In a tastefully decorated private room sat a man—Charles Chase. He bore a certain resemblance to Xavier Foster: both were tall and long-legged, but compared to those other men creeping toward middle age, Chen kept himself in excellent shape.
Chen, however, had an added air of refinement. His gold-rimmed glasses perched gracefully on his nose, and his narrow, amber eyes held a gentle allure. He was the epitome of a cultured gentleman—elegant and distinguished.
Xavier Foster flashed a hint of a smile and nodded slightly. All their prior discussions had been via video conference; this dinner marked their first proper meeting.
"President Foster looks even more impressive in person than on camera," Chen complimented.
"I can’t compare to you, President Chen. How long will you be staying this time?" Xavier Foster replied.
"I’ll be here for about a year. I’ve got work and a bit of personal business to see to, so the details are still up in the air."
Work matters had long since been coordinated; this dinner was an informal getting-to-know-you. After all, it would be good to become acquainted since the two would be seeing quite a bit of each other.
"Mm." Xavier Foster didn’t pry into personal affairs—he merely acknowledged Chen’s words with a cool response.
Chen, on the other hand, didn’t seem to mind. "I’m looking for someone. I might have to ask for your help, President Foster."
"Of course. If you need anything, just let me know."
The meal was pleasant enough. With similar backgrounds and outlooks, they quickly found common ground.
After dinner, they headed downstairs together. Charles Chase left first.
Outside, a wintry wind cut through the evening. Xavier Foster stood tall at the hotel entrance, waiting for Henry Hart to pick him up. His breath misted in the cold air.
In front of the hotel was a fountain—the water rising and falling in the freezing air looked chilly just by sight.
He rarely had the chance to relax like this and allowed his mind to drift as he stood there.
Just two or three minutes passed before a small child tottered into view, seemingly out of nowhere. The toddler couldn’t have been more than three, wearing a tiger-shaped hat, cheeks flushed red from the chill, wobbling unsteadily on short legs.
Perhaps attracted by the dancing fountain, the child wandered directly toward the water’s edge.
Xavier Foster frowned and glanced about—no sign of the child’s parents. He stepped lightly down the stairs, intent on handing the toddler off to the front desk manager. But a child that young had no concept of danger.
The kid leaned over the pond’s edge, babbling baby talk and reaching for stray droplets, half his body already leaning over the water.
Predictably, the child lost balance—head first into the fountain. Xavier Foster lunged, his long arms catching the child by the clothes.
His suit sleeve snagged on something, and the next instant pain shot through his forearm. He frowned, grunting softly through his teeth.
At least he managed to grab the child. Only the tiger hat fell into the water.
Soaked and dazed, the child stared at Xavier Foster in shock. A moment later, he screwed up his face and burst into loud, tearful wails.
Those round eyes pooled with big, glistening tears. Xavier Foster lifted the child free and set him on the ground, noting with displeasure how his sleeve was now entirely drenched.
Kids really are trouble.
Moments later, the parents came running in, following the sound of the child’s cries. The mother swooped up her bawling child. "Oh sweetheart, it’s all right, don’t cry. Mommy’s here."
They were a young couple. The father glanced at Xavier Foster, his stern expression daunting, but hurried over to express his gratitude.
"Sir, thank you, thank you so much. We’re so grateful."
Xavier Foster shook out his arm. The suit sleeve had been pushed up, revealing blood soaking through and winding its way down his forearm.
The father looked like an honest, mild-mannered man, but when he saw the blood, he grew anxious. "Oh—you're hurt! Sir, let me take you to the hospital right now."
The commotion drew the hotel’s front desk manager, who went wide-eyed seeing their executive standing there, blood dripping from his hand.
The manager stared in shock and immediately ordered a car brought around.
"President Foster, this—this…"
Xavier Foster cast a cold glance at the stammering manager. Hmph. Not the sharpest tool in the shed.
The manager felt wronged—he was normally quick-witted, poised and professional. But with Xavier Foster’s cold face and intimidating aura, anyone would feel nervous.
