Chapter 9 Dinner And Tissue

[Ella]
"Hmm, not bad."
That's what my new boss thinks of the dinner I spent an hour making.
The main course is grilled chicken thighs with homemade barbecue sauce. The barbecue sauce recipe is the one I got from my grandmother, and no one has ever given it anything other than a 'delicious' rating.
Okay, I admit I had considered sprinkling Mr. Clapton's grilled chicken thighs with a little ultra-spicy paprika. Still, I kindly refrained from doing so because I didn't want to waste the food. As a result, this man, who didn't even open the veggie salad bag for me, commented, " not bad." after tasting it.
"I'm glad I didn't hear you say it was bad." I slice a large piece of chicken and enjoy the juicy mix of gravy and barbecue sauce.
Disrupting my good mood of enjoying a meal for a comment? Don't be ridiculous. My appetite will not be ruined by a judgmental boss.
Mr. Clapton continues to dice the chicken thighs. He doesn't take off his suit jacket, making him look like he's in a business meeting.
"Better than at least 50 percent of the bar chefs." He delivers his second comment after having taken his second bite.
Mr. Clapton is praising my cooking? I guess he may not be good at complimenting people, or he may be tongue-in-cheek.
I observe him quietly. His long, dense eyelashes leave light shadows on his face in the light. His nose looks straighter as he looks down. My new boss does qualify as a handsome and somewhat sexy gentleman if he keeps silent.
Following a brief silence, I finish my dinner and notice Mr. Clapton has also consumed his dish. I grin and tell him, "Mr. Clapton, next time, if you wanna evaluate someone's dish, you might try using some simple words like 'delicious,' 'yummy, 'tasty.' If you offer more compliments, the person who cooks for you will be in a good mood."
"Why should I consider whether my cook is in a good mood? My time and energy are precious. If I had to think about so many meaningless things every day as an Alpha, I would have overworked myself to death years ago." He tells me, then puts down his knife and fork and picks up a tissue from the table to clean his mouth.
"Mr. Clapton!" I shout to him, intending to stop him from taking the tissues from the table. But he moves too fast.
In fact, the tissues should be sort of clean. Except that this morning Ethan jumped on the table, pierced the tissue package with his paw, and pulled out several pieces of tissue.
Eventually, with his honored butt, he sat on those tissues and washed his face with his paw. Of course, I quickly found out about this and stopped Ethan.
I've always been a frugal person. So, I folded those tissues and put them on the table. They were fine to use as coasters or to wipe the table.
"What?" Mr. Clapton notices my movement. He chooses to lean back in his chair and adjusts to a comfortable position to await me to finish my sentence.
He once asked Camilla if she knew what happened to the guys who pissed him off. Oh, I couldn't think of any other tragic outcome for those guys other than being killed.
Mr. Clapton doesn't like cats and even refuses to be close to Ethan, so if I tell him the truth about the tissues, will he choose to kill Ethan and me? My wonderful and hopeful life can't stop with a prank from my naughty pet. My heart is sinking to the pit of my stomach.
At that moment, Ethan, who has completed his dinner, walks over to my lap and purrs at me twice. Because I usually offer him a little kitty nutrition cream after his dinner. But, baby, your nanny is facing a possible death sentence because of your butt.
"Um? What do you wanna say?" Mr.Clapton raises an eyebrow.
"Uhh~" I swallow the lump in my throat, glance at the clock on the wall, and change the subject stiffly, "You've been staying in my apartment for almost three hours, and you've tried the dinner I made. So, does any of this mean anything to you?"
Mr. Clapton visibly freezes, and the next second, with a wicked grin, he says, "A single male comes to a single woman's apartment at night. What do you think the meaning of this is?"
My heart flutters at his words because I may have become his new target. No, it couldn't be happy. He had told Mia that he wasn't interested in me during our first meeting. After only three days, has he changed his preference for his date?
Mr. Clapton stands up. The suit he is wearing cannot hide that he is well built. I suddenly get an irrational thought that it seems not a bad thing to have something with a man of such a great build and good looking.
