“It was sort of sweet the way he defended you. He said you were the only one who offered to help him when he ran into trouble with his business.”

Flush creeps from behind the thick stubble on his face once again. Inside I’m cheering. It’s weird to pay a compliment to the guy I’ve been warring with the past few weeks. But it’s also intriguing. The gentle curve of his smile, the easy posture he assumes when we share about our backgrounds make me wish we could talk like this always.

“So in all your finance experience, did you also train how to cook and operate a restaurant? Because you do a pretty bang-up job.”

“A bit. I learned to cook by helping my gran at her bed-and-breakfast growing up. Finn and I would do the cooking and cleaning as teenagers.”

“Seriously?”

His eyes cut to me. “You sound surprised.”

“That sounds so . . . quaint. And heartwarming. Very unlike you.”

He chuckles. “We enjoyed it. Got to plan the menus together. The guests loved whatever we’d come up with. We’d trade off being head chef every other night. Finn loved that. Though he loved it a lot less the nights I was in charge. According to him, I’m bossy.”

“No way.” I try for fake surprise. He rewards me with a wink.

“Finn was a bit reckless in the kitchen growing up,” Callum says. “He avoided countless grease fires thanks to me.”

“You’ve got the protective-big-brother act down,” I say.

There’s a long pause. He looks away from me, then clears his throat. “There’s a reason for that.”

“Which is?”

Another extended pause. He takes a breath. “Finn was hit by a car when he was five years old. He was riding his bike, and a drunk driver crashed into him. He nearly died.”

“Oh God.” I cup my hand over my mouth.

“He’s fine now, of course, but he was in a coma at first. I sat by his side every day in the hospital, holding his hand, hoping that he’d just wake up and get better. I thought I was going to lose him, my only brother. My only sibling.”

The hard clench of his jaw, the glistening of his eyes give away just how hard he’s struggling to keep it together while telling me all this.

Like a reflex, my hand falls to his forearm. Inside, I’m cringing. The urge to comfort happened so fast, before I could think twice and hesitate. I expect a frown or for him to ask just what the hell I think I’m doing. But none of that happens. All he does is close his eyes and nod.

“Thank you,” he whispers.