Ignatius Leclair watched as she casually braided her long hair into a plait, then went to the stove, lit the firewood, and put on water and rice to cook.
The man's deep phoenix eyes were full of tenderness. Perhaps this was what attracted him most to Delphine. Whether on the most dazzling stage or in the most rustic kitchen of a small town, she always found her place, her demeanor as calm as water, capable of embracing everything.
A trace of regret flashed across Ignatius Leclair's handsome face. He was accustomed to making Western dishes, and he was indeed a bit unfamiliar with controlling the heat of such a stove.
Unable to be the master chef, he could only assist. The man asked in a low voice, "Delphine, what should I do with the chicken thighs you've cut? Let me help you."
"Cut them into diced chicken; we'll make chicken pilaf later." Delphine looked up with a smile, her fair face shining with a sweet expression, watching as the man swallowed hard, suppressing his gaze.
