“This is amazing,” I said, lifting a third helping of chicken and rice onto my plate.
“Thanks.” Conrad grinned and raised his wineglass. “Glad you’re enjoying it.”
“Where’d you learn to cook like this?”
He shrugged. “Dad’s Cuban, Mom’s Spanish-Italian, so we always had good food around the house. The flan’s a recipe from my great-grandmother.”
“You grew up where exactly?”
“Downtown Jax.”
I went on, asking him questions that I already knew the answers to. My sergeant had literally quizzed me on the team’s files before I went under, so Conrad’s background and schooling were old news to me. But I was playing a role, the new kid, so I asked the right questions. He asked some questions, too, and for the most part I told the truth about growing up on a farm, working cattle, wanting to get
