readytorunbook Chapter 139: Best Fan in the World Part 1
Chapter 139: Best Fan in the World Part 1
Chapter 139 - Best Fan in the World Part 1[Check out the Patreon, I think there's like 51 advance Chapters there with daily Chapters, and drop some power stones, comment and review if you guys want to, trying to hit 2500 power stones this week.]
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The next morning, Tristan and Barbara arrived at the Burberry headquarters in London—a modern high-rise with a contemporary design. The faint drizzle from earlier still clung to parts of the building.
Tristan, dressed in a sharply tailored black suit from Burberry, walked beside Barbara, his hand resting casually on her lower back. Barbara, in a well-fitted beige trench coat over a smart black dress, looked as sophisticated as the brand itself.
"I still can't believe this," Barbara said as they stepped into the elevator, her tone a mix of awe and amusement. "You're about to be the face of Burberry."
Tristan grinned. "What, you didn't think I had the looks?"
Barbara scoffed, linking her arm with his. "Oh, please. You know exactly what you bring to the table."
The elevator doors slid shut, sealing them in as it began its smooth ascent. Barbara sighed, leaning back against the mirrored wall, arms folded loosely.
"You know," she murmured, glancing up at Tristan, "I've been modeling for years. I've done campaigns, editorials, walked runways... and I still haven't been the face of a brand this big. Meanwhile—" she gestured toward him with a shake of her head, something between amused and exasperated "—you show up, barely a year since your debut, and Burberry hands you a contract like it's nothing."
Tristan turned his head toward her, a flicker of something understanding in his green eyes. He leaned in closer, his broad frame making the elevator feel smaller. "It's not nothing," he said, his voice softer now. "I know what you're saying, but come on. You know why this happened."
Barbara let out a dry laugh, tilting her head. "Yeah. Because you're Tristan Hale. England's golden boy. Athletes get brand deals thrown at them." She raised an eyebrow. "It's different for models. We have to fight for it."
Tristan watched her, noticing the way she toyed absentmindedly with the belt of her trench coat, her frustration barely restrained under the coolness of her voice. He reached out, his fingers brushing over her wrist. "Barbara, you're not just a model," he said, voice steady. "You're you. People are paying attention now, more than ever. You're getting bigger every day."
She let out a breath, then looked up at him through dark lashes. "Because I'm dating you."
Tristan frowned slightly at that, his grip tightening just a little on her wrist. "No," he said firmly. "That's not it. Yeah, maybe some extra eyes are on you now, but they're staying because of you. Because you're fucking good at what you do." He paused,
Tristan? He was more relaxed, hands tucked into his pockets as he trailed behind her, watching her work with an amused expression.
"This place is huge," Barbara murmured, taking in the endless rows of furniture, from modern leather sectionals to rustic farmhouse dining tables.
Tristan smirked, standing beside her. "Yeah, babe. It's called a furniture store."
Barbara shot him a flat look before elbowing his side. "You're hilarious."
Tristan grinned but said nothing, letting her drag him deeper into the showroom.
Barbara was in full designer mode now, her eyes scanning each sofa with the precision of an architect sketching blueprints. She ran her hands over the fabrics, testing firmness, considering aesthetics.
Tristan? He plopped down on the first oversized sectional he saw, stretching his legs out with a satisfied sigh. "This one."
Barbara turned, arms crossed. "You didn't even test the others."
Tristan patted the seat beside him. "Babe, just sit."
She sighed but sank down next to him—only for Tristan to immediately pull her onto his lap.
Barbara yelped, her hands gripping his shoulders as she twisted to face him. "Tristan!"
He grinned, arms locking around her waist. "See? It's comfortable."
She rolled her eyes but laughed, shifting slightly. "...Okay, this one's not bad."
Tristan pressed a quick kiss to her jaw. "Told you."
They picked it.
Barbara took over completely in the kitchen section. She inspected every plate, every utensil, every glass like she was curating a luxury dining experience.
Tristan, watching her hold up two almost identical forks in deep contemplation, leaned against the cart. "Babe, they're the same."
Barbara shot him a glare. "One is slightly heavier."
Tristan muttered under his breath, but let her continue. Then they hit the coffee machines.
He eyed the price tag on an espresso maker. "You're really dropping this much money on coffee?"
Barbara, dead serious, placed a hand over her heart. "It's not just coffee, it's an experience."
Tristan let out a long, dramatic sigh but added it to the cart.
Barbara tested every mattress while Tristan laid on the first comfortable one and refused to move.