I shake my head, trying to chase away my crazy thoughts. No, no, Ella. You need to stay awake. Do you remember when your mom used to say to be patient and wait for your mate to show up?
I pretend to be calm and say, "Mr. Clapton, I'm sure, as the CEO of Blue Moon Group, you wouldn't be interested in an ordinary girl from the countryside."
"What if I am suddenly interested in ordinary girls?" Mr.Clapton rubs his chin with his right hand. He is sizing me up as if he is selecting a product to his satisfaction. His eyes seem to be smiling, but his lips are not curved upward.
My heart is beating so fast that it will jump out of my body if it goes any faster. I stand up from my chair and take a few steps backward, leaning against the wall. I smile awkwardly and reply, "Mr. Clapton, I don't think we're a good match. You know we've only known each other for three days."
"Hmm," Mr. Clapton says as if he's thinking carefully about my words. "Three days is long enough for me. You can get any gift you want by dating me, like a villa, a supercar, a yacht, jewels..."
"Stop!" I interrupt him in anger, "I don't know what kind of girls you used to date. But please don't assume my preferences according to your experiences and standards. The bottom line is that I only agreed to be your pet sitter. The offer I received did not say I would have to put up with assault from my boss's ex. It also didn't mention my boss would suddenly visit my apartment."
An awkward silence.
Ethan jumps on the table, no longer afraid of Mr. Clapton, perhaps because Mr. Clapton simply treats him like air and is no threat to him. Ethan is sniffing at the leftovers on our plates. He doesn't eat seasoned food, so I'm not worried about him licking the sauce. I am more concerned about Mr. Clapton standing across the table.
After I finish those words, he immediately covers his stomach and bows his head.
"Mr. Clapton?" I called him carefully. His shoulders even begin to tremble slightly.
Is Mr. Clapton's stomach aching because he ate the dinner I made? My brain quickly helps me recall if I accidentally put something in there that I shouldn't have while making dinner.
Was it the asparagus that fell on the ground, and I picked up and rinsed? But I ate that asparagus.
Was he allergic to some ingredient in the sauce used to marinate the chicken? But, I asked him if he was allergic to any particular food before cooking. He answered, 'Nothing.'
Two possibilities come to mind in those few seconds, but they are both dismissed by myself.
"Mr. Clapton, are you, are you okay?" My voice is getting shaky.
"Sorry," finally, he lifts his head. His cheeks turn red, and his lips still wear a smile. Apparently, he was trying to suppress a snigger several seconds ago.
"It's just a joke. Your reaction was really unique and funny. I have a great time tonight, Miss Ronan," he states, his eyes and curved lips telling me he's in a great mood right now.
He means he just made a joke with me. So, he has no interest in the ordinary me. His act of urging me to consider going out with him was also a fake. He just wants to see my reaction and then add a funny show for him after dinner.
It feels like I've been punched in the stomach by someone. My heart was nearly jumping to my throat from worrying about him. Now it was punched back to my chest by his laughter.
What a nasty fuking personality he has!
"Meow~" Ethan purrs and then sits on the table and messes up the stack of tissues with his paw.
I figure out how to get back at Mr. Clapton. I pick Ethan up, rub his head, and lecture him, "Ethan, stop playing with tissues. Did you forget that I drove you from the table this morning because you sat on them?"
I manage to see Mr. Clapton's look change from happy to shocked to angry. I smile smugly at him and pretend to apologize, "Sorry, Mr. Clapton, I remember you took a piece of tissue paper to wipe your mouth after dinner. I don't think that was the one being sat under Ethan's butt."
"Ansel will get you and the cat at 10:00 a.m. tomorrow. The breeding lab will send someone to give it a health check at 1:00 p.m." With those words, Mr. Clapton leaves my apartment with his furrowed brows of displeasure and a somber expression.
My mood brightens. I kiss Ethan, "Thank you, my sweetheart."