I was not prepared . ... : 72 55 vouchers 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 . 11:24 Thu , Sep 18 Chapter 3 : Thirteen buttons . Two spouts . Five blinking lights . One touch screen . No obvious power button . 72 55 vouchers " 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 . 11:24 Thu , Sep 18 Chapter 3 72 65 vouchers 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- 11:24 Thu , Sep 18 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 ? " 72 55 vouchers 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 . 11:24 Thu , Sep 18 Chapter 3 : " Do you even remember his name ? " I asked . He paused . " ... Marco ? " ล 02 55 vouchers 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 11:24 Thu , Sep 18 Chapter 3 : 55 vouchers 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 ? " 11:24 Thu , Sep 18 Chapter 3 : I paused mid - chew . Blinked . Looked him square in the eye and smirked . 72 E55 vouchers " 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 : 11:24 Thu , Sep 18 Chapter 3 : " 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 . 72 55 vouchers " 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