Page 99 of Falling for the Grumpiest Protector

I watch Javier taste the sauce. He offers it to me. I taste it.

"It's good. Really good. Your mother taught you this too?"

His hand stills. "Some of it." I wait. He sets the spoon down.

"My mother was French."

"French?"

"Born outside Lyon. Her father was a chef."

I turn toward him. "That explains a few things."

"He was classically trained. Restaurants, books, teaching."

"And your mother?"

"She trained with him. Then on her own."

"So when you told me your mother was a chef, you left out quite a lot."

"I answered your question."

"Technically."

His mouth curves.

"She started teaching me when I was a kid. My grandfather did too when we visited France."

"You spent time in France?"

"Summers mostly."

"Martinez."

"What?"

"Every time I learn something about you, I discover six more things you've neglected to mention."

"You ask a lot of questions."

"And apparently not enough."

He smiles and turns back to the stove.

"Did you ever think about becoming a chef?"

The smile fades. "I went to France for culinary school."

I lower the knife in my hand. "You did?"

"Yeah."

"What happened?"

"My mother got sick."

The kitchen goes quiet.