Sorry, I'm the Final Boss Now novel Chapter 122

He hadn’t seen George up close much since they were kids, but even from a fleeting glimpse of his back, Joshua recognized him instantly. The man, dressed in a white suit, looked as noble and pure as a saint. But to Joshua, it was all an act. No matter how much he pretended to be an innocent flower, he was rotten to the core.

He was here for Marguerite again. He was like a leech, impossible to shake off. Marguerite could never fall for him, Joshua thought fiercely. Impossible!

The door to the adjacent hospital room swung shut. Joshua strode over, about to push it open, when a hand clamped down on his wrist. He turned to see a thin teenager with a backpack. Long bangs hid the boy’s eyes, but they couldn’t conceal the cold light within them.

Joshua frowned, though he forced a smile. “Aaron, you’re out of school?”

Aaron didn’t release his grip. His voice was ice. “I told you to stop bothering Maggie.”

Joshua sometimes wondered what he had done to offend Marguerite’s three brothers. None of them liked him. Shouldn’t they be thrilled to have a world-famous movie star as their brother-in-law?

He suppressed his anger. “Maggie and I have had a misunderstanding. You’re too young to understand.” As he spoke, he peered through the small window in the door.

“You can sit for a bit. My brother Aaron isn’t back from school yet. We’ll head home when he gets here,” Marguerite was saying, her eyes crinkling into a smile as she took the gift basket from George. She was a little surprised George had arrived so early, before seven, and that he had brought something. He was always so polite.

George nodded and offered a gentle smile to the middle-aged woman in the bed. “Hello. I’m a friend of Marguerite’s.”

Jenny’s eyes lit up. “You’re very handsome!”

Marguerite blinked. She had to admit, George’s looks were flawless, the kind that made you wonder how one person could be so perfect. And that small brown mole on the tip of his nose was the killer detail.

It was okay. He was willing to be used.

The soft, warm touch sent shivers up his arm. George fought to control his breathing and the possessive gleam in his eyes.

“Is your hand better?” Marguerite asked, pulling his hand closer to inspect it. The man’s hand was pale and elegant, with long fingers, translucent knuckles, and neatly trimmed, pink-tinged nails. It looked like a very capable hand.

Realizing where her thoughts were heading, Marguerite cringed. Get your head out of the gutter, girl! She blamed the romance novels she read to de-stress during her senior year of high school. It was her secret coping mechanism, not for public knowledge.

“It’s fine now,” a smooth, pleasant voice said from above her. And it was true.