The Year I Was the Other Woman To Myself novel Chapter 69

Penelope ignored him and sipped the soup. Mushroom soup? It was delicious!

“Mr. Stapleton, your mother and I go way back. I’ve practically known you since you were a boy,” Mr. Sullivan began, trying to assume the role of a respected elder.

Theodore merely offered a faint smile and didn’t take the bait.

Mr. Sullivan cleared his throat. With Theodore seated, he was forced to stoop, a posture his prideful back wasn’t accustomed to. He shot Penelope a look, silently asking her to give him her seat.

Penelope did indeed stand up—but only to ladle herself another bowl of soup.

“Mr. Stapleton, this soup your hotel makes is incredible.”

Theodore’s smile deepened slightly. “Don’t overdo it.”

Penelope wanted to roll her eyes. Did this man ever speak without a hint of sarcasm?

Left standing awkwardly, Mr. Sullivan knew this was a rare opportunity and forced himself to press on.

“You’re such an accomplished young man, Mr. Stapleton. I hear you made quite a name for yourself in investment banking overseas. You know, Zebulon was actually a classmate of yours. Why don’t you give me your contact information? I’ll have him treat you to dinner sometime. It’s important for young men like you to network, learn from each other…”

“Ahem!” Penelope choked on her soup.

Mr. Sullivan’s attempt to salvage his pride was just pathetic. He wanted to curry favor, yet he talked about treating Theodore to dinner and “learning from each other.” If you can’t bring yourself to be humble, why bother approaching him at all?

Theodore glanced at Penelope before turning back to Mr. Sullivan. “I had no idea your son and I were classmates. As for dinner, that won’t be necessary. I don’t enjoy dining with strangers.”

The words slapped Mr. Sullivan across the face, and his pride shattered on the floor, impossible to pick back up.

“Mr. Stapleton, that’s not what I meant, I…”

“Is this soup getting cold?” Theodore asked, turning to Penelope.

She took another sip. “A little, yes.”

“I’ll have them bring a fresh pot.”

“Oh.”

Theodore gestured, and a waiter hurried over. After receiving the order, he rushed to the kitchen.

Noticing Mr. Sullivan was still lingering, Theodore said flatly, “Perhaps you should go have some soup as well, Mr. Sullivan. To wet your throat. Your words are coming out a bit… dry.”

It was a clear dismissal.

Frustrated but defeated, Mr. Sullivan had no choice but to slink away.

“Not bad, right?” she asked, her eyes sparkling.

“It’s adequate,” he replied.

“It’s your family’s hotel! Can’t you give it a better review than that?”

“For me, ‘adequate’ is a high compliment.”

So he’s a proud one, she thought. She served him another crab leg, then a piece of braised pork. He frowned at the pork but ate it anyway.

“You should have some vegetables,” she said, placing a serving of greens on his plate.

Just then, the fresh pot of soup arrived, and she ladled him a bowl.

When Theodore finished, Penelope asked, “Was my service to your satisfaction, Mr. Stapleton?”

“It was passable.”

If ‘adequate’ was high praise, she figured ‘passable’ was pretty good too.

Feeling confident, she pressed her luck. “About that ‘three minutes’ we discussed… could we maybe make it five?”