He pointed casually, “Machine’s over there.”
“Thanks…” I mumbled as I stepped toward the coffee machine, praying I wouldn’t trip over my own two feet.
And what is this absurd dance my taste buds are doing with this fragrance? Is that… biryani? Is he cooking Indian food? Oh my God. Can I somehow steal a plate without him noticing?
The annoyingly perfect human cleared his throat, “Your mug… it’s overflowing.”
Oh—shit.
The last thing I wanted was the mess I had just created. Coffee flowed like a rogue river over the pristine counter, cascading onto the floor—the nicest and cleanest floor I had ever seen.
“Oh God—sorry, I—”
“It’s fine,” he said, not moving. Just watching me flail.
And then… It happened. My brain short-circuited, and my mouth decided to betray me in the worst way possible.
“Do you always cook like you’re auditioning for a shirtless MasterChef?”
His eyebrows shot up. “Excuse me?”
Congratulations, Kiara… you’ve officially lost your mind.
“Are you even allowed to work here like this?”
“Like this?” he echoed, baffled.
“Naked…” I gestured vaguely at his whole Greek-god situation. “There are abs involved.Gross abs.”
He straightened up, his brows knitting together as his expression shifted to one of sheer disbelief. “Are youhaving a stroke?”
“This is sodistracting,” I blurted before I could stop myself.
He leaned casually against the counter, crossing his ridiculously sculpted arms over his chest. “So… let me get this straight,” he began, clearly enjoying my complete and utter meltdown. “My abs are grossanddistracting?”
Kill me. Now.
“Not in a good way,” I lied—badly.
“Should I call a doctor? Or is this just your usual reaction to hunger?”
My stomach had chosen that moment to growl—loudly.
“Is that biryani?” I blurted.
He raised a brow. “You’re hungry?”
“No.” Another growl.
“Alright then,” he said, his voice smooth and calm, still watching me closely as if I’m the one cooking shirtless in someone else’s house. “But in case you change your mind… You’re welcome to join. It’s a bit much for one person.”
I hesitated. Every prideful bone in my body screamedno, but my stomach had officially taken control of the conversation.
“Do you offer food to all strangers wandering into your kitchen?”
“Only the ones who look like they might pass out.”
“Kiara. I’m Roy’s sister,” I muttered. “You know Roy, right? The person who hired you as his chef.”
