How much boiled istooboiled?
Manav used to cook like he was solving an equation. Me? I’m just trying not to burn the house down.
My hands are shaking as I chop the vegetables.
Not because I’m nervous.
Because I’m angry. And hurt. And starving.
He said he wouldn’t miss my book launch for anything.
Anything.
And he didn’t even show up.
I want to scream. Or cry. Or throw the pasta out the window and pretend I’m not falling apart over a man who promised to be there.
But instead, I stir the sauce.
And pretend this is just another night.
And that I’m not cooking to fill the silence he left behind.
I was blabbering pure nonsense to myself—about the sauce, about life, about men who promise things and don’t show up—while the pasta mockingly bubbled in the pan like it had something to say.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I muttered to the sauce. “I tried, okay?”
Myra hadn’t returned from answering the door. Which could only mean one thing—she was flirting with the pizza guy. Again.
This girl could not stay single for more than asneeze.
I squinted at the pan. Why does this sauce look like… paint? Did I forget something? Cheese? Butter? Dignity?
The pasta was clumping into a burnt mass at the bottom of the pot. Perfect. Just perfect.
“Oh god.”
I slammed my palm against the counter and yanked the stove knob off like it personally betrayed me.
I was about to storm off, mid-breakdown, when—a low voice cut through the kitchen.
“Need help?”
I froze. Every muscle in my body stiffened.
Because that voice wasn’t Myra. And it sure as hell wasn’t the pizza guy.
I turned slowly. And nearly passed out.
Because standing in the doorway, tall and quiet and completely out of place in my chaos, was—
Manav.
He looked exhausted. Rumpled. And unfairly gorgeous. And he was here. In my kitchen. Watching me lose a fight with pasta like it was the most important moment of his life.
My breath caught.
He took one step into the kitchen. Then another. No words. No excuses.
