She let it go and pulled the sharp dagger-like hair clasp out of her mouth. “We can’t win, Rico. We can’t win because . . . because . . .” Her hands went to work on the bun again. She rolled it back up and poked it with the dagger to keep it in place. No points for guessing what else the dagger pierced.

“Because what?”

Her eyes were stripped bare when they met his. “Because I can’t cook.”

His brain had to still be stuck on her hair, because that made no sense. “You made that omelet perfectly.”

“I can only cook certain things.”

Excuse him?

“I’ve . . . I’ve never told this to anyone.” Her hands twisted together. “I can only cook things on the menu at Curried Dreams. If . . . if I try to cook anything else, I . . . well, I can’t.”

Suddenly everything made sense.

Then, nothing did.

“Can you . . . can you please not ask questions. Please.” She was breathing hard. Her hands were shaking like leaves in a storm, a storm she had swallowed whole and trapped inside her lungs, under her skin.

He reached out and took them. “You’ve never told anyone?” They were ice cold and he wrapped them in his. “No one?”

That made her laugh and she clamped her mouth shut. It made her eyes water as she choked it back.

He tamped down the rage that rose inside him. He was going to dismember whoever had done this to her. “I’ll take care of it,” he said.

He’d tell the network that he wanted to be the one doing the cooking. They’d accommodate him. He’d make them. He’d make this go away for her.

His thumb traced the backs of her hands. The rise of veins, the ridges of tendons, the sparklers bursting in his heart. Letting her hands go was going to be the hardest thing he’d ever done.

“Thanks.” The word was the barest whisper on her lips.

He’d never known how not to give her what she asked for.

I need you to not ask me questions right now. I need to handle my father my way. Please.

Look where it had gotten him. “How do you hold in so many secrets, Ashna? Why?”

She snatched her hands out of his and pushed him away.

His hands fell like lead to his sides. “Why does he have such a hold on you?”

That made her step back. Without another word she went to the door. Yet again, done with the conversation, done with him.

But she stopped and Rico hated the relief of it. “You know what? I don’t want you to take care of it. I will take care of it myself. I don’t need your help.”