Page 218 of Falling for the Grumpiest Protector

Javier doesn't look up from the saucepan.

"No."

I stare at him from my perch on the stainless-steel counter.

"You haven't even considered it."

"I considered it."

"For how long?"

"Long enough."

He stirs the sauce once, tastes it, and reaches for the salt. I narrow my eyes.

Six months ago, I might have found this intimidating, Javier Martinez standing in our kitchen in a black chef's coat with the sleeves pushed to his forearms, completely focused on whatever is happening in the pan in front of him. Now I mostly find it distracting. Very distracting.

"Javier."

"Maddy."

"Opening night is in less than two hours."

"I'm aware."

"And as your business partner, I have a professional obligation to make sure the food is acceptable."

That gets his attention. He looks at me.

"Acceptable?"

"I take my responsibilities seriously."

His mouth moves at one corner.

"You've tasted it three times."

"That was quality control."

"And now?"

"Also quality control."

He turns back to the stove.

"No."

I glance at the spoon in his hand. Then smile.

"You're using my favorite wooden spoon."

His hand stops. I wait. Slowly, he looks at me again.

"So?"

"So you have to give me a taste."

"That's not a rule."