Neville's gaze panned towards Grayson, who was leaning his back against the chair. He was casually sipping his nutrient solution. Then he looked at the untouched tea and the barely eaten burger.
Not that Neville could blame him—it was really unbearable to eat.
Neville eyed the meat, then the tea. An idea popped into his head. It was ridiculous, sure, but worth a try.
Green tea, he thought, is technically a spice.
Even if he couldn't tell what kind of meat that Level-4 Cosmic Beast cut was—or what that so-called "vegetable" was—in theory, the tannins might at least mask the foul smell.
A little sage for a little horror meat, he mused, holding back a smile.
Neville cleared his throat softly. "Mr. Maxwell?"
"Mm?" The reply came out more like a grunt than an answer, not looking up from his screen.
"Would you mind if I…" Neville gestured vaguely at the abandoned meal, "used your tea? That one in the cup, I mean—If you're not drinking it."
That finally drew Grayson's attention. He raised his gaze over the rim of his drink and looked directly at Neville. His expression was unreadable but vaguely intrigued.
"What for?" Bryan cut in, curious.
"A little experiment, sir," Neville explained. "I heard that tea can mask a foul smell."
For a moment, he couldn't tell what Grayson was thinking. Then the man just shrugged. "Go ahead."
Neville nodded, carefully grabbing the plate and the cup of cold tea. He walked over to the practically unused kitchenette tucked in the corner of Grayson's office.
The kitchenette was filled with state-of-the-art appliances that gleamed under the ambient lighting. Most were still bearing that newly bought shine that suggested they had never been used for anything. Most of them had probably never been switched on.
Setting his ingredients on the marble-like counter, Neville opened cupboards until he found an impressive array of supplies—some familiar, others alien-looking. They were lined up neatly beside ordinary pots and pans.
He discarded the soggy buns and separated the strange tomato-and-lettuce lookalikes and set aside the meat. The "vegetables" might be weird, but at least they seemed edible.
He picked a pot that looked normal, though it heated suspiciously fast once placed on what he assumed was the cooking surface. Meat and vegetables went in first. Then, with a quick prayer to whatever cooking gods this universe had, Neville poured in the diluted tea.
The smell that wafted up was—interesting.
Not exactly good, but definitely a huge improvement.
He spotted a corner full of strange packets in the corner. Neville grabbed a few—salt, sugar, adding them carefully to the mix.
As the pot started to simmer, the scent changed from horrible to maybe edible. The only issue was that the "soup" had turned into a jarring shade of purple. It was probably from the meat's blood.
If only I could turn the patty into a wonton, Neville thought absentmindedly while stirring the pot with a sleek utensil that might have been a spoon—or not. As long as it worked.
The unusual but oddly surprisingly pleasant aroma must have drifted through the office because Bryan suddenly appeared behind him, practically wagging like a curious dog.
"What is that?" Bryan asked, peering over the pot.
"Food," Neville replied dryly. "Theoretically."
Bryan laughed. "Can I have a bite?"
Before Neville could answer, Bryan was already scooping up a spoonful, grabbing a little bit of everything.
One bite later, his eyes widened and he let out an exaggerated hum. "Hmmm~ that's actually good!"
The reaction was so dramatic that it looked suspicious. Neville narrowed his eyes, then took a spoonful himself.
The taste hit his tongue—the flavor was odd and complex. Not awful, but not exactly something he would choose to eat. Definitely not his cup of tea—literally.
His feelings must've been written all over his face because he caught Grayson watching, head tilted slightly, waiting.
Neville gave a short verdict. "It's doable."
A flicker of amusement crossed Grayson's eyes.
"Give me some," he said. It wasn't quite an order, but it wasn't exactly a request either.
Neville nodded, found a small bowl, and portioned out what little he had. There wasn't much made in the first place; therefore, he could only prepare a small one.
Grayson accepted it, the small bowl looking fragile in his large hands. He tried a piece of meat first, draining the broth before taking a bite.
The office went quiet. Neville held his breath.
Then Grayson took another spoonful of the soup. A subtle change was seen in Grayson's expression.
"Yeah," he said.
[Favorability +1%]
After finishing the bowl, Grayson set it down and turned to Bryan.
"Consult Hope if you want to order something for me."
Neville froze, his jaw dropped, before he caught himself. His composure slipped just enough for panic to buzz in the back of his skull.
What do you mean? The question screamed inside, but thankfully never left his lips.
Bryan's reaction was almost comical. For a split second, his poker face cracked, replaced by a smile that was both professional and obviously annoyed.
"…Of course, Sir," Bryan replied smoothly.
Neville blinked, completely lost. He felt like the only one who didn't get it.
As he tried to piece things together, a brilliant idea hit him.
They say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach. Neville's lips curved into a grin.
[No, no, no!] Shelly giggled, her voice taking on that particularly lustful tone that meant she had been reading too much explicit fiction again. [I think you meant the saying, 'the way to a man's heart is three inches below his stomach.']
Neville secretly rolled his eyes at Shelly. She was clearly itching to see some action—the bedroom kind. What a lusty guide I got.
Although her enthusiasm was—if not helpful, at least entertaining.
The food was intimate, it's personal. If Grayson was willing to entertain this idea, maybe this was his chance to earn unlimited favorability.
"Sir," Neville said carefully, making his tone as confident as he could. "If you don't mind, I could just prepare your meals for you."
Bryan and Grayson exchanged a look, and no one said a word.
Neville could feel his confidence waning under the silence, his throat tightening.
Was that too much? His thoughts spiraled. Am I still on the suspicious list? Did I just overstep? Oh god, what if they think I'm trying to poison him?
His panic must have been obvious because Bryan immediately jumped in to smooth things over.
"Don't misunderstand, Hope," Bryan said, his tone warm and reassuring. "It's not that we're dismissing you. We do appreciate the offer. But—"
He paused, choosing his words carefully. "—you're in the middle of the competition. Meals could be seen as a kind of… bribery. Especially since not many people can cook."
The explanation made sense, even if it stung a little.
Of course, there were political considerations. Politics—corporate or otherwise—always had these invisible traps.
Neville nodded in understanding, but he wasn't ready to give up completely.
"So," he asked carefully, "after the competition… would you entrust your meals to me then?"
Bryan's face lit up with a wide smile. "Of cou—"
"One week."
Grayson's voice cut him off sharply, low and decisive. He looked directly at Neville.
"After the competition," he continued, "you'll have one week to impress us. The rest will be decided after."
Bryan shot a sideways glance at Grayson that clearly said, What the hell are you doing?
But Grayson had already turned back to his screen and resumed his work, a silent signal that the conversation was over.
"That," Bryan turned to Neville, his expression a mix of amusement and exasperation, "is what he means. So for now—why don't you tell me what combinations you think might suit our CEO's tastes?"
And so Neville ended up on the sofa in Grayson's office, shoulder to shoulder with Bryan as they leaned over the projector. Their heads bent close together, voices low as they discussed how to figure out Grayson's preferences.
The afternoon sun shifted, casting a warm, golden light that made the scene feel almost intimate.
What neither of them noticed was the way Grayson's fingers had stilled on his keyboard. How his silver eyes kept drifting from his screen to watch them on the sofa. His expression was unreadable—but the tension was there.
His jaw clenched and his mouth pursed as he thought, They're sitting close. Too close—unnecessarily so.