I could tell from the way he fills out his designer suits and shirts and the feel of his solid chest beneath those clothes that he had a good body. But in the flesh … Damn. And I only have a view of his back. Muscles ripple across his broad shoulders as he stirs something in the pot.

By some miracle, I let go of the doorframe and don’t fall over. “You’re home early,” I say in a breezy tone, despite the way my legs are shaking.

He spins around, and I grab onto the counter for support. Those sexy gray sweats hang low on his hips, revealing a set of chiseled abs beneath his defined chest. I allow my gaze to drift lower—to the area which gray sweatpants were specifically designed to accentuate, and nobody will ever convince me otherwise. Yeah, just as I suspected, he has a huge appendage.

I quickly avert my attention to his face, but I’m not quick enough. He smirks at me, his dark eyes flashing. Dammit.

Fortunately, he’s too much of a gentleman to point out the fact that I was very clearly just eye-fucking him. “My trial finished early, so I decided to cook dinner.”

“It smells delicious. What are we having?”

“Paprika chicken and patatas bravas.”

I lift my eyebrows. “Sounds fancy and delicious.”

He shrugs, turning back to the stove. “It was a recipe of my mom’s.”

“She was Spanish, right?”

“Sí. My father met her in Valencia.”

I perch myself on a stool and watch him cook, noting how at ease he seems in the kitchen. “Do you speak Spanish?”

“Sí, señora. Pero solo cuando estoy enojado …” He winks at me.

Wow. Does he have to be so perfect at everything? “I have no idea what you just said, but it sounded hot.”

His laugh is comforting but sexy, and heat blooms in my chest. “I said. Yes, but only when I’m mad or …”

“Or?” I press my lips together.

He glances over his shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out soon enough.” His growly tone makes my core contract with need. I can’t help but wonder what he didn’t say and whether that has anything to do with the sudden spike in sexual tension in the room.

“You’re in a very good mood, Mr. James. Did you win your trial?”

He remains focused on the food. “I always win, Spitfire.”

I roll my eyes. “Of course you do.”

The heavenly flavors of garlic, tomatoes, and paprika burst across my tongue as I savor the first mouthful of potato. I’m pretty sure I moan when the hint of spice kicks in. “This is absolutely incredible.”

Nathan offers me his usual half smile in response.

I pop another cube of potato into my mouth and chew. “Are you just naturally good at everything you do?”

He arches an eyebrow at me, and I feel the flush creep over my cheeks. “I guess you’ll have to wait and see, Spitfire.”

Holy fuck. I’m not sure how much longer I can put up with the constant flirting before I end up throwing myself at him. “I mean you’re an amazing cook,” I add, trying to keep the conversation about the delicious food.

“My mom taught all of us boys to cook. She said it was an important life skill.”

“Mmhmm, she’s not wrong. How old were you when she died?”

A muscle in his jaw ticks. “Twenty-six.”

“I’m sorry. It sucks to lose a parent.”

He nods his agreement and tops up our wine glasses. “You were thirteen when your dad was killed?”

I swallow down a knot of guilt and sadness. “Yeah.”

“That must have been rough on you all.”

“It was. Ash was only three, so she doesn’t even remember him. At least I have lots of memories, although sometimes I wonder if that makes it harder, you know?”

“I do.”

“But if I had to choose, I’d rather have the memories and the pain of losing him than not remember him at all. I feel bad for Ash that she’ll never have that.”

He takes a sip of his wine and eyes me over the rim of the glass. “Is that why you’re so protective of her?”

His question blindsides me. “I don’t think I’m overly protective of her. She’s my baby sister.” I hear the defensiveness in my tone, but he’s touched a nerve. I don’t want to think about my overcomplicated relationship with my family right now. Or ever, if I can help it.

His eyes narrow, and he sets down his glass. “It’s not a criticism, Mel. But when I asked you why you were marrying me, one of your reasons was you wouldn’t have to worry about your sister. I get the sense you’ve always been the one to look out for her, that’s all.”

I stare into his deep brown eyes and wonder how a man who’s known me for such a short time can understand me better than my own family—with the exception of Tyler. “I guess. My mom was never really hands-on. It was always my dad who was good with the parenting stuff. And then after he died, she kind of fell to pieces, and Bryce—” I swallow the lump in my throat. “I guess he took over for Dad in her eyes, and what little love she had in her heart, she reserved only for him. It felt like it was me and Ash in our own little world a lot of the time.”

He nods, his jaw ticking, and I wonder what’s going through his mind.

“So yeah, I guess I’m overprotective of her because there was no one else around to keep her safe.”

“And who protected you, Mel?”

I frown. “I didn’t need protecting like she did. She was a baby.”

“You were only thirteen. Still a child yourself.”

I’m blown away by his insightfulness. I feel like he can see me in a way nobody else can. “I don’t know. Tyler when he was around, I guess. We were both kids, but we looked after each other. His mom was our dad’s sister. She was never around much, and he practically lived at our house, but Bryce stopped him from visiting after Dad died. He’s never really liked him.”

Nathan’s expression darkens. “So you lost your dad and your best friend around the same time?”

“I still saw him every day at school, but yeah, I guess I kinda did.”

He tilts his head, and his eyes burn into mine. “I guess now I know how you became such a spitfire.”

Regret and loneliness overwhelm me at the memory of my teenage years. Being stuck in that house with Mom and Bryce, feeling invisible and alone. It’s no wonder I fell head over heels with the first guy who showed me anything akin to kindness when I went to college. But those memories are even more painful, and I almost choke on their bitter aftertaste. “It must have been fun growing up with four brothers,” I say, desperate to change the subject.

He gives me another half smile. “You could call it that. I’d call it chaos.”