Today was the rest day.
After the absolute, physically draining warfare of the opening Premier League match against Sunderland, Pep Guardiola had miraculously shown a rare sliver of mercy.
He had given the entire first-team squad a highly coveted, mandatory day off.
There were no grueling video analysis sessions in the dark tape room, no wind sprints in Manchester, and absolutely no intense lectures about the geographical positioning of inverted fullbacks in the half-spaces.
They were allowed twenty-four hours to simply exist as normal human beings before the chaotic, unyielding European football calendar swallowed them whole once again.
Tomorrow morning, they would report back to the City Football Academy and immediately afterward, they would board a private club charter flight heading straight to Bucharest, Romania, for the crucial Champions League Qualifier against Steaua București.
But Bucharest, Pep Guardiola, and the immense pressures of the Champions League felt entirely irrelevant right now.
Today was the day he was supposed to have a date with Kylie.
He didn’t book a reservation at one of Manchester’s hyper-exclusive, Michelin-starred restaurants.
He didn’t hire a private dining room at a luxury hotel, and he certainly didn’t want to risk taking her out into the city center where the relentless, aggressive swarms of British paparazzi and football fanatics would inevitably ruin their evening with blinding camera flashes and screaming requests for autographs.
Instead, he was cooking.
Natán Comas was fundamentally good at exactly two things in his life.
The first, obviously, was football—navigating the chaotic geometry of a pitch with explosive pace and a magical left foot.
The second, born from a childhood spent watching his grandmother meticulously command the family kitchen in Catalonia, was cooking.
He possessed an innate, deeply ingrained understanding of flavors, heat control, and culinary timing that rivaled his spatial awareness on the grass.
He had sent her the address to his secure, heavily gated property in Cheshire earlier that afternoon.
And right now, she was moments away.
In the heart of his sprawling, ultra-modern kitchen, Natán was an absolute blur of calculated, focused motion.
The massive marble island was covered in fresh, high-quality ingredients he had specifically sourced from a premium local grocer earlier that morning.
The air was thick and heavy with the intoxicating, rich aromas of authentic Mediterranean cuisine.
He stood over the state-of-the-art induction stove, a pristine white apron tied securely around his waist over a fitted black t-shirt.
In one hand, he held a heavy cast-iron skillet, expertly tossing a shimmering mixture of diced garlic, finely chopped white onions, and crushed ripe tomatoes in a pool of golden, extra-virgin olive oil.
The ingredients sizzled violently, releasing a fragrant, mouth-watering cloud of steam that completely overpowered the usual, sterile scent of his massive house.
He moved with the same rhythmic, effortless grace he displayed on the wing.
He reached over to a secondary burner, adjusting the heat beneath a large, simmering pot of deep-red, saffron-infused seafood stock that had been slowly reducing for the past three hours.
Next to it, a massive, flat steel paellera was already heating up, waiting for the toasted, short-length noodles of the Fideuà he was carefully preparing.
He grabbed a handful of fresh, vibrant green parsley, his chef’s knife blurring as he minced it into microscopic pieces with terrifying speed and precision.
He squeezed a wedge of fresh lemon over a platter of perfectly cleaned king prawns and thick rings of calamari, wiping a bead of nervous sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm.
He was completely in his element, orchestrating the complex timing of the meal with absolute mastery.
He turned down the heat on the sofrito, giving the wooden spoon one final, satisfying stir before wiping his hands on a clean kitchen towel.
And then, the sharp, melodic chime of the front doorbell echoed loudly through the cavernous hallways of the mansion.
Natán’s heart instantly executed a violent backflip inside his chest.
He took a deep, steadying breath, tossing the kitchen towel onto the marble counter, and began the long walk toward the front of the house.
Outside, standing on the immaculate, sweeping driveway of the property, Kylie took a moment to look over the house.
She was genuinely impressed.
She had seen her fair share of multi-million-dollar celebrity homes in Los Angeles.
She was intimately accustomed to the gaudy, over-the-top, palatial estates of Calabasas, filled with excessive gold trim, ridiculous Grecian columns, and desperate displays of Hollywood wealth.
