Spice me up

I’m releasing my first book Spice Me Up next week on Amazon. Here’s the first chapter so you can decide if it’s your cup of tea. If not, maybe it’s your cup of coffee. Or hot chocolate. Or soup. I’m flexible.

Thank you for your support ❤️

RAMEN

My phone screen lights up:

"Love Soup has confirmed your order."

Fantastic. There’s nothing like a good ramen. A specialty from the bistro on Mill Road.

My personal specialty for the past two weeks? Hating all men, bingeing romantic movies, eating ramen, and crying into a tub of ice cream. Honestly, by the end I’m never sure if it’s melted ice cream at the bottom, or tears with a hint of hazelnut.

Soon, my flat will be filled with the smell of Asian soup. A brief interruption from the mental fog I call my daily state — something between meditation and emotional stagnation. The current scent of last week's pizza and cold coffee in a mug with whippets on it doesn’t exactly scream romance. Let’s be real — it doesn’t even whisper it.

Cambridge has entered that part of autumn where the rain falls sideways and people semi-sprint through the streets. No one uses umbrellas here — the wind would steal them anyway, or you’d end up fighting for your life trying to open one. Not worth the effort.

In my current emotional state, this grey drizzle perfectly mirrors the rhythm of my life. It helps me sink deeper into my existential despair over that asshole who, just three weeks ago, told me he loved me and couldn’t imagine life without me. And then a week later? He’s hugging some Barbie from West Hampstead on Instagram, captioned:

"You don’t find love. Love finds you."

Sure. I’d marry her too if I had access to her bank account.

I smirk under my breath — just a little — but I don’t get carried away. Give it time. Eventually she’ll be grossed out by his habit of leaving dirty socks literally everywhere too.

The barking in the stairwell means two things.

First: Dorothy, my neighbor from across the hall — an elderly woman with a tiny Yorkie named Tiger — is heading out for a walk. Tiger is convinced that my leg is his fiancée.

I’m not about to break his heart. Let him have his love story.

Second: it’s past 7 p.m., which means my soup is at the door.

7:06 p.m.

Four minutes late. The usual guy was always here at 7:02. And he knocked differently.

I throw off my blanket, fix my fleece hoodie, and pull the panda-eared hood over my head. Yes, I’m an adult wearing a fluffy hoodie with ears. No, we don’t need to talk about it.

I’m expecting a uni student in skinny jeans, with a blue backpack and a helmet in hand. Instead, I see: a massive smile, thick, perfectly messy hair, and broad shoulders.

I don’t know who he is, but he is not my usual delivery guy.

And then his scent hits me — expensive, warm, intoxicating — and my knees start screaming like a teenage girl's. Three-day stubble, a jacket that says "man with a plan", and that look in his eyes. As if to say: "Yeah, I look exhausted, but I’m about to serve you the ramen of your life."

— Miss Emma Bliss? — he asks, in a voice so deep it could sell whiskey on the radio.

How the hell does he know my name?

I always sign off as E.B. Anti-Social.

— Sorry, dumb question. It was on your payment confirmation. Also… I apologise for delivering it in person. Curiosity got the better of me. Your customer profile intrigued me.

— Intrigued? Profile? Customer? My profile?

— Same ramen, same time, every single day — to the minute. It’s either a ritual… or a ritual. There’s really no third option.

— Maybe I’m a serial killer, and this is how I lure my victims — I say, smirking.

— Then it’s lucky this soup has double chilli. Might be spicy enough to spare my life.

Damn it. I smile.

— Thanks for the delivery. Hope we don’t meet again — I say, taking the bag, mentally begging myself not to smile again.

— Of course. Unless I see another order from "the one who hates people" pop up… Or Tiger falls in love with my leg again.

Brilliant. A funny guy. That’s just great.

I shut the door and collapse onto the sofa. I let out a breath that says it all.

Handsome. Funny. And he brings me my favorite soup.

Okay. Time to eat.

Under the lid, I find a little note:

I’m not sure what’s worse — the grin stretching across my face… or the fact that I’m now staring at the receipt, reading his name over and over again.

Jacob.

No romantic movie tonight. I close the box and start digesting what just happened. Or rather — who just happened.