Page 86 of Falling for the Grumpiest Protector

That surprises me. “Whatever makes someone stop talking after the first bite.”

His mouth curves. “That’s your standard?”

“One of them.”

“What are the others?”

“Clean plates. And people coming back.”

He nods. That answer seems to make sense to him.

I tell him about the first night Julian and I filled every table. How terrified we were. How we stood in the kitchen after closing surrounded by dirty pans and drank sparkling water because neither of us had remembered to buy champagne.

Martinez laughs. “You forgot champagne?”

“We were busy.”

“You own a restaurant.”

“We had priorities.”

“Apparently not good ones.”

I smile. “You would have remembered.”

“Yeah, of course.” The certainty makes me laugh.

I look around his kitchen again. “Martinez, you’re an amazing cook. You cook like a chef. You must have had some training.”

His expression changes. Not closes. Just stills.

For a second, I think he won’t answer. “My mother,” he says finally.

I wait.

“She taught me.” There’s warmth in his voice, and something else beneath it.

“She must have known what she was doing.”

His eyes drop briefly to his glass. “She did. She was a chef.”

“That explains a few things.”

His gaze returns to mine. “Like what?”

“You. The way you cook. You don’t follow the food. You already know where you want it to go.”

He studies me. “You got all that from dinner?”

“I’m a chef, Martinez. I notice things.”

“Right.” A quiet pause settles between us. “I’ve noticed,” he says, and his eyes stay on mine while he says it.

My heartbeat shifts.

Then Atlas rises from his bed near the fireplace, stretches, and walks over to rest his enormous head on my knee.

I look down at him. “Thank you,” I tell the dog quietly.