Chapter 68 You're Delicious
Although Sherry had little respect for Quin Agency, curiosity got the better of her.
She opened her laptop and pulled up the company's official website.
The controlling shareholder was listed as Lyle Warner—someone with no apparent connection to Elizabeth.
That discovery eased her mind. Without hesitation, she picked up her phone and sent Armando a message.
Sherry: [Dinner tonight is on me. Will you be home?]
Armando was in the middle of a meeting when his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, typed a single word in reply: [Sure.]
The truth was, Sherry was not much of a cook. Her skills in the kitchen were mediocre at best. But back when she and Armando had been dating, he had always humored her, praising every dish as though it were a masterpiece.
By six o'clock that evening, Armando stepped out of the Johnson Group's headquarters. Tom was already waiting by the curb, holding the car door open.
"Mr. Johnson, would you like Italian for dinner tonight?" Tom asked.
Armando ducked into the car. "Imperial Garden," he said simply.
As the car pulled away, he scrolled through his phone, checking his email. A notification caught his eye—an update from the man he'd hired to tail Elizabeth.
The message contained several photos: Elizabeth shopping for groceries at a supermarket, Elizabeth carrying a lunchbox into the hospital for Timothy.
The longer he stared at them, the more his mood soured. He tugged at his collar and popped open the top button of his shirt.
Her cooking was good. Too good.
When they arrived at Imperial Garden, Tom followed him inside, needing to hand over a document.
Sherry, wearing an apron, was just setting the final dish on the dining table. She heard Axel announce Armando's return and stepped out of the dining room.
"Armando, I've just finished cooking. Wash up and you can come down to eat," she said.
She glanced at Tom. "Tom, have you had dinner?"
Armando turned his head toward Tom. "Stay and eat with us?"
"Sure," Tom replied.
Outside the Johnson Group, they didn't bother with the formalities of boss and subordinate. Sherry smiled, disappearing back into the kitchen to fetch an extra set of tableware.
Armando changed out of his suit, retrieved the document from upstairs, and handed it to Tom as they entered the dining room together.
The table was set with six dishes and a soup. One glance told Tom this was Sherry's handiwork.
He had once seen the dinners Elizabeth made for Armando—those had been works of art. She could carve a radish into the shape of a flower. The radishes on tonight's table were uneven chunks, hacked apart without finesse.
Sherry beamed. "Tom, I hope my cooking suits your taste. If not, I can have the chef prepare something else."
Tom picked up his utensils and replied politely, "Thank you, but I'm not picky."
Armando ate in silence, his expression cool.
After a few bites, he realized the food was bland, uninspired. Four of the six dishes contained ingredients he disliked.
His mind wandered back to Elizabeth, picturing her setting down a lunchbox in front of Timothy, her eyes warm and attentive as she watched him eat. The thought made his jaw tighten.
He set down his chopsticks halfway through his bowl of rice.
Sherry blinked. "You're full already?"
Armando sipped his tea before answering, "I had a big lunch."
Tom hid a wry smile. Big lunch? Hardly. His gaze swept over the table, and he couldn't help but sigh inwardly. A woman like Elizabeth… and he let her slip away.
Across town, at Faith Residence, Elizabeth emerged from the kitchen carrying a large bowl and placed it in front of Timothy.
"Eat," she said.
Timothy eyed the steaming bowl of instant noodles, one brow lifting. "Thanks."
The noodles were dressed up with tofu, leafy greens, slices of ham, and pickled vegetables. He took a bite and discovered an egg hidden among the strands.
"Elizabeth… you're delicious," he said.
Elizabeth was curled up on the sofa, scrolling through her phone.
At Timothy's words, she looked up. He gave a sheepish smile. "I mean, the noodles you cooked… they're the best thing I've tasted all day."
Elizabeth let out a small laugh, then dropped her gaze back to her phone.
He ate quickly, then carried his empty bowl into the kitchen, washed it, and returned to the living room. Dropping onto the sofa beside her, he said, "I'm not going home tonight. Mabel's out."
Elizabeth shot him a sidelong glance and opened Mabel's Facebook page. Sure enough, there were fresh photos of Mabel at a live performance.
"I'd have gone too. It's boring here," she said with a soft laugh.
Timothy slid an arm around her waist and pulled her into his lap. "With me here, you won't be bored."
His hand lingered at her waist as he reached for the coat draped over the sofa. Elizabeth stayed where she was, her hands resting loosely on his shoulders.
There was a glint of mischief in his eyes.
When she shifted to get down, he held her in place. "Shower first?"
"Fine."
In the end, the shower came after they made love.
The next morning, Mabel returned home, rubbing her eyes as she stepped through the door. She'd planned to collapse on the sofa, but froze at the sight of the mess—rumpled cushions, clothes on the floor. She clutched her chest dramatically.
She had every reason to suspect last night's outing had been Timothy's way of keeping her out of the house.
Creeping toward the shoe cabinet, she spotted a pair of men's leather shoes. Her gaze dropped to a jacket on the floor. Definitely Timothy's.
Grinning to herself, she padded to Elizabeth's bedroom door and knocked. "I'm back. Think it's time to replace the sofa?"
Before Elizabeth could respond, Mabel scampered back to her own room and shut the door.
Elizabeth had been asleep, but the voice woke her. She stirred, becoming aware of the warm body pressed against her back.
"Go back to sleep," Timothy murmured in her ear, his voice rough with sleep. "I'll take care of it."
She did, and didn't wake again until noon.
It was Saturday—no work, no need to take leave and risk Yosef's temper.
From the foot of the bed, Timothy asked, "You sure you don't want me to deal with the people Armando sent?"
Elizabeth lay sprawled on her stomach, watching him button his shirt. "Leave them. Might be useful."
She had barely finished speaking when she felt his hand close around her ankle.
"Let go," she said, twisting to glare at him. Her body still ached from the night before.
"Get up and eat."
Half an hour later, freshly showered, she found herself carried into the dining room.
Timothy could be overbearing sometimes.
The table was already set. He pressed utensils into her hand. "Eat while it's hot. Or should I feed you?"
Her stomach answered for her; she dug in without prompting.
Only after she'd finished did Timothy say, "I had a new sofa delivered. I've got things to do later, so stay here and let them in."
Elizabeth's gaze flicked to the worn-out sofa. "You really don't mind making people wonder, do you?"
He smirked, pulling a black mask from his pocket and looping it over her ears. "I prepared this for you. They won't see your face."
She was silent for a moment. "Will that even work?"
Instead of answering, he tugged her robe aside and pressed his lips to the marks he'd left on her shoulder the night before, deepening them.