"Have that fountain reinstalled," Xavier Foster commanded, rolling up his sleeve.
The black shirt didn’t show the blood, but once soaked, dark water and bright red mingled, staining his hand and arm.
The manager trailed nervously behind as a black Maybach pulled up. Henry Hart stepped out of the car.
"President Foster, let me drive you to the hospital immediately."
Xavier Foster frowned and made his way to the car. "No need. I’ll go myself."
He remembered he had two more meetings that afternoon. If he went to the hospital now, Henry Hart would just end up cleaning up the mess.
He ignored the anxious group behind him, got in his car, and drove off to the hospital. The cut was deeper than expected; the doctor put in four stitches and wrapped his arm in gauze.
His clothes were wet and he didn’t feel like going all the way back to the office, so he steered his car towards Qinghe.
*
The room was cozily warm. Cecilia Ye had no plans of going out and was curled up comfortably in her loungewear.
She wore a thin, cotton vest underneath a pale purple, hooded, fleece robe that trailed down to her ankles. The large hood at the back looked like a duck with a bow—adorably whimsical.
On the sofa, she played with Zhao Zhao, who kept trying to burrow under her robe—maybe drawn to the softness that reminded it of itself—clearly having the time of its life.
"Zhao Zhao, you mustn’t crawl into my clothes again."
Cecilia Ye looked like a pretty little mochi. Her robe was roomy, exposing a sliver of porcelain arm, the lavender hue making her skin look even fairer.
A romance film played on the wall-sized projector—an overseas movie. Just then, sunlight filtered through a field in the scene, casting delicate green light across the room.
The door clicked open, and Cecilia Ye looked up to see Xavier Foster at the entryway.
Her mouth fell open. She was surprised to see him arrive so suddenly.
Zhao Zhao hopped with short little legs off the sofa, trotting to swirl circles around Xavier Foster’s feet.
He changed out of his shoes and came in, glancing at Cecilia Ye still dazed on the sofa.
"I’m going to change clothes," he said. With half his sleeve soaked, it was indeed uncomfortable, so he headed upstairs to change.
Cecilia Ye watched his retreating figure, her thoughts churning. Why would Xavier Foster be here during work hours?
In the film, the main character walked through a flower field, catching her attention again. She turned back to watch.
After a short while, the sofa sank slightly as Xavier Foster, now wearing a white sweater, sat beside her. The loose collar dipped to reveal hints of his collarbone and his alluring Adam’s apple.
He reached out and drew Cecilia Ye gently into his arms. "What are you watching?"
Cecilia Ye, absorbed in the film, only realized his action after the fact. She answered sweetly, "‘Early Summer Romance.’ It’s a love story."
Xavier Foster said nothing more, merely sitting quietly at her side, keeping her company.
Not long after, he tilted his head and closed his eyes. The room was dim—though it wasn’t yet evening, the winter light was already fading.
On the screen, war broke out; the male protagonist left the girl to go to the battlefield, leaving a basket of daisies on her windowsill before he went.
Cecilia Ye’s heart ached a little. Perhaps it’s the struggles that make love stories truly touching, which is why these films are always brimming with partings and reunions.
Much later, after losing a leg, the male lead returned to his hometown and was reunited with the girl among the daisies.
The film ended at its most beautiful moment, the screen fading to black for the credits. Cecilia Ye rubbed her slightly sore eyes and only then remembered Xavier Foster beside her.
She turned her head—he, normally so stern and severe, was fast asleep.
Night had almost fallen. The room grew dark, with only the pale glow from the projector falling across Xavier Foster’s face.
Cecilia Ye twitched her nose, inching closer to him, studying his sleeping face with care. How could someone look so proper even in their sleep?
His arm still wrapped stubbornly around her waist, the other hand properly placed on his leg. Xavier Foster’s eyelashes were long, with faint shadows beneath his eyes—he must’ve been keeping busy lately.
Supporting herself on the sofa’s edge, Cecilia Ye inched closer still. Her robe slid down abruptly, and she lost her balance, toppling over onto Xavier Foster’s lap.