Overbearing CEO's Contract Love
Chapter 112: The CEO’s Expertise in Wash, Cut, and Blow-dry

Chapter 112: The CEO’s Expertise in Wash, Cut, and Blow-dry

Emma Hart’s hand, unwittingly blocking the air vent, was blasted with hot air until it scalded her, eliciting a pitiful cry.

"Ouch," she hastily withdrew her hand.

Damien Sterling looked at Emma in disbelief, wondering how someone could be so foolish, yet here she was, right in front of him.

"Just sit still," he commanded, his tone authoritative.

It was a display of dominance and strength, unimaginable from a man who always appeared stern and cold, now gently blowing dry strands of hair with such tenderness.

It was a bizarre scene.

Emma hadn’t expected that the CEO of Sterling Group would possess such skills akin to a professional hairstylist.

After turning off the hairdryer, Emma ran her fingers through her hair, finding it smooth and perfectly dried, a feat she could hardly achieve herself.

The temperature and airflow were expertly managed by Damien, reaching every spot with precision.

"Now you can go to sleep," he said.

"And you?" Emma asked without thinking, her words slipping out without passing through her brain.

She immediately shut her mouth, puzzled at her own question that seemed to imply dependency on Damien.

"I’ll sleep too, after a shower," he replied.

Emma didn’t say more, lying down on the bed. The comfort of the soft, cozy bed and the freshly dried hair allowed her to relax completely, her eyelids growing heavy, and sleepiness overwhelming her...

Damien, spurred by Emma’s earlier remark, hastened his shower, a detail he himself didn’t notice until he saw Emma already asleep with even breathing upon his return.

A gentle smile spread across his handsome face, touched by a soft lift of his brows and a slight curve of his lips.

The night’s wind had cleared, giving way to a beautiful sunny morning.

The sky unfurled into a lovely shade of blue as the sun came out early, bathing the earth in its warmth.

The sunlight streamed through the window, casting shadow patterns on the floor, occasionally traced by the flight of birds.

Waking up, Damien found his arms wrapped around Emma, who slept peacefully in his embrace.

He didn’t move, letting her lie comfortably, ensuring her peaceful rest.

The ringtone of the phone next to the pillow pierced the silence, and though Damien Sterling quickly silenced it, Emma Hart was still stirred from her sleep.

Groggily waking up, she resembled a docile kitten in a haze, wondering why Damien was so close.

Only upon seeing clearly did she realize she had been resting on his arm.

Hastily, she lifted her head, "Did I hurt you by lying on it?"

Emma faintly remembered other times she had lain on Damien’s arm, causing it to ache from the pressure.

"I’m used to it," Damien replied casually, as if they had been lovers for a long time, this just being one of their many routines.

Emma, lacking Damien’s courage to leave the warmth of the bed so swiftly and feeling a laziness envelop her since she no longer had to work, lay sprawled on the bed, relishing the lack of obligations.

"You don’t have to get up. Get up when you feel like it, then maybe go out for a stroll," he suggested nonchalantly.

His idea of a stroll implied visiting places like shopping malls or beauty salons.

Yet, Emma found herself weary of these locations, sighing in resignation at the monotony of such days.

"Sigh for what?" he asked.

"I don’t want to go to those places anymore."

"Then just stay home," Damien offered, ever so calmly.

Quickly, Emma protested, "No, no, I’ll still go."

Going out, regardless of the destination, at least offered her a semblance of freedom.

Being confined at home might prove even more dull than enduring beauty salons or malls.

After eating, Emma prepared to wander the streets, promising Mrs. Harris she wouldn’t stray far.

Only after much persuasion did Mrs. Harris agree to let Emma go alone, on the condition that she would call her every half hour.

The concern from others made Emma worry slightly about venturing to a secluded place and encountering trouble, especially since she was also responsible for the well-being of the baby she was carrying.

Stumbling upon a coffee shop with a window seat that offered a clear view of the street, Emma was drawn in by its minimalist white decor.

She entered, finding the interior clean and orderly, and chose a sofa by the window.

It was comfortable, and as she looked out at the passersby, each wearing different expressions, Emma settled in contentedly.

Sometimes, observing the simple actions of others could be quite intriguing.

The waiter approached with the drink menu in hand, "Miss, good afternoon. Our café is currently featuring a unique Mocha coffee that’s quite different from what you’ll find elsewhere. I highly recommend giving it a try."

With enthusiasm, the waiter made the recommendation.

Emma Hart, however, politely declined with a wave of her hand, expressing her gratitude with a "Thank you," and then gesturing towards her stomach to imply her dietary restraint.

Understanding immediately, the waiter swiftly suggested an alternative, "How about a freshly squeezed juice instead? We use a special technique to warm it slightly for you."

Emma nodded in appreciation, "Thank you," and then turned back to gaze out the window at the bustling scene.

Shortly after, the waiter returned with a tray carrying two drinks.

Emma thought the additional cup was meant for another table, but to her surprise, the waiter placed the coffee before her.

"I didn’t order coffee," she said, puzzled.

Then, a familiar, pleasant voice from behind her announced, "It’s from me."

Emma turned, following the line of sight up from model-like long legs to a face that seemed carved with precision, and smiled as if greeting an old friend, "Why, it’s you?"

The man, Oliver Westmore, smiled back, pulling out a chair to sit.

His tall frame looked slightly cramped at the table Emma had chosen next to the window, which was notably lower than others.

"Shall we move over there?" Emma suggested, noting his discomfort.

Oliver Westmore waved off the concern, "No need, this spot is fine. You must have had your reasons for choosing it."

"Oh? Mr. Westmore has become a psychologist now? Tell me, then, why do you think I chose this spot?"

Emma engaged naturally with Oliver, as if their conversations never required formalities, starting topics with the ease of old acquaintances.

Oliver, bringing the coffee closer, took a sip and speculated, "I’d wager Miss Emma didn’t arrange to meet anyone today."

He looked at Emma, tilting his head for her response.

Emma nodded, "Yes, indeed, go on." She was genuinely intrigued by what Oliver might say next about her.

Oliver feigned a struggle, "Alright, that’s my analysis done."

"What? You’re teasing me! That can’t be it. I don’t believe you," Emma protested.

Oliver’s face broke into a broad, genuine laugh, echoing their light-hearted banter.