Chapter 26

His aura was so noble and dignified that even when he smiled, he seemed to keep the world at arm's length. It was the kind of untouchable quality that made you want to be the one to finally break through his composure, just to see what he'd look like when he finally lost control.

"You're not short either," the man said gently.

Marguerite raised an eyebrow, tilting her chin like a proud peacock. "Of course not. And I'm only eighteen. I'm still growing!"

George's glass-like eyes stared at her, his intense gaze hidden by the dim moonlight. The garden was bursting with flowers, but in her presence, they all seemed to fade into the background.

Marguerite strode cheerfully into the villa and set the snacks on the living room table. “George, if you want any of these, help yourself. Don't be a stranger."

With that, she bounded up the stairs.

George watched her go, the eyes behind his glasses darkening. He dug his fingertips into the wound in his palm. Stella had offered to share her snacks with him, yet he had disrespected her so profoundly.

He really was damned.

After entering her room, Marguerite took another quick shower and climbed into bed. She was surprised to find that the sheets still felt warm.

What kind of comforter is this? she wondered. The insulation is amazing.

She didn't dwell on it, playing on her phone for a while before drifting off to sleep.

The next morning, Marguerite woke up early, around eight. After getting ready, she headed downstairs and was greeted by a delicious aroma wafting from the kitchen. She followed the scent and peeked inside.

A tall, lean man stood by the stove, an apron tied around his waist. He held a ladle in one of his elegant, porcelain-like hands. The black apron contrasted sharply with his white shirt, accentuating his narrow waist in a way that was surprisingly sexy.

Marguerite felt a strange flush of heat and quickly looked away, her eyes landing on the pot of golden broth simmering on the stove Her mouth instantly began to water. She patted George on the shoulder. "Mr. Spencer, starting the day with

something so rich?"

George's body went rigid for a second before he turned, his voice smooth and pleasant. "The housekeeper made some broth yesterday. I was planning on making soup."

Marguerite's almond-shaped eyes curved into a beautiful crescent. "I don't suppose your humble tenant Marguerite, might be worthy of a bowl of that soup? came

When it ne

good food, she wasn't afraid to abandon her pride. She loved soup;

Joshua used to bring it to her all the time in their senior year.

"Of course," George said agreeably, his beautiful eyes watching her from behind his glasses.

The housekeeper, standing in the kitchen doorway, had to suppress a twitch. He certainly hadn't made any broth yesterday. Mr. Spencer had been up since five this morning making it himself. Waking up at five a.m. to make soup? It was unheard of.

He finally understood. His boss was completely smitten with this young woman. "Hey, why are you cooking? Don't you have a chef?" Marguerite asked, watching George add noodles to the pot. With a full-time housekeeper, surely they had a chef. "The chef had something to take care of this morning," George answered calmly.

าวน

The housekeeper twitched again. Something to take care of? You mean the mandatory half-day off you gave him. He'd gotten a call from Louis, the chef, early this moming, practically in tears, asking what he'd done wrong to get fired. The pay here was severabtimes

what he could make elsewhere, and

the work was easy. Louis had thought his world was ending.

After devouring a large bowl of soup, Marguerite gave George a thumbs-up. “Mr. Spencer, you're an amazing cook!"

It was uncanny how familiar it tasted, almost identical to the soup Joshua used to bring her. A rich kid like Joshua would never have made it himself; it must have been his family's chef.