CHAPTER 165: CHAPTER 165: WANT TO TRY SOMETHING ELSE?

Jean Ellison finished her bun, with half a cup of soy milk still in her hand.

She turned to the young owner: "Where should I throw this?"

The boy stretched out his hand, smiling gently.

"Just give it to me, I’ll clean up later."

Jean handed the soy milk cup to him: "Thank you."

She turned around, walked to her car, started the engine, and drove out of the parking lot, heading towards the entrance to the hillside community.

The boy stood there, watching her car fade into the distance.

He looked down at the soy milk cup in his hand, with a faint lipstick mark on it, half-full of soy milk.

The gentle, harmless smile on his face gradually faded.

He raised his hand, brought the straw close to his mouth, bit down, and slowly took a sip.

The soy milk was already lukewarm, but he didn’t seem to mind.

His gaze was fixed in the direction where Jean’s car disappeared, his eyes growing cold, a stark contrast to the innocent image he portrayed just moments ago.

In the distance, a few young Asian men in casual clothing, but with sharp eyes, were either standing or leaning in the corners of the parking lot.

They had been keeping an eye on the happenings at the breakfast stand.

Seeing their boss actually lower his head to drink the leftover soy milk of that stranger woman, they widened their eyes in disbelief, exchanging incredulous glances and whispering among themselves.

"Damn, the boss actually..."

"Not only is he up early selling breakfast, but he also drank that woman’s soy milk?"

"What’s going on? Who is that woman?"

"Didn’t see her face clearly, but she’s definitely a beauty, her silhouette is perfect!"

"Yeah, yeah, an Asian woman, but her figure was more striking than those American chicks."

"Wearing jeans, yet so sexy, even more alluring than a short skirt."

They discussed excitedly, but no one dared to approach.

Because at this moment, the expression on their boss’s face was terrifyingly grim, emanating a low pressure that warned others to stay away, his gaze cold as ice, devoid of the warmth he showed to the woman earlier.

The boy finished the last bit of soy milk, his fingers exerted a slight force, crushing the empty paper cup.

He casually tossed the paper cup into the nearby trash can, his movements indifferent.

He removed his apron, revealing the clean white sweatshirt underneath.

He glanced coldly in the direction of his followers.

The few boys behind the trees immediately fell silent, standing straight, no longer whispering or daring to step forward to ask anything.

They felt that something was off about their boss today.

He no longer looked at anyone, shoved his hands into the pockets of his sweatshirt, and with long strides, walked in the direction Jean had driven up the hill, his back upright but carrying an air of aloof hostility.

The makeshift breakfast stand was left behind as if it was no longer of any concern to him.

Jean found a rather elegant villa halfway up the hill, according to the address.

She rang the doorbell, feeling a little apprehensive inside.

An elderly man with gray hair and a refined demeanor opened the door.

Seeing Jean, he showed a puzzled expression: "May I ask who you are looking for?"

"Uncle Sutton?" Jean tentatively called out.

The old man scrutinized her carefully, his eyes filled with even more confusion: "And you are?"

"Uncle Sutton, I’m Claire Caldwell," Jean said softly.

The man who opened the door was indeed Gregory Sutton, and upon hearing this, he was stunned.

In the living room behind him, a middle-aged woman dressed plainly also came out upon hearing the noise.

"Claire? Are you little Claire?"

Gregory Sutton looked at her in disbelief and turned back to tell his wife.

"Sylvia, come and see, it’s Timothy’s daughter, Claire, she’s here."

Sylvia Lynch hurried over, equally surprised, taking a closer look at Jean.

"Oh my, it’s really Claire!"

"It’s been so many years, how did you get so much thinner? You’ve changed so much; you’re so beautiful I almost didn’t recognize you."

They warmly welcomed Jean into the house.

The living room was decorated in a cozy and elegant style.

"We didn’t hire any help, it’s peaceful," Sylvia Lynch said, holding Jean’s hand, "Claire, take a seat, Aunt will cook for you herself, you loved my sweet and sour ribs the most when you were little."

Gregory Sutton was also very excited; he went to the bookshelf, found an old photo album, and handed Jean a faded group photo.

"Claire, look, this is a photo of your dad and me at the university dormitory entrance. We were bunkmates."

He pointed to the youthful boys with their arms around each other in the photo, eyes full of nostalgia.

"Back then, when your dad was courting your mom, I even helped him polish his love letters. His writing, tsk, not good enough."

He cheerfully asked Jean, "By the way, how is your dad doing lately? Is he healthy? Why didn’t he come with you to the United States this time? It’s been over ten years since we last met. I’ve got his favorite white wine stored in the cellar, thinking one day when he comes, we can have a good drink. When you leave, make sure to take a couple of bottles back for him."

Listening to Gregory Sutton’s words, Jean became puzzled.

Uncle Sutton actually didn’t know that her father had already passed away?

She paused for a few seconds, lifted her eyes to look at Gregory Sutton, and interrupted his reminiscence with a clear voice.

"Uncle Sutton, my dad has already passed away."

Gregory Sutton’s smile froze instantly.

He seemed as if he hadn’t heard clearly, or perhaps couldn’t comprehend it.

"What? Claire, you... what did you say?"

"My dad passed away five years ago," Jean Ellison repeated.

The photo in Gregory Sutton’s hand drifted to the floor.