"You don't even care?" she asked, testing another.
Tristan lifted his head slightly, watching her bounce experimentally on a memory foam one. "As long as it's big enough for us to sleep comfortably, I'm good."
Barbara scoffed, dropping onto the bed beside him. "You mean for you to take up most of the space?"
Tristan just grinned, entirely unbothered.
They settled on a king-sized bed, luxury sheets, and a floor-length mirror that Barbara insisted was a necessity.
Tristan raised an eyebrow at the mirror. "Why do we need this?"
Barbara gave him a slow, knowing smile. "You'll understand later."
Tristan blinked—then laughed. "Fair point. Getting it."
When they got to a gym store was when Tristan started paying attention.
He marched straight toward the weights, listing off equipment like he was assembling a professional training facility.
"Alright, we need a squat rack, free weights, a treadmill, a bench..."
Barbara trailed behind, raising an eyebrow. "Don't forget resistance bands."
Tristan paused. "Right. Those too."
They built a fully stocked home gym, knowing they'd both use it religiously.
Barbara picked out decor, candles, and artwork, carefully curating the finishing touches that would make their house feel like home.
Meanwhile, Tristan focused on the important things—TVs, sound systems, and gaming setups.
He was mid-purchase on a 75-inch 4K TV when Barbara walked over, arms full of throw pillows.
"Babe, you just dropped a small fortune," she teased, eyeing the receipt.
Tristan wrapped an arm around her waist, pressing a soft kiss to her temple. "Worth it."
Barbara tilted her head slightly, pretending to consider. "Even the overpriced coffee machine?"
He groaned. "Yes, even the coffee machine."
By the time the furniture was delivered and set up, exhaustion hit them both like a freight train.
Barbara flopped onto their new couch, stretching out as she stared at the ceiling. "This was a lot."
Tristan, dropping onto the seat beside her, pulled her legs across his lap. "Yeah." He glanced around the house, already feeling like it belonged to them.
Barbara smiled, her fingers lazily playing with the sleeve of his hoodie. "It already feels like home."
Tristan watched her for a second before gripping her ankle gently, tugging her toward him until she was close enough to rest her head on his shoulder.
"It is home," he murmured. "Our home."
Barbara closed her eyes, sinking into the warmth of it.
She couldn't wait for everything that came next.
Tristan stretched out on their brand-new bed, his body sinking into the mattress as he exhaled deeply. "Finally done."
Beside him, Barbara had already curled up, her legs tangling slightly with his as she let out a soft, content hum. "This is perfect."
Tristan turned onto his side, pulling her closer until her back was snug against his chest. His lips brushed against the top of her head before he murmured, "You sure?"
Barbara nodded, already getting comfortable. "Mhm."
His fingers drifted over her arm absentmindedly, tracing the soft curve of her shoulder. But then, his gaze landed on the small tattoo behind her left ear—number 4.
Without thinking, he leaned down and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss right over it.
Barbara shivered slightly, a pleasant warmth running down her spine.
"I really like this," Tristan murmured against her skin, his breath warm. "You ever think about getting more?"
Barbara blinked, her sleepiness momentarily forgotten. "Not for a few more years," she admitted, tilting her head slightly as if considering it.
That answer must have pleased him, because when she turned to look at him, his lips had curled into a small, satisfied smile.
"I like that answer too," he said, his fingers brushing over the inked number once more before settling against her waist.
Barbara let out a quiet laugh, her eyes already half-closing. "You, Mr. Hale, need to sleep. You have training tomorrow."
Tristan groaned, his forehead dropping against her shoulder. "Don't remind me."
She let out a soft chuckle, her fingertips grazing his forearm in slow, lazy circles. "I'm not letting you be late because of me."
Tristan sighed dramatically, but still pulled the blankets higher over them, fully settling in. "I guess I should be grateful for that."
Barbara hummed, her breathing already slowing, her hand still idly tracing shapes against his arm. "Very."
Tristan watched her for a few seconds longer, feeling the quiet comfort settle between them.
Then, just as sleep started tugging at him, he pressed one more kiss against her temple—soft, lingering.
"Goodnight."
Barbara's lips curled slightly against the pillow. "Night, Tristan.."
Within minutes, they were both asleep—wrapped up in each other.
..
Barbara stirred as the soft rustling of sheets and the faint vibration of a phone against the nightstand pulled her from sleep. She blinked groggily, stretching just enough for her fingers to brush against Tristan's chest.
