Brandy’s POV
I’m so far out of my comfort zone it’s unreal, as I sit beside Kane, his legs spread wide enough that his thigh is pressed against my own as he slides a forkful of chicken and rice between his lips.
I’m hyper aware of his presence, wound like a tightly coiled spring in stark contrast to Kane’s nonchalant attitude as he eats his food.
‘It’s getting cold firebug, eat’ he murmurs beside me, reminding me of the plate in my hand. I look down at my food, orange chicken, my favourite, it’s what I order every single time, and always from the same restaurant . . . but . . . how did he know? Did he ask around? Who would he have asked? I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone that I love this, and I certainly have never shared a takeout with anyone from work.
‘Firebug, food’ Kane repeats
