Page 16 of Drunk On Love

“Hecooked?” I mumbled, trying to process the fact that he was up and about after the fever he had.

“He left a note…” She smiled, gesturing toward the table.

“A Note?” I muttered, walking slowly to the table, my mind still reeling.

The smell hit me first—warm spices, something tangy, something home. I stepped into the dining area and froze.

A full Indian meal was laid out. Everything was perfectly plated. Fresh. Hot. And next to the water glass, a note.

Hey,

Hope I still have a job after yesterday. Tell your army of helpers to serve the food hot.

Thanks for putting up with me last night.

—Manav

I stared at the words for a long time. Simple. Just him, saying what needed to be said. And it was… enough. More than enough. I sank into the chair and picked up the spoon, my heart feeling strangely full.

I picked up the phone that had been ringing for an hour now.

“Are you trying to ignore my existence, Kiara Randhawa?”

“Hi… Sorry, I was up last night… What's with the seventy-two missed calls? Is someone dead?”

“You wish, darling.” Myra shot back, “But that's not important. Tell me—why were you up all night? Was that wonderful chef of yours giving you… Consecutivebenefits?How big is his…instrument?I want every detail, Kiara. Trust me, if you leave anything out, you and I are going to have serious,seriousproblems.”

“Myra!” I practically choked. “Stop talking! What is wrong with you?” I ran a hand over my face, trying to clear the mental images she was painting. “No… no benefits happened, and definitely no 'instruments' were involved. I was just taking care of him… he had a fever.”

“A fever?” Myra's curiosity only seemed to intensify. “And you spent the whole night taking care of him?”

“Yes,” I sighed.

“Oh my God… Kiara…” she whispered, clearly enjoying every second of my discomfort.

“What?” I practically shrieked.

“I am already in love with your chef.” Myra declared with way too much excitement.

“Who?… Manav?” Is she serious? I need to get her brain tested immediately.

“Oh my God, I need to send him flowers or something. He made you human again.”

“I am hanging up, now… Call me back once you’re back in your senses. I don’t understand a single word coming out of your insane mouth,” I muttered, tossing the phone onto the couch.

That device? Dead to me—for now.

____________

It’s been a week since I last saw Manav. He’s been diligent, still preparing breakfast and dinner for me like clockwork, always leaving handwritten notes about some stupid instructions to make sure it’s served fresh and hot. From the window of my room, I can see his cottage, and though I try not to, my eyes keep wandering in that direction.

I’ve unintentionally memorized his daily routine. He’s up early, without fail, and hits the gym for two hours—of course, how else would those abs exist? Then comes smoothie time. And not just one smoothie—oh no, we’re talking green, pink, blue, black… Eww. All while he’s multitasking, reading files like they hold the secrets of the universe.

Most of his day is spent glued to his laptop, calm and composed, talking to the screen as if the people on the other side can see how absurdly perfect he looks even when he’s annoyed.

Occasionally, I catch him with a glass of whiskey in hand, eyes closed, just… thinking. Once, I even caught him laughing at the screen. That laugh—dangerously beautiful, rich, and completely disarming—reminded me, for a fleeting moment, that he’s human.

But then again, maybe he’s not. Maybe he’s decoding some ancient script on those files, trying to unlock the secret language of sizzling potatoes or the eternal enigma of why coffee never tastes the same twice. Who knows?