But Natán’s Cheshire mansion was entirely different.
It was a breathtaking masterpiece of sleek, ultra-modern European architecture.
The exterior was composed of sharp, clean lines, featuring massive, floor-to-ceiling panels of tinted glass seamlessly integrated with dark, industrial slate and warm, slatted timber accents.
The property was completely secluded, hidden behind towering, manicured hedgerows and heavy wrought-iron security gates that guaranteed absolute privacy from the outside world.
The sprawling front lawn was perfectly tailored, the grass cut with the same meticulous precision as a professional football pitch.
It didn’t scream for attention; rather, it exuded a quiet, deeply sophisticated aura of immense wealth and modern elegance.
As she stood under the soft, ambient glow of the sleek exterior porch lights, shielding herself from the slight, lingering dampness of the English evening, she had to admit that this was incredibly nice.
It suited him perfectly—athletic, modern, and entirely unpretentious.
The heavy, custom-built oak front door finally clicked unlocked and swung slowly open.
Natán stood in the doorway.
The moment his dark eyes landed on her, they widened to the absolute size of saucers.
He was completely, utterly paralyzed by the sight of her.
Kylie looked absolutely, terrifyingly immaculate.
She had clearly pulled out all the stops for tonight, dressing with a flawless, devastating precision that completely robbed him of his breath.
She was wearing a stunning, figure-hugging black silk slip dress that cascaded down her body like liquid velvet, clinging to every single curve with an elegant, yet undeniably provocative grace.
The delicate, razor-thin spaghetti straps rested perfectly against her smooth, bronzed shoulders, highlighting her striking collarbones.
To combat the persistent, miserable chill of the Manchester evening, she had draped a luxurious, oversized, charcoal-grey cashmere cardigan loosely over her arms, allowing it to slip effortlessly off one shoulder in a masterclass of casual, high-fashion styling.
Her long, raven-black hair, usually styled perfectly straight, was tonight falling in thick, glossy, voluminous waves that framed her beautiful face and tumbled down her back.
Her striking, dark eyes were accentuated with a sharp, sultry winged eyeliner and perfectly blended, smoky earth-toned shadows that made her gaze intensely magnetic.
Her cheekbones were highlighted with a soft, golden, luminescent glow, and her lips were painted in her signature, perfectly defined matte nude.
She completed the immaculate ensemble with a pair of sleek, strappy designer stilettos that strapped delicately around her ankles, adding several inches to her already impressive height, bringing her eyes nearly perfectly level with his.
As she stood there, shifting her weight slightly, the intoxicating, incredibly expensive scent of warm vanilla, rich amber, and subtle jasmine completely washed over him, entirely scrambling his usually sharp brain.
She was a walking, breathing masterpiece, and Natán was entirely speechless.
“You look nice,” Kylie said, her voice dropping into a soft, throaty register as a confident, highly amused smile curled onto her perfectly painted lips.
Natán blinked, his brain completely short-circuiting as he struggled to find even a single, coherent English vocabulary word.
Abandoning his second language entirely out of sheer panic, he relied on his native tongue to express the overwhelming magnitude of her beauty.
“Estás preciosa,” Natán breathed out, his voice thick and raspy, his Catalan accent heavily pronouncing every syllable.
“Increíblemente hermosa. Pareces un ángel.” (You are beautiful. Incredibly gorgeous. You look like an angel.)
Kylie didn’t understand a single, specific word of the rapid-fire Spanish, but the low, breathless, intensely appreciative tone of his voice translated perfectly.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Kylie smiled, her dark eyes sparkling with wicked amusement under the porch lights.
“Very good,” Natán managed to quickly stammer out in English.
And then, completely betraying the smooth, suave, European footballer persona he had been desperately trying to project, he offered her a rigid, incredibly stiff thumbs-up.
Kylie’s confident smirk instantly melted into a bright, genuine, ringing laugh.
It was the exact same, terrified thumbs-up he had given the screaming fan in the viral bicycle video.
She had genuinely missed his sheer, unadulterated awkwardness.