He was already awake.
She heard him exhale softly, reaching for his phone, the dim glow of the screen illuminating his face.
Barbara's voice came out thick with sleep. "What time is it?"
Tristan glanced at the screen, his other hand absentmindedly tracing slow circles on her back. "Six-thirty."
A groan immediately left her lips as she buried her face into the pillow. "Too early."
Tristan let out a low chuckle, the kind that rumbled deep in his chest. "Tell that to my schedule."
Barbara peeked up at him just as he tossed the blanket off, stretching as he sat up. His muscles tensed slightly as he ran a hand through his messy curls, reaching for a hoodie.
She didn't even try to hide the way she was staring.
Tristan caught her look in the mirror and smirked. "Enjoying the view?"
Barbara sighed dramatically, rolling onto her back. "I mean, I'd be lying if I said no."
He laughed softly, pulling the hoodie over his head before turning back to her. "You sure you don't wanna just stay home today?"
Barbara stretched her arms over her head, her voice still drowsy. "Tempting," she admitted.
Tristan sat back down beside her, resting a hand on her waist. "Mhm. That's what I thought." He leaned in, his lips pressing against her shoulder in a slow, lingering kiss.
Barbara shivered slightly, but her fingers lazily toyed with the edge of his sleeve. "You should get going; I don't want you to be late for the first time because you were too busy kissing me."
Tristan groaned, dropping his forehead against her arm. "Don't remind me."
Tristan was already grabbing his phone when Barbara finally propped herself up on her elbows, watching him.
"Guess that means I should get up too," she mused.
Tristan raised an eyebrow. "For what?"
Barbara yawned, stretching her legs beneath the blanket. "I dunno. Maybe I'll explore the city a little."
That answer seemed to ease something in him. He liked knowing she'd get out of the house instead of staying cooped up all day.
"Good," he said, grabbing his jacket. "I don't want you just staying here."
Barbara tilted her head, a teasing smile forming. "Are you feeling guilty?"
He exhaled, running a hand through his hair before reaching over to tuck a strand of hers behind her ear. "Yeah. A little."
Her expression softened instantly. "Tristan, it's fine. I knew what I was signing up for."
"I know." His jaw tensed slightly, as if something was still bothering him. "But I still don't like the idea of you being alone all day."
Barbara rolled her eyes but couldn't help the small smile tugging at her lips. "I'll be fine. I promise."
Tristan didn't look completely convinced. His hand slid to her cheek, thumb brushing lightly along her cheekbone as he studied her.
Then, just as she thought he might let it go, he exhaled. "I'll talk to Sophia about getting another guard."
Barbara groaned, flopping back onto the mattress. "Tristan—"
"No, listen." His voice was calm, steady. Not demanding—just firm. "I already said this before. I don't like the idea of you walking around alone."
She stared at the ceiling for a second, knowing full well she wasn't going to win this argument.
With a sigh, she ran a hand through her hair. "You really won't drop this, huh?"
Tristan's gaze held hers, calm but unwavering. "Not when it comes to you."
Barbara watched him for another moment, then let out a quiet huff. "Fine. But maybe in a year or two when I'm more famous."
That earned her a slow, satisfied smile. "Deal."
"Do me a favor and have her send John, Felix, and Soma over today after training."
Barbara, still buried under the blankets, peered up at him. "Bossing me around already?"
Tristan leaned down, catching her lips in a slow, lazy kiss.
"Always," he murmured against her mouth.
Barbara laughed softly before pulling away. "Alright, go. Before I actually convince you to stay."
Tristan let out a deep, exaggerated sigh, shaking his head. "The things I do for football."
She watched as he grabbed his keys and jacket, the warmth of his presence already fading from the bed.
At the door, he paused, glancing back one last time. "Text me if you need anything. And seriously, lock the door."
Barbara waved him off, grinning sleepily. "Yes, Dad."
Tristan rolled his eyes, but a small, fond smile lingered on his lips.
Then he was gone.
Barbara exhaled deeply, stretching out in the empty bed.
She had the whole day ahead of her.
By the time Tristan pulled into Belvoir Drive, Leicester's training ground, the parking lot was already packed. The sun was just beginning to climb higher, casting long shadows across the pavement, the crisp morning air carrying the faint scent of freshly cut grass.
He stepped out of his car, rolling his shoulders to shake off the last traces of sleep. But, truthfully, he felt more energized than he had in a long time.
Maybe it was the fact that he finally had his own place. Maybe it was Barbara.
