My Clingy CEO Husband

### Chapter 63: I Burned My Hand. You Have to Blow on It to Make It Better.

「4 PM. The CEO’s office at Hawthorne Group.」

Ethan Hawthorne looked at his wristwatch for the nth time, then decisively closed the file in front of him.

"You handle the rest."

He stood up, grabbed his suit jacket, and gave the order to his special assistant, Erza Sinclair.

Erza Sinclair looked up from a mountain of documents, sporting faint dark circles under his reproachful eyes. "Sir, this is already the third time you’ve left work early this week... Where did the workaholic boss who used to stay late into the night disappear to?"

Ethan Hawthorne didn’t break his stride, merely calling back, "Your year-end bonus multiplier will factor in your extra contributions."

Erza Sinclair’s expression did a complete one-eighty, his tone becoming resolute. "Don’t you worry about a thing, Sir! Go! The pursuit of happiness is your top priority! I’ll hold down the fort!"

’For that bonus, I could power through another five hundred files!!’

After getting into his car, Ethan Hawthorne put on his Bluetooth headset and called Claire Sinclair.

"Hello, Mom."

The call was answered almost instantly. A woman’s voice feigned surprise on the other end. "Well, well! Look who it is. To think my son actually remembers he has a mother."

Ethan Hawthorne ignored his mother’s teasing and cleared his throat. "I have a technical question for you."

Claire Sinclair asked, "A technical question? Is there trouble at work?"

"No," Ethan Hawthorne replied, his tone serious as he watched the road ahead. "It’s about how to make sweet and sour pork ribs."

There was a three-second silence on the other end of the line before her voice shot up an octave. "Sweet and sour pork ribs?! You’re going to cook?! Who are you cooking for?! Don’t you hate cooking more than anything? Wait a minute... you’re not learning this for Noah Sutton, are you?!"

A vein throbbed on Ethan Hawthorne’s temple. "Mom! Must your imagination run so wild?"

"Alas..." Claire Sinclair sighed heavily, her tone as somber as if she were at a funeral. "Oh, son. At my age, I’ve come to accept everything. You don’t have to hide it from me anymore; Mom knows... Love is love, it doesn’t see gender. As long as you’re happy, even if it’s with Noah Sutton, and even if you’re the... bottom... Mom can reluctantly accept it."

Ethan Hawthorne couldn’t take it anymore. He tried to snap Ms. Sinclair out of her wild tangent. "Mom! What kind of TV dramas have you been binging?! Your son is straight, okay! My relationship with Noah Sutton is purely platonic—it can’t get any more platonic! Besides, him? What kind of improper thoughts could I possibly have about him?!"

"You’re really not lying?" Claire Sinclair was still skeptical and decided to play her trump card. "Talk is cheap! Swear on your... on your controlling stake in the Hawthorne Group! If you lie, you lose it!"

’Hmph, let’s see you try to fool your mother now!’ Ms. Sinclair thought.

Ethan Hawthorne took a deep breath and swore into the air, "I, Ethan Hawthorne, hereby swear on all my shares in the Hawthorne Group that I am a man who likes women. I have absolutely no improper thoughts that go beyond friendship for Noah Sutton or any other male creature! It’s the honest-to-god truth!"

Only then did Claire Sinclair believe him, beaming. "Alright, alright, fine. Now, listen to Mom. The key to sweet and sour pork ribs is the sauce ratio and heat control! Memorize this: one spoonful of cooking wine, two spoonfuls of light soy sauce, three spoonfuls of sugar, four spoonfuls of aromatic vinegar, and five spoonfuls of water. It’s the one-two-three-four-five rule! Oh, and you have to blanch the ribs first, then fry them until they’re golden brown..."

Ethan Hawthorne listened intently as he drove, even subconsciously repeating, "One, two, three, four, five..."

Claire Sinclair was going on and on, imparting her wisdom, when she suddenly changed tack. "Since you do like girls, why don’t you consider that young wo—"

Claire Sinclair stopped herself mid-sentence.

She suddenly remembered what the young woman at the art museum café had told her last time—that she was already married.

’Sigh, such a wonderful girl! Why is she already married! It’s all my son’s fault for being so useless! He was a step too slow!’

At this thought, Claire Sinclair’s matchmaking enthusiasm was instantly doused with cold water, replaced by sheer frustration with her foolish son’s inability to live up to his potential.

"Forget it, just forget it!"

Her tone suddenly grew listless, laced with an inexplicable irritation. "What’s the point of telling you any of this! You’re a blockhead! I’m hanging up! Go make your sweet and sour ribs!"

Just as Ethan Hawthorne was about to ask if three spoonfuls of sugar would be too sweet, he was met with the BEEP-BEEP-BEEP of a disconnected line.

Ethan Hawthorne: "???"

He stared blankly at his phone. ’My mother’s moods... how are they more volatile than the stock market?’

When Maxine Rhodes got back to the apartment after work, the first thing she noticed upon opening the door was the lingering aroma of sweet and sour pork ribs.

She walked into the kitchen and saw Ethan Hawthorne standing at the counter with his back to her. His head was slightly lowered as he rinsed his left hand under the faucet.

At the sound of her footsteps, he instantly shut off the water, spun around, and reflexively hid his left hand behind his back.

"You’re back?" he said, his tone casual. "Dinner’s ready."

Maxine’s sharp eyes caught the fleeting furrow of his brow as he turned, as well as the hand he had hidden, its fingertips still dripping with water.

"What are you..." She approached him step by step, her probing gaze fixed on the hand he was deliberately concealing. "What are you hiding?"

Ethan Hawthorne fell silent for a moment, as if after some great internal struggle, before slowly extending the hidden hand out to her.

On his long index and middle fingers were several small but conspicuous red splotches, slightly swollen. They were clearly burns from splattering hot oil.

He lowered his gaze to his fingers, his voice tinged with a hint of grievance. "It’s nothing. The oil just... splattered a bit."

Maxine took his wrist to inspect the burn. When she looked up, she met his gaze; he had been secretly watching her reaction.

There wasn’t a trace of the ruthless, decisive Mr. Hawthorne in his eyes. Instead, they were practically screaming four big words: ’Show me some concern.’

Her heart immediately softened, but she deliberately kept a straight face. "How could you be so careless? I thought the great Mr. Hawthorne was known for calculating everything perfectly."

Ethan Hawthorne let her hold his hand. At her words, the corner of his lips curved up. He pressed his advantage, leaning half a step closer. His voice dropped to a low murmur, his breath brushing against her ear. "Because I calculated that you’d feel bad for me."

Maxine’s ears flushed. She shot him a glare, but her grip on his hand involuntarily softened.

She led him over to the living room sofa, found the first-aid kit, and began to carefully apply burn ointment to his fingers.

As the cool ointment touched his skin, Ethan Hawthorne let out a soft, cooperative HISS.

"Does it hurt a lot?" Maxine immediately looked up, her eyes filled with genuine concern.

"Mhm," Ethan Hawthorne replied, his expression unchanging, though a triumphant glint flashed in his eyes. "It won’t hurt if you blow on it."

Maxine: "..."

’Give him an inch, and he’ll take a mile,’ she thought.

She looked at the blatant expectation shining in his eyes and finally lowered her head with a sigh of resignation, blowing gently on his reddened fingertips.

The cool air brushed across his fingertips, and it seemed to really chase away the insignificant, stinging pain.

Ethan Hawthorne gazed at her focused profile, felt the warmth of her touch, and suddenly thought that getting a little burn wasn’t so bad after all.*****