Chapter 63: Forming A Bond

Emerald’s POV

Xero took the file from me and disappeared towards the study while I remained standing in the living room.

Michael looked at me briefly before turning towards the kitchen. "Come."

I followed him, still slightly unsure of what to do with myself.

The kitchen was just as spotless as the rest of the condo. Everything had its place, and yet Michael moved around the room as though he had done it a thousand times.

He opened one of the cabinets and took something out. "What do you like for breakfast?"

"Maybe something light," I shrugged. "But I can pretty much eat anything."

He turned to me. "That’s not an answer," he said, then looked away.

"Well, I’m not picky," I shrugged again. Then I saw the corner of his lip curl. "Most people who aren’t picky about food don’t know how to cook," he said.

My mouth dropped open. I stared at him as though he had just personally insulted me. "Are you saying I can’t cook?"

He looked at me with a soft smile. "Do you?" he asked, though I sensed he had already made up his mind.

"Of course I do." I nodded, then he asked, "What can you cook?"

I paused briefly, mentally recalling all the dishes I used to prepare for myself, and then started listing them.

"Oats. Pasta." I added, "Instant noodles."

He stared at me.

I stared back.

Then he laughed.

I frowned. "What’s funny?"

"You," he said, pointing with his chin.

"I know how to cook," I said, trying to sound convincing.

His smile only widened. "You just listed oats, pasta, and instant noodles."

"They’re food."

"That isn’t the point."

I crossed my arms. "Fine. I can make pancakes too."

He raised a brow. "Anything else?"

I thought about it, then lifted my chin. "That’s enough."

He laughed again, and despite myself, I started smiling too.

After a moment, he asked, "Do you cook often in your dorm?"

I shook my head. "Not really. Once in a while."

"And the rest of the time?" he asked.

I looked away. "Takeout."

He gave me a knowing look. "I knew it."

I glanced back at him. "Don’t judge me."

"I’m not judging you," he said. "I’m only saying you shouldn’t rely too much on takeout."

I smiled. "I know."

Then he added, "Although I understand. You’re busy, and you don’t have much time."

I offered a small bow. "Thank you for understanding me."

He gave me a brief look before turning back to what he was preparing, and we both laughed quietly.

For some reason, the conversation felt strangely normal. Too normal.

I had come here to discuss Mercer Technologies with my professor, yet somehow I was standing in his kitchen defending my terrible cooking skills.

I pushed the thought aside. "Do you cook often for yourself?"

"Here in Boston, yes," he said with a nod.

My eyebrows rose. "Really?"

"Yes," he confirmed. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, "Though back in Los Angeles, I have a chef."

I nodded slowly. "That makes more sense."

He glanced at me. "What does?"

"You’re wealthy, you’re busy, and you’re always working. Most men like you have no business being in the kitchen."

He raised an eyebrow. "Most men like me?"

I realised how that sounded and corrected myself at once. "I mean wealthy, busy men."

He gave me a faint smile. "Even more reason to learn."

"Well, I was surprised you could actually cook," I admitted. "And that you cook often."

He turned toward me. "I’m not like other men."

I couldn’t help laughing. "Clearly."

"Yes." He opened another cabinet before pointing towards the upper one. "Get that bowl for me."

I looked up. "That one?"

"Yes."

I stretched out my hand, but it was just a little out of reach. "I can’t reach it," I said, but then he told me, "There’s a small stool behind you."

I turned, found it, and dragged it over. "See? This is why I should have just stayed seated."

"You’re doing just fine," he encouraged.

I climbed onto the stool and retrieved the bowl. When I handed it to him, he took it without saying anything.

Then he asked me to bring something else.

A few minutes later, I found myself moving around his kitchen while he prepared breakfast.

It was oddly comfortable. There was no pressure to fill every silence, and neither of us seemed concerned about making conversation every second.

Eventually, he set breakfast on the table, and we sat facing each other. I took a bite. It was good.

He noticed my expression. "Well?"

"It’s good."

"Just good?"

I smiled. "It’s actually very good."

"Better," he relaxed back against his seat.

I laughed. "I didn’t know you needed validation."

"I don’t." He narrowed his eyes slightly.

I found his reaction funny, but determined not to let him off so easily, I asked, "Then why did you ask?"

He watched me for a moment before saying, "Because you were making a face."

"I was not." I frowned slightly. But in my head, I was curious. Did I actually make a face?

"You were," he insisted.

I shook my head. I might have expressed the wrong reaction. "I was simply surprised."

"By the food?"

"By you," I corrected. "I didn’t imagine you cooking."

"Why?"

"I don’t know. You’re Professor King."

He looked at me oddly, as if questioning why it mattered and wondering how it became a fact. "And?"

"And..." I struggled to explain it. "You’re just not the person I imagined would be standing in a kitchen making breakfast."

A faint smile touched his lips. "You have a lot of assumptions about me."

"Maybe." I took another bite. The conversation gradually moved away from cooking.

Michael talked about my classes and asked if I was keeping up with all my courses this semester. I nodded and told him that though it was demanding, I was managing quite alright.

"Any course giving you trouble?" he questioned.

"Not really." I shook my head. "Some require more reading than others, but I’m keeping up."

"Good."

I nodded and kept eating, and for a few minutes, our talk stayed simple—school, Boston, my schedule. Nothing personal enough to make me uncomfortable, yet I found myself relaxing more than I expected.

When breakfast was done, Michael got up and gestured to me, "Come with me."

I stood and followed him to the study. The moment we entered, the mood shifted.

My file was already on the desk; Michael took his seat and opened it, glancing through the first few pages silently.

He read through each section carefully, occasionally stopping to look at a particular figure or name before continuing.

After several minutes, he finally closed the file. "You’ve done better than I expected."

I blinked. "You expected me to do poorly?"

His gaze returned to me. "No." His answer came so quickly that I almost smiled. "I expected you to give me information, and you gave me enough to start building a strategy."

I felt a small sense of satisfaction. "That’s good."

"It is." He tapped the file lightly with one finger. "You’ve identified the major shareholders, the board members, the senior executives and several of the company’s current financial concerns. More importantly, you’ve managed to separate what you could verify from what you couldn’t."

I nodded. "I didn’t want to include anything I couldn’t confirm."

"I noticed." He opened the file again. "That makes this useful."

"So, what’s next?" I asked.