Chapter 155: Chapter 155: The "I Love You" Seat
Anna Willow linked her arm through Iris Kensington’s and comforted her, "Oh, co on, guys are all the sa. They all like those sweet, innocent girls."
Holly Winslow nodded in agreent. "Totally. Don’t be mad. Mortir is like that too."
To comfort her friend, she sheepishly "sold out" her own husband.
When your best friend is angry, you can never take the side of the person who made her mad.
Even if they’re right, they’re wrong.
No questions asked.
Hearing this, Iris Kensington’s mood improved a little. "I can’t be bothered to be mad at him. Hmph. If he wants to break up, then fine. I couldn’t care less."
She waved her hand. "Let’s go! Ti for the roller coaster."
Holly Winslow looked horrified at the suggestion, frantically waving her hands. "No way."
Iris Kensington and Anna Willow each grabbed one of her arms, declaring in unison, "You can’t escape now! HAHAHAHA."
Jarton Second High only had a one-day break, and they had to be back at school that afternoon. So around one or two o’clock, the group started heading ho.
After Iris Kensington and Chris Chaucer got out of Mortir Quincy’s car, Iris, still mad at Chris, started walking ho in a huff.
Chris Chaucer ran after her, grabbing her hand. He pulled her into a quiet alley and pressed her against a wall, relenting, "Don’t be mad anymore. I was wrong."
Iris Kensington haughtily averted her gaze. "Let
go, I’m going ho... Mmph."
Chris Chaucer lowered his head and kissed her. Iris Kensington’s face turned red bit by bit. Soon, Chris let her go and patted her head, patiently explaining, "You can say whatever you want to , but not out in public. If other people hear you, they’ll think you’re a bad kid."
Her anger already kissed away, Iris Kensington said shyly, "I know. Now let go of , soone might co by."
"Pack your things and co down. I’ll take you to school. And if you score 420 or higher on your finals, I’ll take you to have fun at Crimsoncrest Peak." Chris Chaucer leaned in and kissed her one more ti before letting her go, satisfied.
"Okay, okay, okay," Iris Kensington said as she practically fled the scene.
...
Holly Winslow and Mortir Quincy didn’t go ho; they went to the movies instead.
It was pretty crowded for a Saturday, filled with students around their age.
They hadn’t been in a while. The theater now offered couple’s seats, but they were in the very back row, which wasn’t great for viewing.
Mortir Quincy and Holly Winslow skipped the couple’s seats and bought seats 20 and 21 in the fifth row.
When Mortir Quincy saw Holly Winslow about to sit in seat 21, he said, "Holly, take the other one."
Holly Winslow took a sip of her soda. After sitting down, she looked at him, confused. "Is there a difference?"
"There is."
Mortir Quincy waited for her to get settled before sitting down beside her. He set down the popcorn and said, "Honey, how do you like our ’I love you’ seats?"
His sudden sweet talk almost made Holly Winslow choke on her soda. "..."
’He’s never this talented when he writes love letters.’
Halfway through the movie, Holly Winslow heard a small voice from behind them. "Mommy, I want so popcorn."
"We’ll get so on the way out." That voice sounded a little familiar.
No, it was *too* familiar.
’The Dean of Discipline.’
Mortir Quincy and Holly Winslow exchanged a look. "..."
’Running into the Dean of Discipline over and over again... we’re definitely going to get caught.’
There were no more sounds from behind them after that.
When the movie ended and the lights ca up, Holly Winslow kept her back to the aisle, afraid the Dean of Discipline would spot her.
Mortir Quincy couldn’t help but let out a low chuckle, but he ducked his head a little, too. If the Dean saw them together too often, he’d definitely get suspicious.
Once the Dean of Discipline and his child had left, Holly Winslow and Mortir Quincy finally got up. Mortir naturally took her hand. "Co on, little mistress. Your sugar daddy is taking you ho."
The "little mistress": "..."
She looked up at him, blinking. "Your wife might get angry."
"My wife? Nah, she won’t."