As he made his way toward the facility, he spotted familiar faces by the entrance—Vardy, Schmeichel, and Lingard, already kitted up. The moment Vardy caught sight of him, his grin turned downright mischievous.
"Oi, look who it is!" Vardy called out, loud enough for the entire training ground to hear. "The husband himself!"
Tristan exhaled, shaking his head. "Jesus Christ."
Lingard was already laughing, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "Bought a house, moved your girl in—mate, you sure we don't need to start calling you Mr. Hale?"
Tristan shoved him off, deadpan. "Let's get this over with."
Schmeichel, arms crossed, smirked. "To be fair, buying a house at nineteen? That's not just dating anymore, mate. That's marriage-level commitment."
Tristan scoffed, but there was no real bite behind it. "I wouldn't go that far."
Vardy, of course, wasn't letting up. "Nah, nah, I get it. You're setting yourself up for the future. Gotta lock her down before she realizes she can do better."
Tristan shot him a flat look. "Vardy, I swear to God—"
Before he could properly retaliate, Pearson's voice rang out across the pitch.
"Alright, enough talking! Get your boots on and let's get to work!"
The banter would never end, but for now, it was time to train.
Once they were on the pitch, all the jokes faded.
Last match?
A 2-0 loss to Crystal Palace.
The entire squad had felt the weight of it. The criticism. The frustration.
And now, they wanted to prove a point—that they were something without Tristan Hale.
Last week's loss still stung. The team had been written off. Too reliant on Tristan. No real identity without him.
And they were desperate to prove otherwise.
Tristan could feel it in the way the intensity ramped up instantly. The way tackles were a little sharper, the press a little more aggressive.
They wanted this to be about them—not just him.
Fine.
He thrived off that.
From the moment the session started, Tristan played like a man possessed.
Pearson, standing on the sideline, watched closely.
He had worried. Tristan was everywhere lately. Headlines, cameras, social media. Too much attention, too fast. It could kill a young player's focus.
But watching him now?
Pearson had zero doubts.
Tristan wasn't just as good as before.
He was better.
At one point, he skipped past two midfielders effortlessly, then sent Vardy through on goal with a perfectly weighted ball.
One touch. One finish. Goal.
Vardy didn't even celebrate. Just turned and shook his head.
Lingard, watching from the sideline, let out a low whistle. "Nah, he's cooking today." He turned to Mahrez. "Ain't no way man's been up all night with his girl and still outworking all of us."
Mahrez smirked. "Love is a hell of a drug."
After the session wrapped up, Pearson called Tristan over, motioning for him to follow as they walked toward the training facility.
"You alright?" Pearson asked, his tone casual but observant.
Tristan, toweling the sweat off his face, nodded. "Yeah. Why?"
Pearson gave him a knowing look. "Lot of noise around you these days. Some players struggle with that."
Tristan let out a measured breath, adjusting the strap of his bag. "It's just noise. Doesn't change what I do on the pitch."
Pearson studied him for a moment, then nodded approvingly. "Good. Because we're going to need you at your best."
Tristan huffed a small laugh, a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. "You mean you need me to keep bailing these guys out?"
Pearson chuckled, shaking his head. "Just keep doing what you're doing."
Tristan lifted a hand in a mock salute. "Got it, boss.
By the time he got to his locker, the energy in the room was still tense.
Players were *cooling down, stretching, hydrating—*but no one had fully let go of the 2-0 loss to Crystal Palace.
Vardy sat on the bench, unlacing his boots, muttering, "People are talking too much, man. Whole fucking week it's been 'Leicester's nothing without Tristan.' 'Leicester can't create without Tristan.'" He scoffed, tossing his boots aside. "Like, do they even watch the fucking games?"
Mahrez, leaning against the lockers, let out a dry laugh. "Apparently not."
Lingard, rubbing a towel through his hair, looked to Tristan. "Bet they'll change the narrative soon, though."
Schmeichel, standing nearby, cracked his neck, his expression calm but focused. "Only one way to shut people up."
Tristan, seated at his locker, listened. He could hear it in their voices—the frustration. The edge. The need to prove themselves.
And they weren't wrong. The media had built a story that Leicester was nothing without him.
That was bullshit.
Tristan exhaled deeply, tossing his towel onto the bench before standing up. He had to say something.
"Forget the noise," he said, his voice cutting through the low murmur in the room.
The locker room went quiet.
