Amadeus Yancey saw the crumpled papers scattered all over the room and the clutter of items on her desk, which seed to be all drawing tools, but he didn’t ask a single question, as if he hadn’t seen them, looked down, his gaze focused and brooking no interruption: "Room temperature."
"Ah." Nathalie Quinlan took the cup and already realized it wasn’t the iced drink she wanted, slightly disappointed.
However, Amadeus Yancey walked past her and said, "Did you forget the stomach pain you had last ti you had your period? There’s one more week, and I asked the doctor; you can’t have anything cold this week, so I didn’t add ice."
He ntioned this very naturally, calm and composed, without any awkwardness.
Nathalie Quinlan’s beautiful black eyes looked at him for a long while, speechless, her shoulders slumped in surrender, holding the cup and following his steps back, saying, "Alright. Is this sweet?"
She didn’t like sweet drinks, a habit that even Alfred Garland was well aware of.
How could Amadeus Yancey not know about this quirk of hers, a person who didn’t even like milk tea, making her drink sothing sweet might as well ask for her life.
"Not really sweet."
It was the first ti Amadeus Yancey described the taste of Sour Plum Juice to a girl, the first ti, sowhat novel: "It’s sour, then sweet aftertaste. Try it, if you don’t like it, don’t drink, I’ll let Alfred Garland bring you a cup of lemon water..."
Nathalie Quinlan glanced at him, sat down on the chair, holding the mug in both hands, silent, and took a small sip.
Just like he said, it was tangy at first, followed by a sweet aftertaste, not bad.
"It’s okay." Her brows relaxed, her beautiful black eyes lifted, mood seemingly improved, her lips curled, with a touch of unwillingness, she said, "So ice cubes might have made it taste better."
Amadeus Yancey automatically ignored her words, already noticing that the Laptop on her desk was running a drawing software.
However, it was different from the drawing software he was used to in his work; Nathalie Quinlan’s laptop seed to have a more professional one.
He only glanced at it for a mont before shifting his gaze back to the girl leisurely sitting and drinking Sour Plum Juice, whispering, "Grandfather just sent a ssage."
Nathalie Quinlan, holding the mug sowhat absentmindedly, relaxed entirely, and once relaxed, she started feeling sleepy.
Hearing his deep, enticing voice, she carelessly looked up, tilted her head, as if waiting for what was to co.
"He told to work hard," Amadeus Yancey chuckled lightly, his charming face especially captivating, his deep eyes staring at the girl, with a certain intensity, "I think what he ant was that he’s afraid I’d... be a kept man."
"??"
Nathalie Quinlan finally summoned so energy amid her drowsiness, gave him a nonchalant look, and said directly, "Do you want to be a kept man?"
Amadeus Yancey: "..."
Nathalie Quinlan gave him another quick once-over, withdrew her gaze, returning to her mischievous, indolent deanor, and said bluntly, "Better not think about it, I can’t afford to keep you."
The heir to the Yancey Family in Beijing and also the big guy at The Ninth Institute, she might have a little money, but to support Amadeus Yancey would be quite straining.
And just from the decoration of his apartnt in Rhine, one could tell how much he liked to spend; the sofa downstairs alone cost seven figures.
The hairdryer in her room started at six figures.
It’s not that she was being modest; he was quite expensive to maintain, certainly not the type that could survive on coarse grains, very costly.
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