They had texted back and forth constantly over the past few days, exchanging jokes and making plans, but digital text simply couldn’t capture the full, endearing picture of his profound, human clumsiness in romantic situations.
He was a lethal assassin on the pitch, but completely, helplessly out of his depth standing in front of her.
“Come in,” Natán said, his cheeks flushing a deep, embarrassed crimson as he quickly dropped his hand, stepping aside and gesturing awkwardly for her to enter the house.
As Kylie stepped over the threshold, she took a moment to look around the interior of the mansion.
If the outside was impressive, the inside was genuinely staggering.
The foyer featured massive, double-height ceilings that made the space feel incredibly vast and airy.
The floors were lined with large, polished slabs of light grey Italian marble that gleamed pristinely under the modern, recessed LED lighting.
However, despite the obvious, staggering expense of the architecture, the house was remarkably sparse.
There were no busy family photographs, no cluttered bookshelves, and no loud, ostentatious pieces of art covering the stark white walls.
The decor was deeply minimalist, consisting mostly of sleek, low-profile, custom-built grey furniture that emphasized the sheer, echoing scale of the rooms.
Massive, floor-to-ceiling windows lined the back of the house, offering a commanding view of the dark, sprawling manicured gardens and a glimpse of the illuminated blue water of his indoor swimming pool.
It was a beautiful, hyper-modern fortress, but it clearly lacked the warm, chaotic, lived-in touch of a home.
“Food is done,” Natán announced softly, gently reaching out to help her slip the heavy cashmere jacket off her shoulders.
He took the expensive garment with careful, calloused hands, walking over to hang it neatly in the front hall closet.
“You cooked?” Kylie asked, genuinely surprised, turning to watch him as he adjusted the collar of his white apron.
“I very good cook,” Natán replied, pointing a firm, proud finger at his own chest.
“Hopefully, it’s not as much as last time,” Kylie teased, remembering the ridiculous, literal mountain of seafood paella and tapas they had been served at the restaurant in Spain. Follow the newest chapters on novelping dot com.
Natán shook his head rapidly, his eyes wide.
“No, no. Just enough for two.”
He led her out of the vast foyer and into the open-concept kitchen.
Kylie looked around the space, her eyes scanning the immaculate, highly functional culinary arena.
It was a sleek, modern masterpiece designed for serious cooking rather than just aesthetic display.
The countertops were cut from thick slabs of dark, veined charcoal slate, providing a stark, beautiful contrast against the bright, handle-less, high-gloss white cabinetry.
The appliances were entirely industrial-grade: a massive, double-door stainless steel refrigerator, twin convection ovens built seamlessly into the wall, and a sprawling induction stovetop that gleamed like dark glass.
Copper pots and heavy cast-iron pans hung from a sleek, suspended ceiling rack above the massive central island, giving the hyper-modern room a faint, authentic touch of rustic, professional utility.
It was entirely spotless, save for the organized chaos of the ingredients Natán was actively working with.
“Do you cook?” Natán asked, leaning against the edge of the marble island, watching her take in the room.
“Sometimes,” Kylie replied, running her manicured fingers lightly over the cool slate countertop.
“Rarely, though. I usually have people handle that for me. But maybe I’ll cook for you one day.”
Natán’s face immediately brightened, a boyish, genuine smile spreading across his features.
“I would like that.”
“What did you cook?” Kylie asked, nodding toward the heavy pots simmering on the induction stove.
“Food from Catalonia,” Natán explained, gesturing to the spread with a wave of his hand.
“I didn’t know what else you really ate, so I make what I know.”
“No, that sounds amazing,” Kylie assured him eagerly, taking a seat on one of the plush, high-backed leather barstools surrounding the island.
“Especially after eating American food.”
Natán tilted his head, his brow furrowing slightly in genuine curiosity.
“Is American food bad?”
“No, it’s not bad,” Kylie smiled, crossing her long legs elegantly.
“It’s just not as good.”
“Like British food,” Natán nodded solemnly, a look of profound, deeply ingrained disgust crossing his features.
“Do you not like it?” Kylie asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Very bad,” Natán stated with absolute, unwavering conviction, shaking his head.