He suddenly stood up from the sofa, his body swayed, and his face turned deathly pale. He shouted in the direction of the kitchen, "Sylvia, Sylvia, come out, we’re going back to the United States, book the tickets right away!"

His voice trembled, and his eyes quickly reddened, filled with grief.

Sylvia Lynch, wearing an apron and still holding a spatula, rushed out from the kitchen, looking bewildered.

"Old Sutton, what’s wrong, what happened, why are we going back?"

Gregory Sutton pointed at Jean Ellison, his lips quivering, "Timothy... he... passed away five years ago."

Sylvia was also stunned, the spatula in her hand clattered to the ground.

Jean looked at the genuine expressions of sorrow on the elderly couple’s faces, her heart filled with even more questions.

She spoke calmly, "Uncle Sutton, Aunt Sutton, there’s no need to worry. I actually came today with a question that I’d like Uncle Sutton to answer for me."

Gregory Sutton took several deep breaths, trying to calm himself, and sat back down on the sofa, his voice still hoarse.

"Claire, just ask. As long as I know, I’ll definitely tell you."

Jean looked him straight in the eye and asked, "My dad committed suicide by jumping off a building. At that time, the official conclusion was that he was involved in a huge financial fraud and couldn’t bear the consequences."

"However, on the night he jumped, his most trusted secretary and driver, Miles Morgan, wasn’t in Kingswell. He rushed back to his old home in Sudland Province overnight to meet someone."

She paused, then spoke each word clearly, "The person he met was your second son, Ronan Sutton."

"Ronan?" Gregory Sutton furrowed his brow, his face filled with pure confusion and bewilderment, "Miles went to see Ronan? Five years ago, at that time, this... I don’t know, Sylvia, did you hear about this?"

Sylvia also shook her head in confusion, "I haven’t heard Ronan mention it. At that time, he was indeed in the country, but he didn’t say who he met."

Gregory Sutton immediately said to his wife, "Call Ronan now and tell him to come home immediately, right away!"

Sylvia hastily took out her phone, found her son’s number, and dialed it.

The phone had barely rung twice, not yet connected, when the door of the villa was suddenly pushed open from the outside.

A young man in a white hoodie, slender and tall, walked in, swinging car keys in his hand.

He had a slightly lazy and casual expression on his face, precisely the young boss who sold buns at the foot of the mountain.

Seeing Jean in the living room, a flash of surprise crossed his eyes, and then he smiled slightly, his lips curling into a faint smirk.

Seeing him, Gregory Sutton immediately said, "Ronan, you’re back just in time. This is Claire, your Uncle Caldwell’s daughter. She’s asking if Miles visited you in Sudland Province on the night her father had his accident five years ago."

Ronan’s gaze fell on Jean, his eyes deep.

He chuckled lightly, his voice clear, "Dad, Mom, did you call me back so urgently just to ask this?"

Aunt Sutton glared at him disapprovingly.

"What else could it be? It’s just about this. Your Uncle Caldwell’s family went through such trouble; if you really knew something at that time, quickly tell Claire."

Ronan shrugged nonchalantly, his interest piqued as he kept his gaze on Jean, his tone lightly teasing.

"I thought you both called me back so urgently to introduce me to my bride-to-be."

He took two steps closer to Jean, leaned down slightly, his handsome and elegant face near hers, his eyes slightly raised at the corners, carrying a hint of charming mystery, and his voice lowered, infused with a magnetic ambiguity.

"Sister, I forgot to tell you, our families are actually bonded by an arranged marriage."

He smiled.

"In a way, you’re my fiancée."

"Cough... cough cough."

Jean had just raised the cup to drink water, and upon hearing this, she choked, coughing violently, her cheeks instantly turning red.

She put down the cup, awkwardly wiped the corner of her mouth.

The drawn-out "sister" sent a shiver up her arms, giving her goosebumps.

He looked too young, with a trendy parted hairstyle, simple white hoodie, casual pants, sneakers, exuding the aura of a fresh-faced student, as if still on campus.

Yet those eyes were deep and cold, with a charming allure and insight beyond his age, impossible to dismiss.

Seeing his son’s antics, Uncle Sutton hastened to chastise him.

"Ronan, what nonsense are you spouting? Those were just jokes made while drinking with your Uncle Caldwell, don’t take it seriously. You, always thinking of taking advantage of your sister Claire."

He turned to Jean with an apologetic smile.

"Claire, don’t listen to his nonsense, this boy just has a glib tongue."

Ronan shrugged it off, remaining nonchalant, keeping his eyes on Jean, as if he’d found a fascinating prey.

He sat on the single sofa beside Jean, his arm casually draped over the armrest, posture relaxed, yet his gaze was fixed on her.

"Sister," he called again, his tone naturally affectionate, "Did you like the buns I steamed this morning? You’ve had the pork and scallion ones; would you like to try others, like shrimp or mushroom chicken?"

His sudden question left Uncle and Aunt Sutton puzzled.

When did their son start selling buns? He’d already met Claire Caldwell, and they were unaware of these developments.

Jean, uneasy under his direct gaze and intimate tone, felt the warmth returning to her cheeks.

She avoided his gaze, offering no response.

Noticing her flushed ears and feigned composure, Ronan chuckled softly, refraining from pressing further, retrieving his concentrated gaze appropriately.

He leaned back into the sofa, resuming his lazy and casual demeanor, exuding a pure and innocent youthful vibe.