Chapter 3
Damn this country… I'm hungry again.
What's up with my taste buds these days?
They only want spicy, mouth-watering, and authentic Indian food like the biryani I ate yesterday. The grumpy, beautiful chef was kind enough to let me share his food after I called his abs gross.
The moment I took my first bite, I couldn’t help it—I practically moaned. And, of course, he heard me. Great. Why else would he have that smug little smile on his face?
I am on a mission to shatter every record of awkwardness known to mankind. In a completely foreign country, no less, and with a total stranger.
After a solid twenty-minute conversation with the shirtless, utterly distracting Manav Oberoi, I’ve deduced three crucial things about him:
He does not work here or anywhere in Beaufort—which, technically, makes him jobless.
He lives in the guest cottage of my brother’s house—which, let’s face it, makes him homeless.
He cooks the most delicious, taste-bud-satisfying food—which means, despite points one and two, he’s useful. Very, very useful.
“Please leave my breakfast here. I’ll call if I need anything,” I said to the small army of waitresses and staff standing around the table.
“Sure, Ma’am. We can customize the pancakes if you like.
Buckwheat pancakes are the specials today.
Miso tahini avocado toast is fresh out of the oven.
Here are your easy skillet potatoes. And Tiffani Thiessen’s Green Glow Avocado Acaí Smoothie is ready,” Elena, one of the staff, said with a bright, professional smile.
Buckwheat pancakes… Miso tahini, what now?
Oh, God!!!
“Thanks. I’ll call if I need anything,” I muttered, eyeing the menu like it was written in alien code.
One more miso-tahini toast and I’ll burn this place down.
I headed toward the kitchen, hoping to grab some orange juice and maybe whip up a simple sandwich. Bread, butter… easy enough, right?
But just as I reached for the fridge, a deep, slightly groggy voice sounded from behind me, “Hey… good morning.”
Oh, God… Not again. Not this early in the morning. And not with that stubble. I'd rather vanish into the floor tiles than deal with my body’s reaction to his morning face.
He is a useful guy, remember? “Hi… uhh… good morning?”
“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.
And just 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.
Holy God—how can he make this so fast? 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 few clothes too,” 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 attempt to 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 me like 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 with my clothes?”
“For starters… they’re invisible?” I muttered. “You’ve basically made this place your personal nudist retreat.”
“Didn't know I was offending anyone,” he said, half-amused.
“You’re distracting the help,” I added, turning away. “For everyone’s sanity, please put on pants.”
Ten minutes later, we were in the store.
Of course, he made trying on clothes look like a damn campaign shoot. Rolled-up sleeves. Subtle smirks. The occasional button left undone just enough to ruin my focus.
I tried not to stare. Failed.
“Do you plan to walk around like that forever?” I asked, handing him a shirt. “Or is this an audition for Shirtless Chef: The Series?”
“I didn’t realize I needed wardrobe approval,” he teased, pulling on the tee effortlessly.
“You do now. You work for me.”
He laughed, and for a second, his walls slipped. Just a man trying on shirts—not a mystery wrapped in brooding.
And me? I was definitely in trouble.
And I had no recipe for how to get out.