“Terrible. No flavor.”
Kylie burst out laughing, entirely charmed by his passionate, dramatic culinary hatred for his host country.
Before he could continue his anti-British food rant, a sharp, mechanical ringing sound pierced the air.
The small, silver egg timer sitting on the counter ticking rapidly before culminating in a loud, insistent ding.
“Ah,” Natán smiled, his eyes lighting up.
He quickly reached over and silenced the timer.
“Finally. It’s done.”
Kylie adjusted herself comfortably in her seat as Natán brought the food over to the massive dining space adjacent to the kitchen.
The table was a stunning slab of solid, polished walnut, set perfectly with heavy, dark ceramic plates and sleek, minimalist silverware.
As Natán set the heavy cast-iron paellera down on a heat-resistant mat in the center of the table, Kylie leaned forward, closing her eyes as she took a deep breath.
She absolutely loved the smell of the food.
It was an incredibly complex, mouth-watering aroma that filled the entire room—a rich, savory blend of toasted garlic, sweet caramelized onions, smoky Spanish paprika, and the deep, briny scent of fresh ocean seafood.
It smelled incredibly hearty, completely authentic, and entirely intoxicating.
Natán proudly stood at the head of the table, untying his white apron and tossing it onto a nearby chair.
He gestured to the various plates with the dramatic flair of a Michelin-starred waiter.
“Okay,” Natán began, his English careful but enthusiastic.
“Here, we have Pa amb tomàquet. It is very simple. Toasted rustic bread, rubbed with fresh raw garlic, sweet tomato, salt, and olive oil. Very traditional.”
He pointed to a small, vibrant side dish.
“This is Esqueixada. A cold salad with salted cod, fresh peppers, tomatoes, and black olives.”
Finally, he gestured to the massive, steaming central pan.
“And this is the main. Fideuà. It is like paella, but we use short noodles instead of rice. I made it with fresh cuttlefish, king prawns, and a very strong fish stock. I hope you like.”
“Natán,” Kylie breathed out, her eyes wide as she took in the gorgeous, colorful spread before her.
“This is incredible. You did all this yourself?”
“Yes,” Natán smiled proudly, pulling out the chair directly across from her and taking a seat.
“Eat. Please.”
For the first few minutes, the only sounds in the massive dining room were the clinking of heavy silverware against ceramic plates and the soft, involuntary groans of pure culinary appreciation escaping Kylie’s lips.
The food was absolutely spectacular.
The toasted bread was perfectly crispy, the garlic and tomato providing a sharp, refreshing bite.
The Fideuà was a masterpiece—the short noodles had absorbed every single drop of the rich, saffron-infused seafood stock, slightly caramelized and crispy on the edges, while the massive king prawns were tender and bursting with flavor.
Once the initial, ravenous hunger had been slightly subsided, the conversation began to flow with a natural, effortless rhythm.
“So,” Kylie said, wiping a dab of aioli from the corner of her lip with a cloth napkin, her eyes dancing with wicked amusement.
“I saw a very interesting video of you this week.”
Natán instantly stopped chewing.
He closed his eyes, dropping his fork onto his plate with a heavy, miserable sigh.
A deep flush of profound embarrassment crept all the way up to the tips of his ears.
“Oh, yes,” Kylie laughed, leaning forward, resting her chin on her hand.
“The thumbs-up? The frantic pedaling? It was cinematic gold, Natán. I must have watched it fifty times. Who was that guy?”
“I don’t know!” Natán groaned, burying his face in his hands, completely mortified.
“He was driving a blue car very fast! He was screaming at me from the window! His accent was so thick! I thought he wanted to attack me, or rob my bicycle! I didn’t know he wanted a picture until I was already running for my life!”
Kylie threw her head back, laughing so hard that tears genuinely threatened to spill from her eyes.
“You looked like a terrified hostage proving proof of life.”
“I hate British driving tests,” Natán muttered, peeking out through his fingers.
“They are impossible.”
Once her laughter finally subsided, Kylie took a sip of her sparkling water, her expression softening into something warmer and more genuine.
