I was not prepared.
…
:
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There I was, holding his left arm mid–stretch, trying very hard to keep a professional face while doing my job -keyword: trying–and then out of nowhere, Mr. Grumpzilla asked:
“Do you know how to make espresso?”
I blinked.
Once. Twice.
“Excuse me?” I asked, partially because I was caught off guard, partially because I was currently holding onto his bulging arm that felt like it had been sculpted by a vengeful Greek god on pre–workout supplements.
Like–hello?! Muscles? Real, solid, warm, sinful muscle.
Firm under my palm, and flexing slightly like it knew it was being admired.
I didn’t mean to squeeze.
Okay maybe I did.
And don’t get me started on the smell.
Sandalwood.
Rain.
Earth after a storm. Delicious.
A hint of spice and ruined dreams with a splash of brooding rage. Basically, the exact cologne every romance novel uses to describe a male lead right before the female protagonist falls into sin and questionable decisions. I swear, if I had a dollar for every “he smelled like forest and fire” line I’d ever read, I could finally afford a washing machine that didn’t sound like it was dying mid–exorcism.
And here he was–real, alive, and smelling like a seduction–themed luxury candle.
Of course I was losing my mind.
Anyway, Back to reality.
I somehow stumbled into his ridiculously beautiful kitchen–slash–coffee–laboratory, looking for the espresso machine. And by “machine,” I mean the giant chrome thing on the counter that looked more like a spaceship console than something that produced caffeine.
I stared at it.
It stared back.
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Thirteen buttons. Two spouts. Five blinking lights. One touch screen.
No obvious power button.
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“Of course,” I muttered to myself, already sass–complaining to no one in particular. “Why have a normal coffee maker when you can have the control panel of the USS Enterprise mounted on your counter?”
I touched something and a light blinked aggressively. The machine whirred threateningly. I flinched.
“What the–what did I even press?! What does ‘Italiano Supremo Extract Mode‘ even mean?! Why is this thing vibrating?”
Then, from behind me, came his voice.
Smooth. Sarcastic. Slightly amused. A demon wrapped in smugness.
“You’ve never used an espresso machine before?”
I froze.
Turned around slowly.
He was parked behind me, arms crossed, giving me a look so rich with condescension I felt personally robbed.
“No, Steven,” I said with my full sarcasm volume. “Because where I live, we don’t have Italian chrome machines with twenty–six drink options. We have a sad little coffee pot from 2007 that spits and hisses like it’s about to explode and takes ten minutes to brew one cup. If I’m lucky, it doesn’t smell like burnt dreams. So excuse me for not being fluent in barista luxury appliances.”
He smirked.
Smirked.
Like this was entertaining to him.
“I thought you were smart,” he said with a shrug, like this espresso–machine ignorance had shattered whatever illusion of competence I had managed to build in the last hour.
“Oh, I am smart,” I snapped. “I just don’t speak fluent ‘rich guy.‘ This thing looks like it costs more than my apartment.”
“It does,” he replied casually,
I groaned so dramatically I should’ve won an Oscar.
“This is why rich people can’t be trusted. Your fridges talk, your lights have mood settings, and your coffee makers need instruction manuals thicker than my college textbooks.”
He chuckled. Chuckled.
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Which, rude. That wasn’t even the joke. I was mid–rant and he had the audacity to sound… human.
“Step aside,” he said, rolling forward with all the power of a man who clearly wasn’t going to let me finish embarrassing myself.
I stepped back–reluctantly–and watched him press two buttons.
TWO.
Machine whirred, purred, and immediately started brewing some sort of magical espresso potion like it had been waiting for its daddy to come home.
Of course it did.
Of course the machine liked him.
“Show off,” I muttered, folding my arms.
“You’re welcome,” he replied smugly, rolling back to let me pick up the cup that smelled like caffeinated heaven.
I held the mug, sipped, and sighed with what might’ve been a moan.
“Okay. Fine. You win this round,” I said. “But don’t get too cocky, Mr. Mocha Muscles. You still have to survive the resistance bands later.”
He raised a brow. “You talk a lot.”
I grinned. “And you listen a lot for someone who says they hate people.”
He didn’t reply.
Just sipped his espresso.
And for a split second–just one–the lifeless look in his eyes flickered.
Not joy.
Not hope.
But maybe… just curiosity.
Good.
Let him wonder.
Because I wasn’t just going to fix his legs.
I was going to drag this emotionally constipated, espresso–drinking, muscle–sculpted, fallen legend back to
life-
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Chapter 3
One stretch, one insult, and one cup of coffee at a time.
And just when I thought I could have two peaceful sips of espresso…
He asked:
“Can you cook?”
I blinked at him. Cup halfway to my mouth. “I’m sorry, what?”
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He shrugged one perfectly sculpted shoulder, so casual, like he wasn’t dropping the most outrageous question of the morning. “I asked if you can cook. Like, real food. Not instant noodles or whatever broke people eat.”
I choked on air.
I’m sorry–EXCUSE ME?
“I’m your physical therapist, Steven. Not your live–in housewife.”
He tilted his head. “That wasn’t a no.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Where the hell is your chef anyway?”
That shut him up for a second.
I looked around the pristine, polished, offensively gorgeous kitchen. It was 9:00 a.m. The fridge was humming softly in rich guilt. Not a single pan sizzled. Not a single tray warmed in the oven. No smell of bacon, eggs, or whatever luxury breakfast rich people usually have while wearing silk robes and reading stock
reports.
I opened the fridge again.
Still empty. Painfully empty.