"They're always gonna talk. That's what they do," he continued. "Before it was, 'I'm too young to carry a team.' Now it's, 'Leicester can't do shit without me.' Next week, it'll be something else."
A few players nodded. Some leaned in.
"But none of it matters," Tristan added, his voice steadier now. "Because we know what this team is."
His eyes swept across the room, locking onto a few players.
"This club isn't about me. It never has been."
There was a pause, a shift in the energy.
"With my minutes being restricted next game, you lot have the perfect chance to show that," Tristan said, his tone level but firm. "Prove it. Play like we always have. Make them shut the fuck up."
A couple of players let out small, determined laughs.
Lingard nodded, rolling out his shoulders. "I like that."
Schmeichel clapped a hand on Tristan's shoulder, his respect clear.
"Alright, alright, speech over," Vardy announced, standing up with a grin. "Let's just hope you're not sitting on the bench talking shit while we carry you next match."
Tristan rolled his eyes, grabbing his boots. "Yeah, yeah, we'll see about that."
The locker room felt different now. The frustration hadn't disappeared, but it had turned into something else.
Determination. Focus. Fire.
And next match?
They were going to prove exactly who they were.
Tristan pulled out his phone, leaning against the bench as he fired off a quick text to Barbara.
Tristan: Just finished. Training was good. You up?
A few moments later, his phone buzzed.
Barbara ❤️: Just got back to the house. I was going to wait until you texted first, but I didn't want to seem obsessed.
Tristan huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head.
Tristan: Babe, I already know you're obsessed. It's fine.
Barbara ❤️: Shut up.
Tristan chuckled to himself, fingers hovering over the screen before typing again.
Tristan: Did you text Sophia yet?
Barbara ❤️: Yes, they're already here. Very nice people, and Sophia's here too.
Tristan exhaled, raking a hand through his damp curls.
Good.
That was one less thing to worry about.
A small smile tugged at his lips as he tossed his phone back into his bag and grabbed his shower gear.
Now, all that was left was getting home to her.
.....
Tristan pulled into the driveway, shutting off the engine and exhaling slowly. The day had been long, but exhaustion wasn't what he felt. If anything, there was a quiet excitement settling in his chest.
Because this wasn't just some place he was crashing for the night. This was home.
That thought still hadn't fully sunk in yet.
Grabbing his bag, he stepped out of the car, adjusting the sleeves of his hoodie as he approached the front door. The second he unlocked it and stepped inside, he was hit by the rich aroma of something cooking—something warm, full of spice.
And voices.
Not just Barbara's.
Sophia's voice carried from the living room, sharp and businesslike as always. But there was another—deeper, slightly gruff but polite. Another, softer but controlled, professional.
Tristan frowned slightly, stepping further inside.
Barbara was curled up on the couch, legs tucked under her, dressed in one of his sweatshirts, her brown waves falling over her shoulders as she spoke animatedly. Across from her sat a young brown woman, dark hair pulled into a sleek ponytail, sharp brown eyes attentive.
Sophia stood beside them, arms crossed, nodding along.
And then, across the room, leaning against the kitchen counter like a human brick wall, was an absolute tank of a man.
Blond, built like a fortress, arms crossed over his chest. His icy blue eyes locked onto Tristan immediately, assessing him the second he walked in.
By the stove, stirring something in a pan like he owned the place, was a bald man with an easy confidence about him, looking entirely too comfortable cooking in someone else's kitchen.
Tristan set his bag down, tilting his head slightly. "Alright. Who the hell are all of you?"
Barbara grinned, clearly enjoying this way too much.
Sophia glanced over, completely unfazed. "Your potential team. If you don't scare them off."
The blond guy moved first, stepping forward with a firm handshake. His grip was like steel.
"John Steve. Security." His voice was low, clipped. "Former SAS. If you take me on, I'll handle any security threats—discreet or otherwise. My rate's between £80,000 and £120,000 a year, depending on the level of risk."
Tristan nodded, taking a second to size him up. The guy looked like he could snap someone in half with no effort. Good.
Next, the woman stood, offering a polite but assured smile.
"Soma Begum. Dietitian." She spoke with quiet confidence. "I'll be working with your chef to structure your meals properly—for performance, recovery, and longevity. My salary range is £50,000 to £75,000, depending on my level of involvement."
Tristan nodded slowly, processing.
Then, the bald man at the stove turned around, still holding a wooden spoon.
"Felix Gordon. Chef." His accent was unmistakably British. "I've worked in restaurants, private estates, even with some Michelin-star chefs." He adjusted the heat on the stove, completely at ease.
