Page 85 of Falling for the Grumpiest Protector

I consider that. “I’m not sure.”

“That sounds promising.”

I smile. “I like it. It suits you.”

His eyes hold mine for a beat. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Something warm passes through his expression before he turns back to the stove. “Come sit. Dinner’s almost ready.”

I take a seat at the counter and watch him work.

The sauce from the other day has become part of something larger. Roasted vegetables, fresh pasta, herbs, and a piece of chicken he finishes in a pan before spooning the sauce over it. He doesn’t fuss. He doesn’t perform. He simply cooks. And I find myself watching his hands, the confidence in them, the ease.

“You do this a lot.”

He glances at me. “What? Eat?”

“No.” I smile. “Cook.”

“Yeah.”

He sets a plate in front of me. For the first time since I arrived, he looks uncertain. It’s almost imperceptible, but I see it.

I pick up my fork. “Are you nervous?”

“A little.”

I blink. That might be the most surprising answer he’s given me all night. “You’re admitting it?”

“I’m serving something I’ve been working on to a professional chef.”

“That explains it.”

“Don’t enjoy this too much, Hart.”

I smile and take a bite.

The flavors unfold slowly. Tomato. Roasted pepper. Garlic. The warmth of the cardamom beneath it. And basil. Just enough. I close my eyes.

When I open them, Martinez is watching me.

“You used the basil.”

“A little.”

“It’s perfect.”

He goes still. Only for a moment. Then something quiet passes through his expression, something that isn’t quite pride but lives nearby. “Good.” He pours the wine.

One word. But I have the strangest feeling I said something that mattered. He turns back toward the stove. I don’t ask why.

Dinner lasts longer than I expect.

Not because we eat slowly. Because we talk. Without a task between us, without a dog needing attention or produce waiting to be sorted or someone walking through the barn. It feels strange at first. Then it doesn’t.

He asks about my restaurant. Not the numbers, not how many tables or employees or reservations. He asks what I cook when I’m allowed to choose.