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20

"Business contacts. Companies. Pages that hold information relevant to me."

"I think you're talking about your LinkedIn, Grandpa."

He gave me a scathing look that had me biting back a chuckle. James turned his head to the side to hide his smile.

"I knew you could handle a tease," I told him as I scooped up another forkful and jabbed it into my mouth.

His face turned back to me, his right brow quirked in amusement. The low, yellow table light illuminated the mischief in his green eyes. Swiping his tongue across his mouth, James dropped his gaze back to his food and forked more noodles.

"Are you enjoying the meal?" he asked.

"Very much. You're a good cook."

"I was in culinary school, once upon a time." He took a graceful bite while pushing the pasta around his plate.

Was the all-knowing, confident James Muller chagrined?

"You? In culinary school?" I gasped. "No way. You have way too much hair for a chef's hat."

I couldn't imagine his stoic, lean figure moving frantically about in a commercial kitchen. He seemed like the type who taught himself in college out of necessity. Then, later, he probably got into nutrition and learned to cook healthily.

James' mouth curved up into a small smile but he still didn't look at me.

I swallowed down another bite and set my fork aside. "So, what happened?"

"I always loved it growing up," he told me. "My grandmother and I bonded over it. It was our time. Jarrod never cared for it and Julia disliked anyone in our family who wasn't me or our father, so it was my way of being close to my last living grandparent. Anyway," he sighed, "I realized a few months into the program that I would hate cooking if I did it for a living."

"That's sweet, James. I'm sorry it didn't work out."

I couldn't help but stare at him in wonder. I knew he was capable of more than the cold moodiness he sometimes projected, especially seeing how he had taken me in after the break-in. But this introduced an entirely new layer to this man than I expected.

"It was for the best, really," he said with a shrug. "Cooking is a perfectly fine hobby."

"What was your grandma like?"

Sinking back against the chair, he smiled more genuinely now. "She was the product of a different era. Always had something kind to say, never met a stranger. The loveliest woman I've ever known. My mother reminds me of her sometimes. Rarely, but still."

I chuckle. "Your mother hasn't had it easy. Raising three kids is no joke."

"Fair enough. She had a husband, grandparent, and a nanny to help, though."

"A nanny? Damn, how nice." I can't imagine ever affording a nanny to raise kids . . . and that's assuming I ever even have some.

"It's probably not as you imagine," he replied with a shrug. "Anyway, I'm glad you like the food."

His remark shut down any room for questions and a blank expression fills his face once more. Rising fluidly from his seat, James reached across the table for my plate. I swat his hand away, smirking up at him. His eyes widened in surprise.

"You cooked," I remind him. "That means I collect and clean the dishes. You uncivilized animal."

He continued to just stare at me, stunned. I flashed him a grin before collecting our plates together and carrying them to the sink. While I soaped them up and washed everything, he broke out of his trance to wipe down the table.