A few bottles of water–Fiji, of course–some sad green juice, one small tub of almond butter with a silver spoon inside, and…
A very lonely, browning banana.
I turned to him with the dramatic flair of a soap opera heroine. “This. Is. Sad. You live in a penthouse that costs more than my soul, and your fridge looks like it belongs in a minimalist art museum. I’ve seen vending machines with more options.”
He frowned. “I thought the chef bought something.”
I laughed. Laughed.
“Oh? The chef? You mean the one who quit because you threw filet mignon at his head like it was a Frisbee?”
His eyes darted to the side.
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“Do you even remember his name?” I asked.
He paused. “…Marco?”
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I gave him the glare of a thousand unpaid interns. “It was Martin.” I knew this because his mother told me everything during the interview.
“Whatever,” he muttered.
Unbelievable.
Absolutely peak rich boy behavior. Man can afford espresso machines that probably tweet, but can’t remember the name of the guy who literally feeds him.
So what did I do?
I pulled out my phone and ordered food, because unlike Mr. No–Memory McLeon, some of us are capable of handling crises like responsible adults. A big, hearty breakfast spread from a fancy downtown brunch place- eggs, smoked salmon, bacon, French toast, a green smoothie he probably won’t drink, and a latte for me because, obviously, I deserved it.
Problem solved. Or so I thought.
Until he looked at me, all scandalized and aristocratic.
“I’m not eating something my chef didn’t cook.”
I froze.
“You’re–what?”
“I only eat food prepared in this kitchen. With supervision. I don’t trust restaurants. There are… oils. And sodium. And weird seasoning.”
I stared at him.
He stared back.
The audacity.
“You do realize I already ordered it, right?” I said through gritted teeth. “It’s on the way. Fancy delivery and all. Non–refundable. Premium service. Thirty–eight dollars just for the convenience fee. That food is already halfway here in a car probably more luxurious than mine.”
He blinked. “That sounds like a you problem.”
I could’ve thrown the banana at him.
Scratch that–I should’ve thrown the banana at him.
“Fine,” I said, inhaling deeply like a yoga teacher suppressing rage. “When it arrives, I’ll eat it. All of it. I’ll sit in
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Chapter 3
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your designer kitchen chair, in front of your glass wall with the $500–a–day view, and I’ll eat every last bite while you sit there chewing on your last protein bar and sadness.”
He rolled his eyes. “Drama.”
“Says the man who mourned a steak like it was a national tragedy.”
He didn’t respond. Just glared at me like I was the one with the issues.
And I? I marched to the window, staring out at the city below, sipping espresso like it was whiskey, muttering curses under my breath about moody billionaires, sad bananas, and overpriced breakfast that was going to get devoured by me out of pure spite.
Let him sulk.
Let him protest.
Because when that food arrived?
I was going to eat it like it was my final meal in a palace full of entitlement.
And maybe just maybe–I’d let him smell the croissant… But not taste it.
The food came–and oh, honey, it was glorious.
I carried it into the kitchen like I was delivering holy offerings to the gods themselves. The scent of smoked salmon, bacon, warm buttery croissants, soft scrambled eggs with truffle oil, and roasted potatoes floated through the penthouse like a warm, delicious slap in the face to poverty. The kind of smell that could end wars and start new religions.
And yes, I hadn’t eaten yet, so I dug in.
Like a queen.
Like a woman scorned.
Like someone with zero regrets.
One bite in–just one heavenly forkful of salmon and egg–I heard the telltale hum and soft whir of his wheels rolling across the marble floor.
Oh. Here we go again.
I didn’t even look up. “Now what?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just hovered near the entrance to the kitchen like a vampire who wasn’t invited
- in. Frown on his face. Arms crossed. Eyes on my plate like it had betrayed him personally.
Then he finally asked, voice low and far too serious for a conversation about breakfast:
“Is the restaurant you ordered from… famous?”
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I paused mid–chew. Blinked. Looked him square in the eye and smirked.
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“Of course not. It’s a normal, affordable, ordinary–people–eat–here kind of place. No celebrity chefs, no paparazzi in the parking lot. Just food. You know–real food that doesn’t come with a side of ego.”
His eye twitched.
And I?
I took another slow, obnoxious, theatrical bite of my French toast. The syrup glistened like revenge.
But then–then–I heard it.
Grrrggggllll.
I stopped chewing.
Turned my head.
And looked at him.
Steven McLeon, billionaire, international icon, espresso elitist, and professional brooder…
Had a growling stomach.
His own abs betrayed him.
Oh, this was divine.
I leaned back, fork in hand. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t karma with a side of protein deficiency.”
He glared. “Shut up.”
I grinned. “I could offer you more of that depressing brown banana in your fridge. It’s got a sad curve and smells like sorrow. Or…”
I waved my fork just a little, letting the smell of the truffle eggs waft through the air.
“…if you want some of this glorious salmon and egg delight, you’re going to have to do something very revolutionary.”
His eyes narrowed. “What?”
I leaned closer. “Stand. And. Get. It.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then rage.
He snapped, his voice full of quiet venom:
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“Get out. Leave. Don’t come back.”
And just like that, he turned around and rolled away like some storm cloud in sweatpants.
I blinked.
Then slowly turned back to my food.
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“Oh no, sweetheart,” I muttered. “I didn’t wake up, fight with your coffee machine, get rained on by the Manhattan sky, and argue with a man–child to NOT eat this food.”
So what did I do?
I finished every. damn. bite.
Sipped the rest of the expensive espresso like it was the nectar of queens.
Then burped. Loudly. Right into the empty air of that designer kitchen.
AD