“I also watched your game yesterday. At least, the highlights.”
Natán perked up slightly, recovering his athletic pride.
“You saw?”
“I did,” she nodded, taking a bite of a prawn.
“You were amazing.”
“Thank you,” Natán smiled, though a shadow of exhaustion quickly crossed his youthful features.
He ran a hand through his dark hair.
“It was… a very hard game. Very hard week.”
“Why?” Kylie asked gently, sensing the shift in his tone.
“You won.”
Natán sighed, “I get kicked by massive defenders for ninety minutes. My whole body hurts. But no pain, no gain”
Kylie smiled softly, incredibly moved by the raw, unfiltered passion he displayed for his craft.
He was so driven, so deeply consumed by the pursuit of perfection.
“What about you? How was your week?” Natán asked as he took a large bite of his food.
He chewed quickly, swallowing before pointing his fork at her.
Kylie let out an exhausted sigh of her own, rolling her shoulders back.
“Do you have the camera people following you?” Natán asked, his dark eyes filled with genuine sympathy.
He knew the suffocating reality of the cameras all too well.
“Everywhere,” Kylie groaned, resting her forehead against her hand.
“I couldn’t even leave my hotel in Mayfair to get a coffee without fifty grown men shoving cameras in my face and screaming my name. It’s suffocating. That’s why I hired a private jet to fly me all the way up to Manchester today. I just needed to get away. I needed quiet.”
“You have quiet here,” Natán said softly, gesturing to the massive, silent, secluded dining room.
“No cameras. Just bad English weather and good Catalan food.”
Kylie looked across the table at him, her dark eyes locking onto his.
A warm, profound sense of peace washed over her.
He was right.
Sitting here, eating incredible food in this quiet fortress, all the overwhelming pressure of her billionaire reality-star life seemed to completely evaporate.
“It’s exactly what I needed.”
They continued to eat, completely lost in the easy, flowing dynamic of their conversation.
They traded stories about their chaotic families, complained about the relentless demands of their respective careers, and laughed at the sheer absurdity of their highly public lives.
The chemistry between them was undeniable, an electric current of mutual understanding bridging the massive gap between a Hollywood beauty mogul and a Premier League football star.
They kept talking, their plates slowly emptying, until they had eaten absolutely everything on the table.
Kylie finally dropped her fork onto her clean plate, leaning heavily back into her plush chair, letting out a deep, contented sigh.
“Oh my god. I am so full. I don’t think I can move.”
“Me too,” Natán agreed, patting his stomach with a satisfied smile.
But a second later, Natán got up from the table, gathering the empty dinner plates and carrying them quickly over to the kitchen sink.
Before she could even process his sudden movement, he opened the massive stainless steel refrigerator and brought out two small, rustic ceramic ramekins.
Kylie watched him carry the ramekins back to the table, her eyes widening in disbelief.
“I thought you said you were full.”
“There’s always room for dessert,” Natán stated with absolute, unwavering seriousness, setting one of the small dishes directly in front of her.
Kylie peered down at the dish.
It was a smooth, pale-yellow custard, topped with a thick, glassy layer of dark caramelized sugar.
“What is it?”
“Crema Catalana,” Natán announced proudly, handing her a clean silver spoon.
“I’ve never seen that before,” Kylie admitted, examining the hardened sugar crust.
“Is it like crème brûlée?”
“No, no,” Natán corrected quickly, deeply protective of his national dish.
“Crème brûlée is French. Crema Catalana is better. We make it on the stove. It is amazing. Try it.”
Natán tapped the back of his spoon sharply against the top of the dessert, shattering the brittle, caramelized sugar crust with a highly satisfying crack.
He scooped up a generous spoonful of the velvety custard and the shattered sugar, bringing it to his mouth.
As he tasted it, he closed his eyes and hummed contently, a deep, resonant sound of pure culinary bliss vibrating in his chest.
“Perfect,” Natán whispered, opening his eyes and licking his lips.
Natán held his spoon expectantly, gesturing for her to do the same.
She cracked the sugar, scooped up the custard, and took a delicate bite.
