Charles Anderson's room was almost entirely decorated in white, from the curtains to the bed sheets, the carpet to the slippers, and even the loungewear he was wearing at the moment. The satin fabric glimmered softly in the light, revealing glimpses of his firm chest muscles. He sat upright, his black eyes staring at her intensely like a vortex.
The girl's gaze fell on the man's pale and slender hands, and she said with a touch of curiosity, "It seems to me that Mr. Anderson's hands don't appear incapable of holding chopsticks."
"I can't hold them," the man replied quickly, lightly resting both hands on the armrests, without any intention of hiding them. He lied without any change in his expression, not blushing or showing the slightest nervousness.
So, he wanted her to feed him. Who knows what trick he was playing. Rosie Scott half-squinted her eyes, openly inspecting him before finally giving in. "Fine, I'll feed you then."
"Thanks a lot."
