Wrong Flirt, Right Trouble: His Uncle Pulls Me Close

Chapter 201: Chapter 201: Wanting to Indulge and Spoil Her

’Forget it.’ He decided to just take out the food he had brought.

"You brought me food?" She had just been about to order takeout.

"Just something I picked up." This was actually prepared by the chefs at Norhaven on Quentin Blackwood’s orders. He had told them to prepare a meal suitable for someone who was sick, and they ended up making porridge.

As Quentin Blackwood was placing the other dishes on the table, he accidentally knocked over the bowl of porridge. It tipped over, spilling a good amount onto the floor.

Quentin Blackwood stared in silence.

"I’ll have someone deliver another bowl of porridge," Quentin Blackwood said, about to make a call.

"There’s no need for all that trouble. Porridge is simple, I can just make some myself." As she spoke, Ivy Sherwood stood up from her chair.

Making simple congee was just a matter of boiling rice and water together.

Seeing Ivy Sherwood’s pale face, Quentin Blackwood grabbed her. "You sit here. I’ll do it."

Quentin Blackwood went into the kitchen, found the rice Ivy Sherwood kept there, and washed it. After the water in the clay pot came to a boil, he put the rice in to cook.

Then, he pulled a piece of meat from the bottom of the fridge, intending to slice it into shreds.

Ivy Sherwood watched from the side, not blinking. ’Quentin Blackwood knows how to cook?’

’And his movements look quite deft, completely unlike those other rich young masters. It really doesn’t match his image.’

’Just how many people in this world would ever get the chance to eat a meal cooked by Quentin Blackwood?’

After putting the rice in the pot, Quentin Blackwood turned around and saw Ivy Sherwood standing in the doorway.

Ivy Sherwood was just staring at him. Quentin Blackwood walked out. "What are you looking at?"

Ivy Sherwood shook her head. "Nothing. I just didn’t expect you to be so skilled in the kitchen, Uncle."

"In your eyes, am I that much of a helpless good-for-nothing? Someone who can’t cook and needs to be waited on for every meal and even to get dressed?"

Ivy Sherwood shook her head more vigorously. "That’s not what I meant. I’m just a little curious about your cooking skills."

"Curious about my cooking skills?"

Ivy Sherwood nodded.

Quentin Blackwood said only one thing: "Just you wait."

Then he pushed Ivy Sherwood out of the kitchen and had her sit on the sofa to rest.

Immediately after, Quentin Blackwood closed the kitchen door. Ivy Sherwood had no idea what he was doing in there.

’He’s not planning to cook a whole meal, is he?’

’Did he really decide to cook just because of that one thing I said?’

’But aren’t there still so many takeout dishes on the table? We haven’t even had a single bite, and they look so delicious.’

Instead of sitting on the sofa, Ivy Sherwood went into her room and picked up her phone, only to discover that Quentin Blackwood had indeed called her several times.

She hadn’t planned on telling anyone she was sick. Besides, it wasn’t a serious illness, just a cold that would be gone in a couple of days.

It had been like this ever since she was a child. Whenever she got sick, no one would take care of her. She was long used to it.

But today, when she saw Quentin Blackwood, her heart still skipped a beat.

It was an indescribable feeling, as if, in this world, there was finally someone who cared about her.

’Quentin, please don’t be too good to me. Otherwise, I’m really going to fall for you.’

...

There weren’t many things a sick person could eat—nothing too oily or heavy. Plus, with the limited ingredients in Ivy Sherwood’s fridge, Quentin Blackwood only made a few simple dishes.

He rarely cooked, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t.

Due to his upbringing, he had known how to cook since he was young. Before he returned to the Blackwood Family, his mother was always busy with work, so he would often have dinner ready and wait for her to come home.

He had been busy these past few years, spending most of his time on work. To him, eating was just something to get over with—a waste of time, let alone cooking.

’Come to think of it, I really haven’t cooked in a long time.’

