Page 18 of Heat Lightning

“Oh my,” I said, setting Mr. Marino’s plate down in front of him first, and then Enzo’s. “Of course, I want to hear your song. Which one are you working on?”

“Furry Lisa!” he said before biting the head off a brontosaurus.

Mr. Marino chuckled. He only ever laughed when Enzo was with him. “It’s Für Elise, Enz. And thank you, Max. This looks delicious.”

He had dark hair that was just beginning to gray at the temples, a warm bronze complexion with sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, and beautiful blue-gray eyes.

On top of all of that, he was kind despite coming off cold and reserved at first, and he was single. I’d never asked about Enzo’s omega parent; all I knew was they were out of the picture.

In another lifetime, I might’ve fallen all over myself for an alpha like him, despite our stark class differences. Not now, though.

Not when an entirely different pair of blue eyes haunted me.

I smiled. “My pleasure. There’s a plate of double-chocolate brownies on the kitchen counter for dessert. Do you need anything else before I clean up for the night?”

He shook his head and swallowed a bite of chicken. “No, thank you. You can head home. I’ll take care of our dishes.”

Thank fuck. I was exhausted and could use an early night. “If you’re sure. I’ll leave the leftovers in the refrigerator."

“Have a good weekend,” he said.

“What about my song?” Enzo whined.

“He’ll be able to listen some other day, bud. You’ll have to practice to make it really, really good.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” I said with a grin. “Have a good night.”

Rich people had the best kitchens.

Top-of-the-line appliances mixed with homey, cream countertops and warm accents to make the space feel clean and welcoming. The walk-in fridge—I had gasped when I first saw it—was paneled to blend in with the counters, and the KitchenAid stand mixer had its very own compartment that raised and lowered into the cabinet with the flip of a switch.

This is what dreams are made of, I thought every time I used it without having to lug the stupidly heavy thing around on my own.

I loaded the dishwasher, put away the leftovers, and cleaned the oven range worth more than a house until the brass knobs and dark hunter-green surface sparkled.

Oddly enough, I actually liked the post-meal cleanup. It was therapeutic. Plus, the feeling of walking into a squeaky clean kitchen the next morning couldn’t be beat.

All done for the night, I grabbed my bag off the hook in the mudroom and stepped out the back door.

The warm July air was thick with sensory memories, blurring the lines between then and now. My shirt clung to the small of my back just like it had that night, and the damp evening tasted the same when I took a deep breath.

There were plenty of differences, though; things that dulled those jagged recollections.

My commute to and from work was a short walk down a tree-lined brick path on Mr. Marino’s lake shore estate. Along with the personal chef position, the job offer had included accommodations in a studio apartment above the guest cottage, tucked away in a grove of trees, overlooking Lake Superior herself.

Solar lamps lit the way, and the house’s giant windows cast a warm glow on the well-manicured lawn. Late summer cicadas were a welcome, low drone, and the crash of waves called me to the place that was now my home.

Even still, I couldn’t help but remember.

Seven hundred and forty-one days ago, I woke up screaming in a heat recovery clinic.

Days and days of the most brutal, confusing, and painful heat I’d ever experienced had passed. Nurses came and went between moments of lucidity, leaving water and crackers and artificial heat aids—knotting dildos—but nothing had eased me.

Waves had passed with no real peak or break in between. When I’d thought one would end, another began. By the end I was certain it’d kill me, but then it finally broke, like a fever that’d exhausted even itself.

There was no satisfaction in the culmination of the worst week of my life; it merely fizzled out like a ruined orgasm, leaving me spent.

Gwen had been at my bedside the first time I fully came to, a stranger then. After she’d made me drink some electrolytes, she’d explained that I was safe. They’d found me curled up in a blanket at their front door in the throes of a chemically-induced heat.