Sorry, I'm the Final Boss Now novel Chapter 95

After giving Theobald a full rundown of Aaron’s situation, Marguerite ended the call with a few choice words for her brother and then went to fetch the chef.

Louis, a man with a deep respect for both the art of cooking and the ingredients themselves, had been thinking while he was outside. He looked at Marguerite and said, “How about this, Ms. Lopez: I’ll cook the meal, but I’ll make it taste different from my usual style. Then we’ll say you made it. I promise I won’t let it slip.”

Marguerite frowned. “How would that work? George is just putting on a bandage; he’ll be down any minute. He’ll know.”

Louis shook his head. “Lately, the master has been showering and washing his hair the moment he gets home from work. That will take some time. I have all the ingredients prepped; it’ll be very quick.”

“You stand guard at the door. The second you hear a sound from upstairs, I’ll hand you the spatula. It’ll be foolproof.”

For the sake of George’s physical well-being, Marguerite considered it for a few seconds and nodded. “Okay, thank you!”

Louis breathed a sigh of relief. “It’s my pleasure.”

Marguerite rarely lied, and now, standing at the kitchen doorway with her ears pricked, her heart was pounding. It felt like cheating on an exam.

Twenty minutes later, she heard footsteps on the stairs.

She nearly jumped out of her skin. “He’s coming! He’s coming! Code red!”

Louis, who was in the middle of tossing the final dish in a wok, was so startled he nearly sent the whole thing flying. The composure he had cultivated over decades as a master chef almost shattered.

The moment he drew near, Marguerite’s heart leaped into her throat. His fingers brushed against hers, sending a jolt of electricity through her. The kitchen was filled with the heavy aroma of cooking, but all she could smell was the clean, cool scent of the man beside her.

Louis quickly stepped forward, smiling. “Sir, Ms. Lopez cooked all these dishes herself. She spent the whole afternoon learning from me. She wanted to give you a surprise.”

George’s fingers tightened on the spatula. His warm eyes rested on the girl’s face, a damp, feverish excitement swirling in their depths.

Under his intense gaze, Marguerite’s face flushed the color of a ripe tomato. “Yes,” she stammered. “I wanted to surprise you.”

“What’s wrong?” George asked, his voice a carefully controlled murmur of gentleness.