Mortir Quincy added gloomily, "She’ll chop
into pieces."
Holly Winslow burst out laughing.
The Dean of Discipline, who had co back for sothing he forgot, returned leading his child by the hand. He froze for a second when he saw the hand-holding "cousins." "Holly Winslow. Mortir Quincy."
Holly Winslow was stunned. "..."
’Is my first instinct to fake an illness?’
Mortir Quincy quickly let go of her hand. "You got soda on your hands. Go wash them in the restroom."
Then he calmly greeted him, "Mr. Hollis."
Holly Winslow echoed, "Mr. Hollis."
’So that’s what it was. Holly’s hand was just sticky with soda.’
The Dean of Discipline didn’t suspect a thing and said amiably, "You two ca to see a movie as well?"
Mortir Quincy grunted in affirmation. "Dad asked
to take Holly out to relax a bit."
’On a date,’ Holly thought.
...
Hearing the door open, Wyatt Winslow looked up from the sofa. He didn’t ask where Holly Winslow had been, simply saying, "Wash your hands. Ti for dinner."
After washing her hands, Holly Winslow sat down at the table. There were pickled chicken feet on the table, and she grabbed one and started to gnaw on it. It was both sour and spicy. She gave Wyatt Winslow a thumbs-up. "Dad, this is delicious!"
"If you like it, then eat up," Wyatt Winslow said, picking up so greens with his chopsticks.
Holly Winslow then added with a sweet, innocent charm, "From now on, I’m taking you with
wherever I go, Dad. That way, I can have your pickled chicken feet every day."
Wyatt Winslow’s chopsticks paused mid-air. He pressed his lips together, his tone tinged with an almost imperceptible loneliness. "You’ll have your own ho soday."
It might have sounded like he didn’t want to live with her, but Holly Winslow knew what he really ant: he didn’t want to be a burden to her in the future.
She pretended not to understand, huffing and retorting like a spoiled child, "I don’t care. Wherever I am is where you’ll be, Dad. We’re never going to be apart."
Wyatt Winslow’s heart ward. It didn’t matter if his daughter’s promise would co true soday; at that mont, he was filled with pure joy.
"Your teacher ntioned a 396-yuan materials fee. Why didn’t you tell ?"
Holly Winslow replied between bites, "I still have money. It’s enough to pay for it."
He used to control her allowance because he was afraid she’d get into trouble, but now that she was so much more sensible, he no longer felt the need to.
He didn’t say anything more, but the next day, as Holly Winslow was leaving for school, he gave her an extra five hundred yuan.
...
As soon as they got to school, Zeke Zane and the others paid Mortir Quincy back the lunch money they owed him from last month. They even paid "interest" in the form of a double helping of snacks.
After that, the usual routine began—copying howork.
During evening self-study, Gabe Chaucer produced so Chinese language worksheets he’d printed from sowhere, saying it was last year’s college entrance exam, and told them to complete it.
"All of you, take this seriously. I’m going to grade them. Anyone who scores below one hundred will have to copy the entire test ten tis."
There was a school-wide teachers’ eting that Sunday, so after he finished speaking, he hurried off.
Possibly due to a printing error, when Holly Winslow reached the classical poetry section, the first question asked her to translate the aning of the underlined verse.
But there was no underlined verse in the poem.
She turned to look at Mortir Quincy. He always wrote the essay first and was now working on the modern literature comprehension section.
She whispered, "Let
see the classical poetry part."
Mortir Quincy flipped his test over and slid it to her. His paper didn’t have an underlined sentence either.
She whispered again, "Husband, there’s no line."
Mortir Quincy studied it for over ten seconds, then took his pen and underlined the third sentence. "There you go."
Staring at the hand-drawn black line, Holly Winslow asked casually, "How did you know it was that one?"
’When you do enough practice problems, you just know. Besides, I’ve seen this poem on a test before, and the third sentence is always what they ask about.’
Mortir Quincy raised an eyebrow and said in a low, leisurely voice, "Because I’m your husband."
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