Chapter 4: Ramen and Realness

That night.

The city glowed outside my windows, a thousand points of light blinking against the dark. I was halfway through pouring a glass of Pinot Noir when Zach showed up at my house.

Unexpectedly.

He rang the bell twice, impatient, and let himself in as soon as the housekeeper buzzed him upstairs. I heard the elevator doors open, then his sneakers squeaking on the hardwood.

His medical report was spotless—not even a shadow on his scan.

Ms. Williams had texted me the all-clear an hour ago, attaching a PDF like she was delivering the results of a job interview.

Gone were the head-to-toe knockoffs; this time, he wore a simple white T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers.

He looked like he’d just come from the gym, hair damp, cheeks flushed. This was Zach stripped down—no logos, no front. For a moment, I almost bought it.

The carefully styled hair from before now hung loose, half covering his eyes.

He shoved his hands in his pockets, letting the hair fall in messy waves over his brow. It was an accidental charm that would’ve made him king of any dorm party.

Ms. Williams must have told him to dress like Sean.

I pictured her, ever-efficient, giving him the rundown on what I liked. The thought made me smirk.

He hesitated at the doorway, like he wasn’t sure if he should take his shoes off or just his shirt. I frowned, about to speak, when he stripped off his T-shirt without warning.

No preamble, just one quick tug and he was bare-chested in my living room. I blinked, trying not to look as surprised as I felt.

Eight-pack abs, neat and tidy.

He flexed, clearly enjoying the effect. I raised an eyebrow, silently grading his effort.

No idea if they were real or not.

I’d seen enough Instagram fitness models to know you can fake a lot with good lighting and baby oil. Still, it wasn’t a bad view.

He chuckled, "Boss, you don’t like me dressed like this?"

His grin was lazy, teasing, but I could see the nerves behind it.

"I don’t really like it either."

He shrugged, but his eyes were searching mine for approval, or maybe just a sign he was on the right track.

As he spoke, he sauntered over and touched my hand.

His palm was warm, fingers a little rough. I stiffened, not used to being on the receiving end.

I froze for a second.

My pulse skipped, then settled. I reminded myself: I was the one in charge here.

It felt like some punk with bleached hair was getting handsy with me.

I almost laughed at the absurdity—a few months ago, this would’ve felt unthinkable. Now, it was just Tuesday night in the city.

Until he took the hair tie from my wrist, tying his half-long hair into a little ponytail.

He twisted the elastic expertly, pulling his hair back so his face was clear. The gesture was oddly intimate, like we’d done this a hundred times before.

I let out a breath, relieved.

The tension broke, and I felt the first flicker of amusement since the sun went down.

Then I heard him say:

"Boss, you want me to whip up some mac and cheese? I make a mean Kraft—just say the word."

He said it with a half-smile, like he knew the way to my heart was straight through comfort food. I almost snorted—how very American.

The breath I’d just exhaled nearly caught in my throat.

I pictured him in my kitchen, elbows-deep in a box of Kraft, and for a moment, the absurdity almost made me laugh.

He watched the housekeeper walk out of the kitchen with the trash, a little disappointed: "Guess you’ve already eaten."

He looked so lost for a second, like a puppy left out in the rain.

Catching the hint, I hesitated and asked:

"You haven’t eaten? Want some—"

I was about to offer takeout, maybe order in from that late-night burger place on Clark Street. But before I could finish, he cut me off.

Before I could finish, he said, "Thank you."

He smiled, genuine this time, as if the offer itself was enough.

He even made up an excuse for himself: "Gotta eat well so I can take care of you later."

The line was so corny I almost rolled my eyes. Still, it worked—he had me grinning despite myself.

Me: "..."

I just shook my head, bemused. He really was something else.

He proceeded to cook himself three bowls of ramen and wolfed them down like he hadn’t eaten in days.

He slurped the noodles straight from the pot, barely pausing to breathe. The kitchen filled with the smell of broth and spice. I watched from the counter, sipping my wine, oddly fascinated.

According to his background, it’s not like he can’t afford food.

Maybe it was a show—maybe it was real hunger. Either way, he didn’t seem to care what I thought.

I said, "There’s steak in the fridge."

I pointed to the Sub-Zero, knowing full well there was enough prime ribeye to feed a football team.

Zach shook his head. "No need. Gotta work before I get paid."

There it was: pride, or maybe just good sense. I respected it, even as I rolled my eyes.

I got it.

I leaned against the counter, realizing maybe I needed someone who wanted this as much as I did. Someone who knew what they were getting into—and didn’t pretend otherwise.

For a second, I actually felt kind of pleased with myself—once again sure I’d made the right choice.

I thought: finally, someone who knew how to play the long game.

I should pick someone who really wants this gig.

Experience had taught me that drive beats pedigree every time. Zach was hungry—literally and figuratively. Maybe that was what I needed.

Half an hour later, I regretted it.

The universe always has a way of reminding you who’s in charge. This time, it came in the form of a shirtless, overeager Midwesterner who knew exactly how to turn up the heat.

The scent of fresh shower gel wrapped around me.

He smelled like clean skin and borrowed cologne, the faintest trace of citrus. I felt myself slip under, not quite sure when pleasure replaced all those second thoughts.

Any awkwardness quickly gave way to heat, leaving no time for second thoughts.

By the time the sun was peeking through the blinds, I’d lost track of how many times I’d let my guard down. It was reckless, and it felt amazing.

Zach even remembered to provide some emotional value.

"Boss, you’re gorgeous. I really lucked out."

He said it like he meant it, eyes bright, grin lopsided. For a second, I almost believed him.

"Boss, this feels amazing."

He whispered the words, drawing them out like he was reciting a poem. It was over the top—but oddly flattering.

For a second, I wondered if I was just another notch on his belt, or if maybe, just maybe, he wanted to stay. I felt like I’d hit rock bottom.

For all my big talk and expensive taste, here I was, wrapped up in the arms of a guy who probably still used his mom’s Netflix account.

Like I’d just hired a long-term laborer from the sticks.

I half expected him to ask for overtime pay. Instead, he just smiled and pulled me closer.

Stayed low all the way till morning.

There’s a certain peace in not having to pretend anymore. I let myself drift, holding on to his warmth like it was the last good thing in the world.

In despair, I asked, "Did you take something?"

I needed to know. There was a limit to how much even I could believe.

"What?"

He looked genuinely confused.

"Yeah, yeah, took ten pills—just to make sure you’re satisfied."

He winked, and I rolled my eyes so hard I thought they’d get stuck. The act was old, but he played it well.

Sure you did.

But I let it slide. We both knew this was a game, and tonight, at least, I didn’t mind losing.

He hadn’t taken anything. Just putting on a show of being extra attentive.

In some twisted way, it was sweet. At least he was trying.

Finally, at two in the afternoon, I managed to get up, holding my aching back.

I groaned, stumbling into the bathroom to wash my face. My phone buzzed: calendar reminder, board meeting at three. No rest for the wicked.

There was a meeting I couldn’t reschedule—even if I had to crawl to the office.

I threw on a blazer over my slip, slathered on concealer, and prayed the elevator wouldn’t be too crowded.

As I was getting dressed, I heard Zach ask:

"Boss, can you get me into the entertainment industry?"

His voice floated in from the bedroom, hopeful and a little shameless. I couldn’t help but laugh, shaking my head as I hunted for my heels. Some things never change. I laughed, but inside, I made a mental note: everyone’s got an angle, and in this city, nobody plays for free.