’Three years? Or five?’

Ivy Sherwood peered through the kitchen’s glass door, watching the busy figure inside. Quentin Blackwood’s movements seemed very practiced and professional. ’The food should taste pretty good, right?’

Soon, Quentin Blackwood finished making two dishes and brought them out.

Quentin Blackwood set the food from Norhaven aside. The porridge was also just about ready. He ladled some into a bowl, placed it in front of Ivy Sherwood, and said, "Go on, try it."

His fingers were truly beautiful—the knuckles distinct, the digits long and slender.

Ivy Sherwood’s gaze lingered on those fingers until Quentin Blackwood pulled his hand back.

"Thank you, Uncle."

Ivy Sherwood took a spoonful of the porridge in front of her. She paused. ’Did he forget to add salt to the lean pork congee?’

But since she was sick, she didn’t have much sense of taste anyway. All she could tell was that it was soft and tender, and actually quite fragrant.

"How is it?" Quentin Blackwood seemed to be waiting for Ivy Sherwood’s review.

’President Blackwood cooked himself. If I say it’s not good, and he gets angry, will I really not live to see tomorrow’s sun?’

Ivy Sherwood nodded. "It’s delicious."

Ivy Sherwood tried the other dishes. ’Hmm... they look pretty good, but why do they taste so... plain?’

’It feels like something’s missing, but I can’t put my finger on what.’

’It’s true what they say: when God opens a door for someone, he closes a window. Thankfully, Quentin Blackwood went into finance and not culinary arts.’

’But it definitely isn’t a problem with Quentin Blackwood’s cooking. How could there be a problem with his cooking? It must be my sense of taste that’s off!’

Ivy Sherwood ate in small bites. Seeing how much she seemed to be enjoying it, Quentin Blackwood started to feel a bit hungry himself.

"I’ll have a taste, too." As he spoke, he moved to grab a pair of chopsticks.

"Don’t!" Ivy Sherwood grabbed him. If Quentin Blackwood tasted the food he made, he might realize it wasn’t actually very good.

Ivy Sherwood said, "Didn’t you make this for me? That means it’s all mine."

’It was the thought that counted, after all. At least this time, Ivy didn’t want to spoil it.’

The warmth of Ivy Sherwood’s palm lingered on his wrist. Quentin Blackwood’s heart felt as if it had been struck by a massive drum—it didn’t hurt, but the beat reverberated through his entire chest.

’She won’t even let me eat the food I made? Do sick people get this possessive?’

But when he saw Ivy Sherwood’s pleading eyes, Quentin Blackwood found he couldn’t say anything harsh.

He thought that if Ivy Sherwood ever decided to act cute and spoiled, it would probably be the death of him.

The kind of death where he’d willingly give his life to her.

Just like right now, Quentin Blackwood actually found himself wanting to indulge her, to spoil her.

She was still holding his wrist, their eyes locked.

Her gaze seemed almost syrupy, yet Ivy Sherwood herself was completely unaware. She just felt weak and didn’t want to move at all. She was grateful to Quentin Blackwood, but she had no idea how pitifully endearing she looked at that moment.

Just then, the newly installed doorbell suddenly rang, shattering the quiet atmosphere.

Ivy Sherwood quickly pulled her hand back. "It might be Nina. I’ll get the door."

Quentin Blackwood pressed on her shoulders. "Stay put. I’ll go."

"But you..."

Before Ivy Sherwood could finish, Quentin Blackwood was already walking toward the door.

He opened the door and was met with a warm, smiling face.

"Ivy, I heard you were sick, so I came especially to..."

The person outside hadn’t even finished speaking when, in the next second, Quentin Blackwood slammed the door shut with a BANG.

Without a shred of hesitation, he shut Seth Scott out.

Ivy Sherwood asked, confused, "Who was it?"

Quentin Blackwood replied indifferently, "A salesman."