Tasha blinked at Tom's bluntness, the shock momentarily leaving her speechless.
Most people filtered their words, careful not to upset her. But Tom didn't care about pleasing her, and somehow, she welcomed it.
It was such a stark contrast to her usual world—a world filled with insincerity and endless flattery. People said "yes" to her face and schemed behind her back.
Even her sister Maya's recent apologies felt hollow, driven by guilt only after Tasha had risen to fame. It made trust a rare commodity in Tasha's life, something she gave sparingly .
But with Tom, it was different. He turned her guarded world upside down. His honesty, though harsh, felt refreshing. She didn't have to guess his intentions.
He said exactly what he thought, without worrying about her status or feelings. And, against all logic, it made trusting him feel easy.
Gathering her thoughts, Tasha stood her ground. Her voice was steady as she said, "I only planned to drop off the groceries as a gift. But now, I think I'll stay a little longer."
Tom frowned. "There's nothing for you to do here."
She could see the conflict in his eyes. He wasn't pushing her away to be cruel—it was to protect her. He didn't say it outright, but she could sense it.
His life wasn't the kind of life she should be close to, a life filled with danger and enemies that could target her if she got too involved.
But Tasha wasn't one to back down. Smiling softly, she said, "Then I'll find something to do. How about I help you cook supper?"
Tom raised an eyebrow, clearly caught off guard. "Cook?"
"Of course," she replied with a hint of playfulness. "What, you thought I only knew how to order takeout?"
Tom tried to protest, but Tasha was already halfway to the kitchen, carrying the grocery bag.
By the time he followed her, she had the stove on and a pot of water boiling. She looked over her shoulder and smiled. "I've got this. You don't even have to help."
Tom leaned against the doorway, silent. Years of experience had taught him to never let anyone prepare food for him unsupervised. Poison was a common tactic among his enemies, and old habits died hard.
Tasha didn't seem to notice his watchful gaze. She hummed softly as she worked, moving with confidence. Tom stayed, arms crossed, keeping a careful eye on everything she did.
When the food was ready, Tasha turned to him. "Do you mind if we have more company?"
Tom raised an eyebrow. "Who?"
"My guards. They're still downstairs. I've already taken too long, they'll get hungry."
Tom frowned. "Bad idea."
Tasha, unfazed, grinned. "Come on , its only fair because they are here because of me."
Before he could stop her, she grabbed her phone and called the guards up.
Tom sighed, making a mental note to move apartments again soon. He'd have to pick a place and not tell Lisa about it.
The guards arrived, looking bewildered. Their confusion deepened when they realized it was Tasha who had cooked.
Their wealthy, high-profile boss cooking in a middle-class apartment? For a man they assumed was just an ordinary nobody? It was surreal.
"Sit," Tasha instructed, motioning to the small table. "And tell me what you think of my cooking."
The guards hesitated, then took a bite. Their eyes lit up. "This is amazing, ma'am!" one of them exclaimed.
"It's heavenly," the other agreed, nodding enthusiastically.
Tasha turned to Tom, clearly expecting his opinion. "Well?"
Tom paused, taking his time to taste the food. Finally, he said, "It's not bad."
The guards bristled, glaring at him as if he'd insulted a queen. "Not bad?" one of them muttered under his breath.
"Hold your tongue," Tasha said firmly, but there was amusement in her voice.
After the meal, the guards thanked her profusely, their earlier skepticism about the situation replaced with awe. Tasha led them back downstairs, leaving Tom alone in his now quiet apartment.
He exhaled deeply, relieved to have the silence back.