Holy God—how can he make thissofast? Golden, crispy cheese balls paired with vibrant mint chutney, a refreshing glass of iced tea, and a plate of fresh-cut fruit on the side.
I took a bite, and a soft moan escaped before I could stop myself.
He frowned. Oh, crap!
“I could hire you as my chef…” I blurted out, still chewing, completely abandoning any attempt at table manners.
“Sorry…what?” he said, blinking.
“Considering your apparent lack of a home, job, and shirts, I’m generously offering you a position as my… personal chef.”
He froze, coffee mug halfway to his lips, his expression one of pure surprise. “You're offering me employment… as your chef? Did I miss the job interview?” He blinked. “Does Roy know about this brilliant idea?”
“I can ask him if you want.” I don’t think he will mind if I add one more chef to his army.
He looked at me intently. “Why do I need a job?”
“As I said, you’re‘homeless,’ ‘jobless’… and maybe in need of a fewclothestoo,” I mumbled.
“So, I’m broke?” he scratched his stubble
“Yes.” My heart was racing. “If you’re interested, we can figure out the details—hours, salary… they’re flexible. And, of course, I will first take you shopping.” I took a sip of my juice as though I were merely suggesting a coffee run.
He blinked again. “You’ll…what?”
____________
Taking a deep breath, I steadied myself outside the gate of Manav’s cottage. This homeless and jobless man is now my chef and is going to keep my stomach happy.
Although he looked utterly baffled when I proposed the offer—like I’d just appointed him as the President of the United States.
Negotiations were immediately on the table. They included critical points such as the fact that if he agreed to cook for me, he wouldn’t have to deal with the culinary wrath I tend to unleash on the kitchen whenever I attemptto apply the questionable knowledge gained from binge-watching Food Channel tutorials. And of course, I offered him a handsome salary and a cupboard full of shirts.
So, here I am, about to take him shopping. Not that I won’t miss the sight of him wandering around shirtless in the mornings, but… I need to focus. I’ve got a launch deadline, overdue interviews, and a manager, Maggie, who’s probably ready to murder me. I’ve been ghosting her calls, avoiding PR commitments, and ducking every editor meeting she’s set up for days.
It has been six months since I’ve written even a single word. My life feels like chaos, a hurricane I’ve created myself. Now, I’m dangerously close to getting sued by my publishers and the producers who’ve already bought the rights to adapt my novel into a movie. In our last meeting, they made one thing clear: the moment I deliver a finished manuscript, they’ll start shooting immediately.
And the scariest part is I have already used part of the money to start my dream project—a publishing house of my own in France. Now all eyes are on me. Yet here I am, running away from the very world I once loved.
Love. Interesting word, isn’t it? What’s more alarming than a romance writer who no longer believes in love? Maybe I should find a new career altogether. Because how can I write about something I’ve stopped believing in?
I knocked again. No response.
Then the door opened—and I instantly regretted everything.
Manav stood there in nothing but a towel. Low. Way too low.
Water dripped from his hair, down his neck, trailing over his chest. His skin was flushed, freshly showered, and that scent—whatever god-tier aftershave he used—hit melike a wave.
Abort mission.
“Hey,” I managed, eyes darting anywhere but his abs. “Uh… the car’s waiting. We need to leave for shopping.”
He blinked, like I’d just asked him to recite Shakespeare. “Shopping?”
“Yes. Urgent clothing crisis,” I said, gesturing vaguely at his towel. “You’re… visibly underprepared for public life.”
He raised an eyebrow. “What’s wrong withmyclothes?”
