This time, she wouldn't give in. No matter what, she refused to cook for him.
"Tracy, if I starve to death, you'll end up a widow!"
"Tracy, how can you abandon me in my time of need?"
"Tracy, I'm your fiancé, got it? I'm a delicate flower of this nation!"
Even Gordon couldn't believe these words came from his own mouth. Was this really him? The formidable Gordon Hayworth?
Tracy desperately wanted earplugs—anything to block out his endless chatter. With his constant nagging, how could she possibly focus on work?
Since when had the top dog turned into a needy puppy?
She set her things down forcefully and shot him a glare. If only Freon Kitchen hadn't closed—she'd have ordered him takeout immediately.
"I want food. Your cooking."
Did this man read minds? He was working her to the bon
