Chapter 2
I thought I had misheard him. "What?"
"I said," Christopher repeated, enunciating each word with deliberate clarity, "I'm good enough for you."
His expression was dead serious. There wasn't a trace of humor on his face.
The words hit me like cold water, and suddenly I was stone sober.
The alcohol's warmth drained away, replaced by something absurd and almost laughable.
"Christopher, come on." I grabbed the mug of hot chocolate and took a long drink, trying to hide how uncomfortable I felt. "I know you're trying to make me feel better, but this isn't funny."
This was Christopher!
Golden boy. Architectural genius. The man every socialite in the city wanted to land.
And me? Anna Baker. A nobody who worked at a dessert shop and had been dumped by some guy I'd never even met in person.
We existed in completely different worlds.
Christopher didn't respond. He picked up his grilled eggplant instead and ate quietly, his movements calm and deliberate.
Silence settled over us again.
I stole glances at him while he ate.
Even at a greasy barbecue joint, he looked refined and controlled, every movement measured and elegant. He didn't belong here among the plastic plates and cheap beer, but he sat there anyway, completely at ease.
I suddenly remembered what Rachel had told me about Christopher. He was obsessive about cleanliness and incredibly picky about food. He never ate takeout.
But here he was, not just eating it but actually enjoying it.
Was the breakup messing with my head this badly?
We finished the meal in uncomfortable silence.
I was stuffed and couldn't move, so I just sprawled out on the carpet.
Christopher stood up and started cleaning without saying a word.
He sorted the trash, packed up the greasy takeout boxes, and even wiped down the coffee table with a wet wipe.
Everything he did was smooth and organized.
I watched him in shock.
This was the same guy who never cleaned up after himself?
"I can get that," I said, trying to push myself up.
"Stay down." He didn't look back, grabbed the trash bags, and headed for the door.
When Charles came back, he brought my medicine kit. He asked, "Where's your stomach medicine?"
"What?"
"You were crying and laughing, eating spicy wings and drinking. You telling me your stomach's fine?" He glanced at me.
That was when I felt it. My stomach was turning.
I pointed to the second compartment.
He pulled out the antacid and digestive pills, poured some warm water, and handed everything to me. "Take these." His tone made it clear I had no choice.
I took the pills and swallowed them.
The warm water slid down my throat and settled in my stomach, and the burning feeling eased up.
"Thanks," I said quietly.
"No problem." He set the glass back on the table and glanced at the clock on the wall. "It's getting late. You should get ready for bed."
I nodded and slowly got up.
Halfway to the bathroom, I realized something important.
"Um, Christopher, where are you sleeping tonight?"
The living room only had one small couch, and there was no way his six-foot frame would fit on it.
And my bedroom only had one bed.
Christopher's gaze swept across my face before he spoke. "Weren't you the one who asked me to come?"
He turned the question back on me.
My face heated up. "I mean, I'll take the couch and you can have the bed."
"No need," he cut me off. "I'll sleep on the couch."
"But you can't—"
"Anna," he called my name, his tone firmer now. "You're sick, and you need rest. Go to bed."
His tone left no room for argument, so I nodded without thinking.
When I finished washing up and came out of the bathroom in my pajamas, Christopher had already set up the couch.
He'd pulled out a spare blanket from my closet—the one my mom left last time she visited. It still had that fresh laundry smell.
He lay down on the narrow couch fully clothed, his long legs curled up awkwardly. He looked pretty uncomfortable.
I felt guilty and grabbed my pillow, then walked over to him. "Hey, you want to switch? You can take the bed."
Charles had his eyes closed, and his breathing was steady. He looked like he'd already fallen asleep.
I gave up on the idea and tiptoed back to the bedroom.
I crawled into bed, but I couldn't fall asleep.
I kept tossing and turning because I was too aware of the man in my living room.
I could hear his steady breathing through the door, and it made me feel strangely calm.
The heartbreak that had been eating at me all day didn't hurt as much anymore.
I had no idea why Christopher showed up or why he was being so nice to me.
Maybe Rachel really did send him to comfort her pathetic, heartbroken friend.
Whatever. I wasn't going to overthink it.
I closed my eyes, and sleep finally came.
I woke the next morning to the smell of food cooking.
Still half asleep, I shuffled out of my bedroom and found Christopher standing in my tiny kitchen.
He'd changed out of yesterday's shirt and was wearing my pink cartoon apron.
I'd bought it as a joke, but on him it created this bizarre contrast that was almost endearing.
He flipped eggs in the pan with practiced ease while a small pot of oatmeal simmered on the back burner.
Sunlight streamed through the window, catching him in its glow and painting the scene in shades of gold.
It felt too perfect to be real.
"Morning." He glanced back at me. "Go wash up. Breakfast is almost ready."
I rubbed my eyes, half convinced I was still dreaming. "Christopher, since when do you cook?"
"I watched a video." His tone was matter-of-fact, like everyone had picked up new skills so easily.
I stared at him, speechless.
Was this what living in a genius' world looked like?
The table held two bowls of oatmeal, a small plate of fruit, and two perfectly cooked sunny-side-up eggs.
Simple, but it made my mouth water.
I took a sip of the warm oatmeal, and the heat spread through me.
"Thank you for last night," I said earnestly.
"Yeah," he replied and pushed a plate of eggs toward me. "Eat up."
Right then, my phone buzzed with that distinct WhatsApp notification sound.
My stomach dropped, and I had a bad feeling about this.
I grabbed my phone and checked the screen, and sure enough, it was a screenshot from one of our mutual friends.
It was Lucas' Instagram post.
He and Bella were at some upscale restaurant, and the caption read: [So much better to be with someone who has class, unlike certain people who only know how to eat cheap roadside stalls.]
Bella had commented underneath: [Babe, don't waste your energy on trashy people.]
The dig was so obvious it made my blood boil. My hands actually shook as I stared at the screen.
Breaking up was one thing, blocking me was one thing, but why did he have to trash me publicly like this?
What was wrong with my eating at roadside stalls? How did that affect him in any way?
Anger surged through me, and I felt my face getting hot.
I opened my own Instagram and my fingers flew across the keyboard.
[So grateful my ex did me a favor by not marrying me. Now I get to have breakfast with my mysterious boyfriend who's 6'2", has a six-pack, is gorgeous, and loaded. Oh, and by the way, he cooks better than any Michelin-star chef.]
Then I snapped a photo of the breakfast spread on the table.
To make it look more convincing, I angled the shot so Christopher's hand was visible in the frame, complete with that expensive watch on his wrist.
Then I hit post.
The moment it went through, reality caught up with me, and I realized what I'd just done.
I'd dragged Charles into my mess again.
Guilt crept up my spine, and I glanced across the table at Christopher.
He was calmly eating his oatmeal, seemingly oblivious to my little scheme.
I exhaled in relief.
But the next second, his phone buzzed.
He picked it up, glanced at the screen, and then his eyes lifted to meet mine. "Six foot two, eight pack abs, gorgeous and loaded?" He raised an eyebrow. "Pretty high praise."
My stomach dropped. I'd completely forgotten he followed my Instagram.
"Look, I was just mad, okay? I just need to borrow you for this. Just this once." I wanted to crawl under the table and disappear.
"Fine." He nodded.
"What?"
"I said fine." He set his phone down, and his gaze locked onto mine. "But if we're supposed to be a couple, shouldn't we act like one at breakfast?"
Before I could process what he meant, he picked up his spoon, scooped up some oatmeal, and brought it to my lips. "Say ah."
I froze, and heat flooded my cheeks.
What kind of romance novel scene was this supposed to be?