Zara Leighton still felt ashamed about her experiences during middle and high school because she was that friend from the Seventh Middle School.
They used to be inseparable, and almost every time Claire Prescott was called to meet with the teachers, it was related to Zara, and Claire often got into trouble because of her.
But Zara truly didn't know about Claire getting someone else to impersonate her parents to meet the homeroom teacher.
What surprised her more was that someone like Keane Lowell, coming from such a prestigious family and always treating people with indifference and aloofness, would accept helping an underage girl in such a manner. What could he be thinking?
Zara was even more puzzled, "So, does it look like fate brought you two together? Why didn't you acknowledge him earlier?"
Claire Prescott looked down, her voice as soft as a mosquito's buzz, "I don't know how to face him."
And I don't know how to make him like me.
Hearing about his family background left her even more confused.
Seeing her in such a state of melancholy, Zara seemed to understand a little.
…
The attendant led them to a private hot spring.
Zara stopped at the entrance, "I won't go in; it's that time of the month. Call me when you're done soaking."
Claire Prescott agreed.
Inside, the mist swirled, the shadows of bamboo swayed in the breeze; the scenery was picturesque, exceptionally tranquil and elegant.
The female attendant brought suitable clothing for her, quietly remained in the adjoining room burning incense and making tea, not disturbing her.
Claire Prescott changed into a silk gown and soaked in the pool. She had been there for just two minutes when the door opened and closed as if someone had entered.
Soon, someone came over with a bathrobe.
"Miss, the bathrobe beside you is of Mr. Lowell's size, so I brought a new one for you."
Hearing something amiss, Claire Prescott looked at her in surprise, "Is this Keane Lowell's private hot spring?"
The female attendant smiled and nodded, "Yes."
Knowing the truth, Claire Prescott blushed, her skin broke out in a mass of goosebumps. She instinctively hugged her arms and asked, "Does Keane Lowell know I am soaking in his hot spring?"
"All arrangements were made by Mr. Lowell," the female attendant replied with a particularly ambiguous and sentimental look.
All his arrangements?
Wasn't Zara the one who brought her here?
Claire Prescott was confused, her eyes cast downwards without focus, her long lashes creating delicate shadows on her skin.
The white silk gown clung to her skin, floating in the spring like seaweed, her face clean and delicate like unpolished jade, purely beautiful.
The female attendant couldn't take her eyes off her, "I'll be right behind the screen, Miss. You can call me anytime."
Claire Prescott nodded slightly.
The bamboo in the courtyard grew exceptionally tall, with branches and leaves that cast interwoven shadows on the white walls. Light drapery swayed gracefully, everything so elegantly tranquil.
Graceful on the outside, serene on the inside.
This kind of detachment from fame and fortune, like Tao Yuanming's, didn't seem to suit him.
Rather, she felt cypress trees matched his temperament perfectly, just like when she first encountered him.
He wore a suit, tall and straight as a pine, cool and rational, his almond-shaped eyes fathomless, exuding a faint authority and oppression, so indifferent and aloof that people hesitated to approach him.
Such a noble and unoffendable person was perfect to take to meet a homeroom teacher; perhaps the teacher would even be awed by his aura, and the matter could be resolved quickly.
Although unsure of who he was, she resolutely gathered her pocket money in her hand and approached him.
"Can you do me a favor?"
Perhaps seeing that she was just a student, the man's gaze softened slightly, and he asked in a deep voice, "Do what?"
His response gave her hope, and her confidence doubled, "I'd like you to pretend to be my guardian to meet my homeroom teacher. A hundred per hour, less than an hour is still an hour's pay, how about it?"
Seeing him looking directly at her without speaking made her feel inexplicably nervous.
Afraid he might think she would renege, she showed him the money directly and continued, "It won't take long, at most half an hour. If you find it bothersome, you can directly tell my teacher you don't want to deal with this sister anymore, let her be, as long as there's no flaw."
The man chuckled lightly and snatched the money from her hand, "Pretend to be your brother?"
She nodded, eyes filled with disbelief.
She never expected he would actually agree to help her.
The transaction went rather smoothly.
But it ran over time, and true to her word, she added an extra two hundred, though he ultimately didn't accept it.
…
After soaking for nearly twenty minutes, she draped on a bathrobe and changed back into her own clothes.
As soon as she stepped out of the curtain, she saw her phone screen light up.
It was a call from Zara.
"Claire, there's an emergency; I have to go."
