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She looks at me smugly. “Then maybehis fathershould have shown up when he was supposed to. He’s kept me waiting long enough already.” With a couple hasty last words to her son, she leaves him standing in the middle of the kitchen and glides into the dining room like she owns the fucking place.

“Guess we are babysitters,” I mutter to myself, trying to decide what to do with a boy who’s about nine or ten while we wait for his father to show up and clean up his own damn mess.

Brushing my dirty hands on my apron, I walk up to the small kid who looks so out of place in this big kitchen. “Sorry, my French isn’t very good. I’m Angélica. What’s your name?Comment t’appelles-tu?”

“Tobias,” he answers quietly.

“And your mother?Le nom de ta maman?”

“Aurélie Dupont.”

For some reason, hearing her name makes me hate her even more. “Are you hungry?Affamé?” It’s the first thing that comes to mind, considering we’re in the middle of prepping dinner. And comfort food is always a language I’ve been fluent in.

“Oui.” His eyes light up when he looks around the kitchen, studying every detail with a singular fascination that resembles someone else I know.

“What would you like?” I ask, running kid-friendly options through my head. Our gourmet dishes for tonight aren’t likely to impress a nine-year-old. “Que veux-tu—I’m sorry, my French is really terrible.”

“It is okay,” he replies, the words heavily-accented but far better than my attempt. “I can also speak English. Mamanwanted me to learn. I have an English tutor back home. She says I need to practice more.”

“Your English is great,” I offer with a smile. “I’m very impressed. I had to learn it when I was younger too, but you sound much better than I did at your age.”

I catch Liam’s attention. “Hey, can you handle the kitchen for a bit?” I nod toward Grey’s son in explanation.

“No problem, chef,” Liam answers, shooting a questioning look at the kid.

“Thanks.” I’ll fill him in on the drama later. “Let’s get you something to eat,” I call to Tobias, leading him in the direction of the pantry.

“Did you not grow up here?” he asks while walking beside me.

“Not at first, no. I grew up in Colombia.” I grab masarepa, some queso fresco, and butter before eying what else we have in stock today. “Anything you don’t like?”

“Spinach,” he answers with a disgusted scrunch of his nose.

“Fair enough,” I laugh. I snatch a handful of tomatoes and hold them up. “How do we feel about these?”

“I like them if they’re cooked. And seasoned.”

“You’ll love this then.” I gather the rest of the ingredients for arepas con hogao—I never saw a kid turn it down where I lived. “Come on. You can help me prep.”

“What do you think?”I ask Tobias after he takes his first bite of the arepas we made together. I’m nervous like I’ve just put my dish in front of a world-renowned culinary critic. God knowsthe brutal honesty of a kid can be even more scathing than the worst critics.

“It is delicious,” he answers with a wide grin on his face before taking another large bite. It reminds me of Grey, always so stoic until he has good food in his mouth. It makes me appreciate his obvious enjoyment even more.

“Good, now try it with some tomato on top.” I scoop some of the hogao on my own arepa and fold it over like a taco before digging in. I hum at the nostalgic warmth of flavors—it tastes just like home. “Like it?”

He finishes the entire arepa before answering, “It is very good. Could use some more spice though.”

I laugh at him catching me skimping on the cumin. I thought he might not like the taste, so I halved my usual amount. Apparently, he has a palate like his father. “Oh really, little chef?” I tease, ruffling his dark hair. “I’ll take that into account next time. I might need your help making it, though.”

“I could help.” There’s a bright sort of excitement in his voice. “Maman said we may move here.”

I try not to cringe away from the idea of one of Grey’s past lovers becoming a permanent fixture in his life, but the boy deserves to know his father. I think they’d both be better for it. “That would be nice,” I reply, the warmth in my tone genuine. “Do you think your maman would let you spend more time at the restaurant?”

“I do not know. She is a chef too, but she has never let me in the kitchen before.”

“Your mother’s never let you in the kitchen?” I gasp, the idea of keeping a kid out of a kitchen sounding cruel and unfair. I grew up in the kitchen, and I don’t know where I’d be without that connection to food.

He looks down at the floor. “She says the kitchen is too dangerous.”