Evelyn Grant was wearing a blouse and a denim skirt today, her hair tied up in a bun. She looked youthful and gorgeous, like a freshman just starting college—pure, immaculate, and utterly charming.
The subject was easily changed.
"I am young."
She was only twenty-three. It wasn't just the clothes; she was genuinely at the peak of her youth.
In fact, there was something else Evelyn Grant wanted to say. She quietly scrambled off Preston Keaton's lap. The man didn't stop her, watching as she calmly put a safe distance between them before taking a deep breath.
"You're the one who's old."
Having said her piece, she turned and ran.
But heavy footsteps sounded from behind her. Evelyn Grant had barely taken two steps before an arm snaked around her waist from behind. In her panic, Preston Keaton's grim voice rang out from above her.
"I'm old?"
He swept her completely off her feet. The man's profile was stern and aloof. "Forget dinner. We're going to have a discussion about this."
—
