Clearly, nobody expected Caleb Baker to carry on the conversation in that way. Daisy Lambert frowned, looking up and down at her own son, "What did you say?"
Caleb Baker sat casually, the silver watch on his wrist contrasting against his skin. The continuous, blue veins below stood out in his field of view, imparting an extra sense of masculinity, and inviting rampant speculation.
He spoke carelessly, without even bothering to lift his eyelids, "This meat."
With his right hand, he held a chopstick, poking at the stir-fried pork in the exquisite porcelain plate.
The nanny sitting next to him was silent: "..."
What you're saying really ruffles my feathers.
You haven't even eaten a single bite, young master.
I do have a chef's certificate! Every dish is tested in advance before it's served. There's no way it could be overcooked. And by the way, who overcooks their stir-fried pork?
The nanny looked resentful.
She had no choice but to swallow this bitter pill.