The moment the flavors hit her tongue, her eyes fluttered shut in absolute heaven.
The custard was incredibly rich, silky smooth, and infused with the bright, zesty citrus of lemon and orange, while the burnt sugar provided a perfect, bitter-sweet, crunchy contrast.
She absolutely loved it.
“Oh my god,” Kylie moaned softly, instantly going back for a second spoonful.
“That is insane. What is in this?”
“Very simple ingredients,” Natán explained, counting them off on his fingers.
“Milk, the yellow of the egg… uh, rovell d’ou, I don’t know it in English. The middle part.”
“The egg yolk,” Kylie translated with a smile.
“Yes, yolk,” Natán nodded, committing the word to memory.
“Sugar, a little bit of lemon peel, orange peel, cinnamon… and Maizena.”
Kylie paused, her spoon hovering halfway to her mouth.
“Maizena?”
Natán nodded quickly.
“Yes, to make it thick. You know Maizena?”
Kylie shook her head, entirely confused by the foreign culinary term.
“No. What is that?”
Natán stood up from the table.
He walked quickly over to the sleek white cabinetry, opening one of the upper cupboard doors.
He rummaged around for a second before pulling out a bright yellow cardboard box, pointing directly at the bold red lettering on the front.
Kylie squinted at the box from her seat across the room.
“Oh! Cornflour.”
“Yeah,” Natán smiled, setting the box back down and returning to his seat.
“Maizena.”
For the next five minutes, the dining room was completely silent, save for the rhythmic, satisfying cracking of burnt sugar and the scraping of metal spoons against ceramic.
They devoured the Crema Catalana with absolute, unapologetic enthusiasm.
The shared experience of the meal, the comforting warmth of the heavy food, and the easy, unbroken flow of their conversation had completely stripped away the lingering exhaustion of their chaotic weeks.
It felt incredibly intimate, a private, authentic slice of Natán’s Catalonian heritage shared exclusively with her in the cold, rainy heart of Manchester.
When the ramekins were finally scraped completely clean, Natán set his spoon down.
Kylie did the same.
The comfortable, busy energy of eating suddenly dissipated, replaced by a thick, heavy, undeniable silence that seemed to rapidly fill the massive room.
The physical space between them across the dining table suddenly felt incredibly charged.
Natán looked at her, his dark eyes tracing the delicate, flawless lines of her jaw, the soft curve of her lips, and the way the ambient light caught the golden highlighter on her cheekbones.
Kylie stared right back at him, her pulse beginning to quicken.
She took in the sharp cut of his jaw, the heavy, athletic musculature of his shoulders pressing against his fitted black shirt, and the profound, dark intensity burning in his gaze.
The air grew completely still.
The undeniable, electric tension they had felt under the streetlights in Spain had returned with absolute, suffocating force.
Kylie slowly leaned back in her chair, breaking the heavy silence, her voice dropping into a soft, sultry whisper that sent a violent shiver straight down Natán’s spine.
“Where’s your bedroom?”
Natán blinked, entirely caught off guard by the sudden, incredibly direct question.
His heart slammed violently against his ribs.
He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly bone dry.
“Why?” Natán managed to stammer out, his English faltering entirely under the intense weight of her gaze.
Kylie offered him a slow, wicked, devastatingly confident smile.
She stood up from the table, smoothing the delicate black silk of her slip dress over her hips, her dark eyes locking onto his with absolute, predatory intent.
“Well,” Kylie murmured softly, walking slowly around the edge of the dining table until she was standing just inches away from his chair, “we can fuck in the kitchen, but I kind of want to cuddle after.”
She reached out, her perfectly manicured fingers tracing a feather-light path across the broad expanse of his shoulders, before her hand came to rest gently on the nape of his neck.
“Sound like a plan?”
Natán was blushing furiously, a deep, burning crimson rapidly flooding his cheeks and the tips of his ears.
The sheer, overwhelming audacity and intense physical proximity completely short-circuited his brain.
Unable to form a single, coherent sentence in any language known to mankind, he simply looked up into her striking dark eyes and nodded rapidly.