“What are you doing here?” A slight frown tugged at his face. And, just my luck, it makes him look even more irresistible—with his sleepy blue eyes, tousled hair, and that maddeningly husky morning voice.
Someone, please send me back to my country before my ovaries start staging a war.
“Just trying to make breakfast…?”
“There are more chefs here than I know what to do with. So… why are you making your food?” His brows pulled together, clearly puzzled.
“I just wanted something… Indian,” I muttered, already rummaging through the fridge, avoiding his gaze.
“They don’t seem to know the difference between aloo paratha and mashed potatoes,” I added.
Manav pulled up a stool, that ever-present frown softening just slightly. I ignored how absurdly good he looked in his sweats and apron.
Focus, Kiara. Just cook.
“Need help?” he offered, voice low and teasing.
“No.”Yes.“I’m fine,” I said, while my hands betrayed me, fumbling with flour like it was nuclear waste.
“What are we trying to make here?”
“Cheeseballs,” I declared like it was a codeword for world peace.
He watched with amusement as I chopped onions with the grace of a panicked squirrel. Tears pricked my eyes—not just from the onions.
“I hope I don’t die today.”
“You’re not going to die,” he said dryly, “but the onions might.”
“I’ve watched three full episodes of that chef’s channel,” I countered.
“And yet,” he said, lifting half the cheese I’d spilled onto the counter, “none of it made it into the bowl.”
I sighed. “I used to be better at… stuff.”
He didn’t mock. Didn’t smirk. Just took the bowl and quietly helped me shape the mixture. His hands moved with practiced ease.
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” he said simply.
Andjust like that, he picked up the bowl, his hands deftly working to mix in the cheese properly. Reluctantly, I sat back, torn between frustration and gratitude. I cleared my throat. “Thank you.”
He just nodded while shaping cute little balls filled with cheese. He looked at me twice with those deep blue eyes without saying anything. His throat showed some movement, and his stubble was begging me for a touch.
Something in his presence made me feel like it was okay just to sit there. I watched him move with swift precision, chopping veggies and tossing ingredients with a kind of grace you usually see in those high-end cooking shows.
I could watch him do this all day…
I sat lost in my chaotic thoughts, absently peeling an onion. My mind wandered over a hundred things—Myra's relentless messages, the endless calls from that unknown number, the publisher's emails waiting for my reply to submit the manuscript.
What if cheese didn’t exist?
Or what if I just stop picking up calls from Aunt Sophia, who's weirdly fixated on whether I’m single or “Do I like girls?”
And what if I finally tell Myra to cut back on cigarettes and maybe stick to dating one guy at a time instead of juggling her hundred“soulmates”?
“Here you go,” Manav broke my trance as he placed a plate of absolute perfection in front of me.