"But I left that scene to do my own thing," Felix continued, casually leaning against the counter. "If I work for you, I don't do menus. I cook what I know works. You got preferences? Sure, I'll consider them. But I run my kitchen how I see fit—of course, working with Soma here to make sure everything lines up. That's the deal."
He glanced over, eyebrow slightly raised. "£70,000 to £100,000 a year, depending on living arrangements and scheduling."
Tristan blinked.
Bold.
He ran a hand through his curls, taking a deep breath. This was a lot.
In both lives, he had handled everything himself. Now, suddenly, he had a whole damn team ready to make his life easier.
His eyes flickered to Barbara, who was watching him expectantly.
He exhaled.
Looked at John first. "Alright. You're hired."
John nodded once. No excitement, no surprise. Just pure professionalism.
Tristan turned to Soma. "Same with you."
She smiled, nodding. "Looking forward to working with you."
Then—Felix.
Tristan arched an eyebrow. "I'll give you a month. If the food's shit, you're out."
Felix grinned. "If the food's shit, I'll leave myself."
Sophia clapped her hands together. "Well, that's sorted."
Then, her gaze flickered to Barbara. "And about her security?"
Barbara immediately rolled her eyes. "Oh, for the love of—"
"Still figuring that out," Tristan cut in before she could start arguing again.
Barbara shot him a pointed look which he decided to ignore.
Sophia pulled a black folder from her bag, flipping it open to reveal the contracts. She didn't waste time, sliding them across the coffee table with her usual precision.
"Alright," she said. "Everything's in here—roles, expectations, salaries, confidentiality clauses. Read through, sign when you're ready."
Tristan picked up the first contract—John's. His eyes skimmed the details, taking in the key points.
John Steve – Security
Salary: £100,000 per year, with room for renegotiation based on risk level.
He tapped the pen lightly against the paper. "One condition."
John lifted his chin slightly. "Go on."
"When I'm on the pitch or unavailable, your priority is Barbara." His voice was firm, leaving no room for discussion. "If I'm paying for security, it's not just for me."
Barbara groaned, throwing her head back dramatically. "Oh my God—"
"No, listen." Tristan cut her off, his jaw set. "You might not like it, but this is happening. Non-negotiable." He turned back to John. "If you can't agree to that, then this deal isn't happening."
John met his gaze evenly, taking a moment before giving a single nod. "Understood."
Sophia, watching the exchange without surprise, nodded. "I'll add that clause now." She pulled out a pen, made the necessary adjustment in neat, precise handwriting, then slid the contract back.
Without hesitation, Tristan signed his name at the bottom.
John took his copy, signing it.
Next was Soma's contract.
Soma Begum – Dietitian
Salary: £65,000 per year, with performance-based bonuses.
Soma sat upright, her sharp brown eyes scanning Tristan as he flipped through the pages. "Everything looks good?" she asked.
He nodded. "Yeah. Let's do it."
With a smooth stroke of the pen, he signed and slid the contract over to her.
Soma took her time, reading through one last time before adding her signature.
"Looking forward to working with you," she said, a satisfied smile on her lips.
Finally, Felix's turn.
Felix Gordon – Private Chef
Salary: £85,000 per year, plus allowances for ingredients and kitchen expenses.
Tristan's eyebrows lifted slightly. "Eighty-five grand, and you don't even do menus? Bloody hell, your food better be good."
Felix, leaning casually against the counter, didn't even blink. "You're not just paying for food," he said smoothly. "You're paying for expertise. And peace of mind."
Tristan let out a small huff of amusement, shaking his head as he signed anyway. "You've got a month to prove you're worth it."
Felix took the contract, scrawled his signature with ease, then glanced up.
"Deal."
Sophia gathered the signed contracts, flipping through them quickly before closing the folder with a satisfied nod.
"That settles it."
Barbara, still curled up on the couch, arms crossed, muttered, "You do realize this means I officially have a bodyguard now. You can finally rest."
Tristan leaned back against the armrest, expression unreadable. "You're welcome."
From the kitchen, Felix let out a low chuckle. "I like him. Got his priorities straight."
John simply nodded, already shifting into work mode.
Soma smiled, looking eager to start.
..
9001-word Chapter
We hit 5k collection; thank you.
I post the next half of this Chapter later as a bonus for hitting 5k which, by the way, is a football match so you can all leave me alone
I also finished this season on Patreon finally so this season ends in 28 Chapters for those wondering
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