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Connor lounged on the sofa, casting a glance around the room. This was Connor’s first visit since the house had been redecorated.
Over the decades, Passos Real Estate had built numerous houses across the country, leaving one for each descendant.
“Mr. Connor, you can go home now,” Camila declared, clearly trying to dismiss him.
“Go home? This is my home too, Connor responded nonchalantly.
Camila’s face turned pale. She took a deep breath, trying to keep her composure. “Yes, I should be the one to leave.” She turned to go.
reaching for her purse.
Connor suddenly panicked, stood up, and grabbed her hand tightly. “Hey, just kidding.” Property © 2024 N0(v)elDrama.Org.
Camila pulled her hand away, giving a cold laugh. “Mr. Connor, this is your house, and you have every right to make decisions here. Even if you asked me to leave right this moment, I wouldn’t complain.”
Connor didn’t understand why she had suddenly exploded. He said, “Who’s making you leave? Make us some dinner then. Consider it your rent. As long as you’re employed, you have the right to use this house. I can’t make you move out.”
Camila stared at him dumbfounded. What the heck?
Seeing her silent, Connor asked, “Got any paper and a pen?”
“What for?”
“To write you an agreement,” Connor said helplessly.
Camila rolled her eyes and calmed down. Forget it, don’t argue with the boss.
Given her experience, she couldn’t find a better job anyway. For the sake of a paycheck, she’d endure.
“No need for an agreement, I’ll go make dinner.”
Connor raised an eyebrow, smugly resettling himself on the sofa, casually crossing his legs as if he owned the place.
In the kitchen, Camila stared at the empty fridge, furrowing her brows. She was always casual about meals, often mooching off Connor for breakfast and lunch, and just making do when she got home.
Opening the freezer, there were only some frozen ravioli.
Ten minutes later, Camila placed a bowl of ravioli on the dining table. “Mr. Connor, dinner is served.”
Hearing this, Connor put down his phone and came over, frowning at the sight. A bowl of plain ravioli topped with a few leaves. He looked at Camila and asked, “Is this it?”
As soon as he spoke, Camila’s face scrunched up. She wasn’t a cook anyway.
“That’s all there is. Mr. Connor, if you don’t like it, then don’t eat. Please leave. You can have David bring you something, or go out to a restaurant. They have all sorts of delicacies.”
Connor pulled out a chair and stared at the ravioli. “I’ll manage.*
He sat at the table, his posture erect. He swallowed a ravioli, savoring it slowly.
Camila watched him discreetly. He made a simple bowl of ravioli seem like a Michelin–star meal.
After finishing the bowl, Connor pulled out a napkin and gently wiped the corners of his mouth. “Not bad. Where did you buy these? A nearby restaurant?”
Camila wrote down an address on a napkin and placed it in front of him, “Some small diner.”
Connor paused, folded the napkin into a square, and put it in his pocket, then stood up and gently ruffled Camila’s hair. “Thanks for the meal. Get some rest early.”
It was an offhand gesture, seemingly casual Yet, this sudden act startled Camila as if she had been electrified, causing her to jerk her head up, her face full of astonishment.
The gesture seemed overly intimate.
She quickly brushed Connor’s hand away, as if fleeing from something terrifying, instinctively retreating, her body leaning back.