Transmigration: The Little Chef Calls The Shots

Lin Yuan, feeling uncomfortable, caressed her chest and, with her little nose scrunched up, looked at Xia Zheng with a pained expression, "What’s wrong with him? Is he sick?"

The moment he stepped inside, he started throwing up. Could it be a fever? And his complexion, so pale, so haggard, hmm, he must be sick!

Xia Zheng extended his hand, took Lin Yuan’s small hand, and headed upstairs. As they walked, he laughed, "Yes, he is sick. But not with a common illness—it’s a severe reaction to potatoes."

A severe reaction to potatoes? What kind of illness is that?

In the elegant room on the second floor, Lin Yuan had already instructed the waiter to prepare the meal. Xia Zheng had spent the whole day in the Potato Garden, subsisting on pastries and tea, without a proper meal, and was starving until his back stuck to his front.

Now faced with a table full of delicious food, where would he find the heart to explain Lao Fan’s situation to Lin Yuan? He picked up the chopsticks, grabbed a large bunch of vegetables, and stuffed them into his mouth. Before even swallowing, he grabbed a Shaomai and stuffed it into his mouth, chewing muffledly.

"Don’t rush, eat slowly." Afraid he would choke, Lin Yuan hurriedly served him a bowl of Pearl tofu soup and carefully blew on it until it was cool before handing it to him.

Xia Zheng, touched by her gentle and attentive actions, chuckled and, without caring whether the soup was hot or not, picked up the bowl and gulped it down.

"I want more."