Under the desk, Liang Jiajia was kneeling and holding the Iron Pestle, savoring it with relish.
Sitting in the chair, Lin Fan was signing some important directives for this period. Before long, the office door was pushed open, and Zhao Qianyue walked in with a smile, holding a lunch box which she placed on the desk.
"Did you make this yourself?"
Looking at Zhao Qianyue who was sitting opposite, Lin Fan curiously opened the lunch box. Inside was steaming chicken soup, exquisite and appealing.
"What do you think?"
Zhao Qianyue hugged her shoulders, leaning against the chair back: "You must have done good deeds in your past life to taste something made by me. But don't get big-headed; this chicken soup is just practice for me. Can't finish it, it's wasteful to feed it to the dogs, so I brought it for you instead."
"That's good then. I thought you were dissatisfied with my recent performance in bed."
