We stay like that, locked in a breathless, intense bubble, until Killian exhales and the bubble bursts.
He grabs my arm and strides toward the back of the restaurant, steering me through the crowd.
“Where are we going?”
He doesn’t answer. He simply keeps walking, holding my arm firmly in his grasp.
We pass table after table until I realize we’re headed toward the kitchen. Killian throws open the swinging kitchen doors and guides me through aisles crowded with sous chefs cooking or plating food, all of whom give us only a cursory glance before turning back to their work.
He turns me left past a huge walk-in fridge, then right past a row of metal baker’s racks stacked with serving trays and water carafes, then yanks open an unmarked door.
He pulls me inside, shuts the door, and kisses