Claire Prescott paused, "I'm done soaking. Aren't you going to wait for me?"
On the other end came an apologetic voice: "I'm already on my way, sorry, I'll come by to apologize later. Today, Keane Lowell is handling everything, feel free to play whatever you like there. I can't talk anymore, there's another call coming in."
The call ended deliberately.
Claire Prescott looked helplessly at the darkened screen and left the room.
As soon as she opened the door, a male waiter dressed in uniform was waiting at the entrance, respectfully saying: "Miss Prescott, Mr. Lowell asked you to go find him after soaking."
"Are they still fishing there?"
"They've already moved places, I'll take you there."
Claire hesitated for a moment and finally followed.
They went around half of the estate, went upstairs, and entered a private room where four people were seated around a mahjong table. As she entered, her gaze landed directly on the distinctly noble face of Keane Lowell.
Dressed in a cool white shirt with sleeves rolled up, his hand casually holding tiles, exuding an inherent nobility, under the cold white light carrying a faint chill.
While drawing tiles, he glanced up at her, his voice uniquely warm and deep, saying to her: "Come over."
Claire walked towards him, and the waiter hastily added a chair beside Keane.
The seat was right next to him, leaving no room, as she sat down, she could smell the woody fragrance emanating from him, pleasant and clean, like the pondering of cedar.
The distinctly jointed hand waved casually before her, a seemingly random movement, yet from the ordinary game of mahjong, she discerned a trace of elegance from him.
The man asked her: "How long have you been sick?"
"Started feeling unwell yesterday."
"Have you taken any medicine?"
Claire nodded, "Yes."
His attention remained on the tiles, as if these inquiries were merely casual, indifferent to others.
"Feeling better now?" Keane continued to ask, his tone still gentle.
Claire replied: "Much better."
Soaking in the hot spring helps to dispel the cold, now she felt much more energetic, and her complexion had improved somewhat.
As she contemplated how to play the hand in front of her, Keane had already readied his tiles.
He freed a hand, subtly testing her forehead's temperature.
Claire suddenly froze, her body tense and rigid, a faint blush spread to her ears, immediately after, he withdrew his hand without a word.
The gesture was too revealing, the other three men merely cast a slight glance at them, directing their attention back to the tiles.
"Has Claire ever been in love?" the person opposite couldn't resist asking, seemingly seasoned in the ways of romance, and acutely understanding her shy innocence.
At this moment, for Claire, the question was particularly poignant, realizing why he suddenly asked.
To cover up her unconscious reaction earlier, impulsively, she lied, saying: "I have."
The three men glanced at Keane's expression, finding nothing remarkable, they chuckled.
Twenty-nine years old, always single, never seen or heard any woman appearing around him, people within the circle were curious about his dating criteria, wondering who he was preserving himself for.
Until recently, it was rumored he was diagnosed by a female doctor of Chinese medicine with an excess of heart fire, and dared to openly say his hands*, he not only didn't get angry but rather stood up to protect.
Just now, upon hearing the young lady caught a cold, first sent a blanket, then led her to soak in his private spring.
All signs already indicated...
Most likely this young lady before them was the female doctor who diagnosed his excess heart fire.
Looking this way, it's likely he has taken a fancy.
As the opponent played a nine-bamboo, Keane calmly pushed the tiles open.
Win.
The opponent teased: "Since Claire arrived, Mr. Lowell's luck has improved, how curious."
As the three men pushed tiles away, Keane picked up his phone, stood up from the armchair, and said plainly: "Not playing anymore."
Claire glanced at him questioningly, he had already grasped her wrist, leading her out.
Walking away indifferently yet decisively, the others wore a bewildered expression, unable to react to which words had offended him.
Outside, the sky had darkened; the entire estate was lit up, and Keane's shadow fell upon her, his pace gradually slowing as he released her hand.
Claire watched his tall, straight back resembling a pine, followed his steps, impulsively asked: "Are you angry?"
Keane paused, turned back to look at her, seeming as if there was no such issue, calmly said: "Why be angry?"
His figure fell into the shallow light and shadow intermingling, peach blossom eyes exceptionally profound, devoid of any coolness, Claire could not fathom him.
Being joked like that, and leaving the next moment, it was hard not to let her think more.
"I don't know." She responded.
Keane's gaze moved from her face, turned around, leaving with a simple, "Follow me."
Claire followed his steps, "Where to?"
...