, maybe. In college, I worked anytime I wasn’t in class or studying. I didn’t have extra cash to go to Panama City or wherever else people went for spring break.”
“You’d love Fiji.”
“I’m sure.” I laugh. “Who wouldn’t?”
He smiles. “You’d probably hate kava, though. At least at first. It looks like dirty water and kind of tastes like it too. It’s a root that’s ground up and put in a bag and soaked.”
“Why the hell would anyone want to drink that? It sounds disgusting.”
As soon as I say it, I regret it because his smile widens andhe has dimples. How is this even fair? Oh, right, it’s not.
“After a long day of work, the men gather around as one of them makes kava. They sit and drink bowl after bowl of it. After twenty or so, you get a sense of euphoria with some sedative effects. It’s relaxing, and some say mildly hallucinogenic.”
“Twenty bowls? Of stuff that tastes like dirty water? That sounds like way too much work to get fucked up.”
The dimples reappear again, and I’m caring less and less about Fiji and kava.
“That’s what they have, and it’s an ancient tradition. It’s how they relax and connect. It’s part of their heritage.”
“And why did the village elder gift this to you?”
“I did him a favor.”
“Who did you kill?” The question pops out, and I want to kick myself when his smile disappears.
“No one.” Kane drops his gaze and resumes chopping.
I return the small bowl to the set and leave the living room for the kitchen to stand beside him. “That was a dick thing to say. I’m sorry.”
His hand stills over the stalk of celery. He lifts his eyes to mine, and they flash with intensity. “There’s a whole hell of a lot more to me than what I do. For some reason, I thought you might understand that, but apparently you don’t.”
“I’m sorry.” I suck in a breath and release it. “I ... I’m not good at this. I don’t have friends. I don’t have relationships. I have my brother. At least, I did.” I shake my head. “I’m not making excuses, I’m just telling you ... I grew up in a shack on the swamp, taught myself to write the alphabet using a stick and the dirt. When we couldn’t afford the gas to get me to school for a couple years, Ma taught me with books that Rafe stole. I’m not normal, Kane. I don’t know what normal is.”
His features soften and so does the hardness in his eyes. “I don’t know what normal is either, so I guess that means we’re on the same page.”
The knife clatters to the counter and he takes a step toward me, trapping me against the counter.
“Normal’s overrated,” I whisper.
“Damn right.”
Kane tilts his head and skims his lips over mine. “Dinner’s gonna be late, because I’ve been dying to kiss you all damn day. I told myself I’d hold out, but I lied.”
His kiss is an enigma, just like the man. Hard and soft at the same time. Complicated yet simple. And most of all—mind-blowingly delicious.
