Chapter 90
Celestine froze, her words trailing off. “Weren’t you-”
Mid–sentence, it hit her–Gideon hadn’t returned to the office?!
She was doomed. There wasn’t even a drop of soup left.
Noticing her sudden silence, Gideon arched a brow. “To wait for your comforting soup, I even sampled some of Grandpa’s new culinary creations. Isn’t that-”
“Huh?” Celestine quickly cut him off, feigning ignorance to escape the awkward topic.
She blurted out a question that sounded even more clueless. “What did he make?”
Gideon’s smile turned frosty. “Pork stir–fried with dragon fruit.”
Catching the way Celestine hesitated, he had a sinking feeling that the chicken soup he’d been waiting for would be as cold as his mood.
Celestine managed an awkward smile, scrambling for a compliment. “Well, Clifton certainly has… creativity.”
No wonder when she’d opened the door earlier, Mr. Shield had looked positively poisoned.
Did they honestly not worry about food poisoning?
The image of Gideon facing a table full of bizarre dishes with that stone–cold expression almost made Celestine laugh.
Of course, laughing at him wasn’t exactly kind.
She bit her lip, fighting back the urge to giggle, determined to make it up to him.
somehow.
Just then, Cynthia came bounding in from the living room, pretending not to know. “Uncle, what brings you here?”
Gideon looked down at her, unimpressed. “What do you think?”
Cynthia’s big eyes sparkled with mischief. “Oh, you didn’t go back to the office? I thought you’d be busy tonight. We finished the soup ages ago–scrubbed the pot clean, not even a drop left! I did it myself!”
Her sweet, sing–song voice was enough to make anyone’s blood boil. Gideon’s expression darkened instantly.
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Way to go, Cynthia.
Celestine caught the growing gloom in Gideon’s eyes and hurried to clamp a hand over Cynthia’s mouth before she could make things worse.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Prescott. I honestly thought you’d gone back to work, so I didn’t save any,” she said, forcing herself to hold his gaze.
“It’s fine. A taste of Grandpa’s home cooking every now and then shouldn’t ruin my stomach.” Gideon offered her a faint smile, though a shadow flickered in his gray
eyes.
“No need to explain yourself, Miss Selwyn. I’m not here just to claim a bowl of soup. I was simply reminded of old times at the hospital… I guess I miss your cooking.”
Cynthia’s eyes widened in disbelief.
Uncle Gideon, picky as he was, had never gone hungry in his life!
Since when did he have a weak stomach? And even if he did, wouldn’t Grandpa
know how to fix it?
She ran the numbers in her head and arrived at the only explanation: Uncle was totally making this up!
But before she could call him out, Celestine kept her hand firmly over Cynthia’s
mouth.
“Mmmph! Mmmph!” Cynthia protested, but couldn’t get a word out.
Celestine didn’t notice Cynthia’s frantic struggle. Gideon’s casual words only deepened her guilt.
Mr. Shield had saved her life. Was this really how she repaid him–by keeping her distance and pretending he didn’t matter?
There had to be a better way.
She remembered the day at the hospital–how he’d sat alone, no family, no friends to visit. And now, after enduring Clifton’s culinary experiments…
A wave of regret tightened in her chest.
What was she thinking?
“Mr. Prescott, I’m sorry. I’m not the greatest cook, but if you don’t mind, I’d love to make you dinner myself tomorrow. If you’re busy, I can have my assistant bring it to you.”
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“Thank you, Miss Selwyn.” Gideon made a show of hesitating, but finally nodded in acceptance—and deftly scooped Cynthia out of her arms.
Cynthia had watched the whole scene unfold. As soon as the door closed behind them, she let out an indignant yell. “Uncle, you’re so sneaky!”
“Am I?” Gideon’s eyes glinted as he tugged playfully on her freshly braided hair. “Cynthia, we still need to talk about your little fib–‘I thought you went to a meeting at the office,’ huh?”
Cynthia’s eyes went wide. Sensing danger, she bolted, shouting, “Grandpa, help!”
