His Private Chef (by Amycee) novel Chapter 16

The tension from dinner still clung to me as I made my way back to the guest room and collapsed onto the bed.

The rain still hadn’t let up. It pelted the windows like pebbles, an endless hiss against glass that felt louder in the stillness. But that wasn’t the only reason I was awake.

Dinner had left a taste in my mouth that wasn’t from the food. Every wall seemed to hum with silent tension. Sharp, and impossible to ignore.

I tossed. I turned. Then I gave up.

Midnight, the clock blinked back at me.

Hot chocolate. That might help.

I wrapped my arms around myself and padded down the hallway, barefoot, quiet. The flickering wall sconces stretched shadows across the corridor like ghostly fingers. I just wanted to pour a drink without making a sound, without waking him.

But fate had other plans.

Liam was already in the kitchen.

Dark slippers. A plain white T–shirt. Grey joggers. His hair was slightly mussed, like he’d just rolled out of bed. His back was to me, but I recognized that broad frame instantly.

I stopped in my tracks, debating whether to turn back.

“You don’t have to run,” he said without looking.

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Busted.

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I cleared my throat and stepped in. “I wasn’t running.”

He glanced over his shoulder, smirk tugging at his mouth. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”

I lifted my chin. “I didn’t want to intrude.”

“You live here too, remember?” He leaned against the island. “At least for the next few days.”

I shrugged and opened a cabinet, pretending to search for a mug.

His voice lost its edge. “Look, we’re both stuck. It doesn’t have to be whatever this is.”

I crossed my arms. “You tell me..what is this?”

He exhaled. “Awkward. Tense. Weird.”

“Wow, someone’s great with adjectives.”

He chuckled. “Alright. A truce, then. For the next three days, I’m not your boss, and you’re not my chef.”

I raised a skeptical brow. “And what are we, then?”

“Two people trapped in a house during a freak summer storm.” He reached behind him and grabbed a second mug. “Just friends.”

“Friends?” I echoed, the word foreign in my mouth. “You don’t seem like the ‘let’s be friends‘ type.”

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He gave a crooked grin. “Then consider this character development.”

Laughter slipped out before I could stop it. To my surprise, he quietly handed me a mug.

We sipped in companionable silence for a while. The kitchen felt warmer now. Softer. Like the storm had blown some of the edge out of him.

Then he asked a question I never expected.

“Got time to kill. How about a movie?”

I blinked. “Like… together?”

“That’s how friends do it, right?”

He led the way to the home theater like it wasn’t a big deal. But it was.

He flopped onto the couch with ease. I hovered, not quite sure if I should sit or sprint.

“Come on,” he said. “I’ll even let you pick.”

“No documentaries,” I warned.

“I don’t do rom–coms.”

”

I crossed my arms. “Then tonight’s your first. Lucky you.”

We spent ten full minutes debating genres like our lives depended on it. I called him a cinematic snob. He said I had the taste of a teenage girl. Eventually, I wore him down.

We settled on a gloriously ridiculous romantic comedy with far–fetched meet–cutes, wedding hijinks, and the cheesiest slow–motion kiss I’d ever seen.

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Liam had something to say about almost every scene.

“No one forgives cheating at the altar.”

“That’s not how airports work.”

“Why is everyone always running in the rain?”

I was laughing so hard I nearly dropped my hot chocolate.

“You’re a menace,” I wheezed.

“And you have zero standards,” he shot back.

Half an hour later, we weren’t arguing anymore.

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When I woke up, the screen was dark and the only light came from the faint glow of the hallway spilling in through the cracked door.

Liam was still asleep next to me.

Correction: under me.

Somehow, in the middle of the night, I’d curled into him like a human koala.

His arm was slung over my waist. Our legs were tangled. His breathing was deep, steady, peaceful.

I stared at him, completely in awe.

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Up close, without the usual scowl and sharp retorts, he looked almost boyish. Peaceful. Vulnerable.

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My chest tightened, and before I could think better of it, I reached up to brush a strand of hair from his forehead.

He stirred, and I jolted upright, nerves snapping like a whip.

“God, please don’t open your eyes. Please. Not now,” I muttered like a mantra, barely breathing.

I inched back slowly, careful not to wake him.

Too late.

His eyes fluttered open, hazy with sleep, pupils slow to focus.

“Sorry! I didn’t mean to, uh… curl up next to you like that.’

“1

He blinked once. Then smirked. “You’re a very aggressive sleeper.”

I was off the couch before he could finish the sentence, practically sprinting upstairs. I didn’t stop until I face–planted into the guest bed and buried myself under the covers.

What. Just. Happened?

By the time I returned to the kitchen, sunlight was creeping through the windows, still filtered through sheets of summer rain.

Liam was already there, phone in hand, sipping from a mug like he hadn’t been my mattress three hours ago.

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“Sleep well?” he asked, eyes still on his screen.

I cleared my throat. “Fine. You?”

He tilted his head. “Would’ve been better if my pillow hadn’t run off without warning.”

I winced. “Right. Sorry about that.”

He finally looked at me, something unreadable in his expression. “Thought we had a truce.

“We do,” I said. “But you never specified terms about… nap entanglement.”

He chuckled under his breath. “Noted. Next time, I’ll draft clearer policies.”

I pulled ingredients from the fridge. “Hungry?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re cooking?”

“Yup. I’m off–duty. So you’re helping.”

“I don’t cook.”

“You do now. Friends cook together.”

I tossed him an apron. He caught it like it was a live grenade.

“I feel threatened,” he muttered, tying it around his waist with a frown.

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