Page 84 of Falling for the Grumpiest Protector

This is not what I expected. I’m not entirely sure what I expected. Something practical, probably. Four walls, a roof, a chair Martinez considers comfortable because it has not physically injured him.

Instead, warm light spills from the windows of the small stone-and-timber cottage. A covered porch runs across the front with two wooden chairs near one end and a low table between them. Herbs grow in planters beneath the kitchen windows. It’s rustic without trying to be. Comfortable. Private. Very him.

I park beside his truck and get out.

The front door opens before I reach the porch. Martinez steps outside. He changed. Dark jeans, a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. His dark hair is still slightly damp. He looks good.

I stop walking.

This was a mistake. A very attractive mistake.

His gaze moves over me. I changed too. A flowing white wrap dress scattered with red roses and green leaves. Nothing dramatic. He goes still, and the way he looks at me makes me suddenly aware of every decision I made while getting dressed.

“You found it.”

I climb the porch steps. “You gave excellent directions.”

“Surprised?”

“By the directions?”

“The house.”

I look past him. “Yes.”

He opens the door wider. “Come in.”

The first thing I notice is warmth. Not temperature. The house itself. Wide-plank floors, exposed beams, a stone fireplace along one wall. A deep brown leather sofa that looks like someone actually sits on it. Bookshelves. A heavy wooden dining table near the kitchen. There are photographs, but not many. A framed landscape. An old black-and-white photograph I can’t quite make out from where I’m standing. Everything feels chosen rather than decorated.

Martinez has taste. That is information I probably did not need.

I turn slowly. “You have a beautiful home.”

Something almost shy passes across his face. “Thanks.”

“I mean it.”

“I’m glad you like it.” And somehow those words feel different tonight.

I follow him toward the kitchen and stop again.

Now this I understand.

A serious range. Heavy cookware hanging within easy reach. Knives that have been sharpened and cared for properly. Spices organized by someone who knows exactly where everything belongs. Fresh herbs near the window. A thick wooden cutting board bearing the marks of years of use. Nothing is for display. Everything works.

I run a restaurant kitchen in New York. I know what it looks like when someone takes cooking seriously. Javier Martinez takes cooking very seriously.

He reaches for two plates, then glances over and catches me still studying the kitchen.

“Do you like it?”

“Yes. I’m actually a little impressed.”

One corner of his mouth lifts.

“I wasn’t expecting all this.”

“What were you expecting?”