This Crazy Rich Boy - Chapter 169

Gabriel gazes at Mariya, trying to be sure Claire isn’t pranking him by wearing her hair this way. The similarities are uncanny. There’s that classic pout that he always found endearing with Claire, but here, it’s a bit strange to see it in action and being done by someone else.

“Are you Claire’s sister?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“You’re Mariya, right?”

“My friends call me ‘Mari’ or ‘Riya’.”

“So…” Gabriel hesitates. “Should I call you Mari, then?”

“You’re not my friend. So call me Mariya, okay? I haven’t investigated you, yet.”

Gabriel laughs. “How old are you?”

“Old enough to kick your ȧss if you do something bad to my sister,” Mariya says, folding her arms on her ċhėst. “Do we understand each other?”

“Uhh, yes,” Gabriel says, trying to keep a straight face. He couldn’t help but be amazed at this “version” of Claire. Mariya’s short-cropped hair reminds him of Tinker Bell in those Peter Pan movies he’d seen as a kid. She looks as though what Claire would look if you’d up the settings for “Cuteness.” There’s no malice here, though; already Gabriel looks at her as his own sister, and one he’s proud to have. And for some reason, he remembers Miguel back in the city; Miguel with his obsession with Claire. What if Miguel and Mariya meet?

Indeed, what if?

“Good,” Mariya says. “You may get down, then, because food awaits. Mom’s breakfast waits for no man.”

“Okay, boss,” Gabriel says, grinning.

“And stop grinning,” Mariya says. “Do we look like we take breakfasts like a joke around here?”

“Oh, sorry,” Gabriel says, trying to pretend seriousness, although inside, he feels like guffawing. “Believe me, I am taking this very, very seriously.”

Carol is in the kitchen/dining area, working deftly with preparing the food. She greets him with a smile and gestures toward the table, where food and their respective plates are neatly arranged, awaiting them.

Gabriel looks around, wondering why there are only the three of them. “Is Claire up yet? And David?”

“Claire was up very early. I guess she missed the farm. She’s out there checking the field and our operations. Her dad’s with her.”

“Oh,” he mutters, seized by a strange excitement to quickly finish this breakfast (which he must do so that Mariya here won’t break his legs).

Mariya looks like she’s not even eighteen yet. And indeed, she still has that child-like quality about her; she seems to straddle that awkward boundary between being a teenager and being a proper lady. She’s wearing an over-sized t-shirt, and skimpy shorts, and she seems unaware of her sėx appeal even as she walks around looking like she’s wearing nothing but that shirt on, or when she sits by the dining table with one of her legs propped up on her chair. And for some reason, why does he keep on thinking about Miguel?

And speaking of Miguel, Gabriel recalls Mrs. Gomez—he has to send a text message right now. While he still can. He takes out his phone and surreptitiously types a couple of messages. But that action does not escape Mariya, who squints at him and reaches over the table to tap his arm with her spoon.

“What are you doing?”

“Uh, sending a message to my—”

“What did I tell you about breakfast? What did I tell you about manners?”

Carol smiles awkwardly. “Mariya, I’m sure Gabriel must really send that message.”

Mariya arcs her eyebrow at her mother. “But it doesn’t matter, Mom! We don’t text while we eat.”

“I’m sorry,” Gabriel says. “I really am. Look, I’m putting my phone back here in this pocket and I won’t even touch it while we’re eating.”

Mariya just stares at him.

“What you’ve prepared is really wonderful, Ma’am,” Gabriel says, turning to Carol.

“Well, it’s just bacon and eggs and—”

“This bread. Did you make it? It smells wonderful,” he says, stuffing a piece of freshly baked bread with fruit jam.

“She makes everything here,” Mariya says. “That’s why we respect it.”

“Got it,” Gabriel says in-between mouthfuls. “I’m sorry. Will not do that again, I promise.”

Mariya nods sagaciously. She looks like a child who tries to appear old and wizened and begs the world to take her seriously. She takes the jug of milk—freshly gathered, Gabriel presumes, from their own farm animals—pours some into her glass, then dips her bread, still steaming hot, into the fresh milk. She eats her food this way, and Gabriel couldn’t help but gawk and watch her.

“What?” she says, noticing him.

“Oh, nothing. I just… Nothing.” He smiles.

Carol carefully places an empty mug beside him and pours some hot coffee.

“The coffee,” he says, catching a whiff of the aroma. “It smells different.”

“Is it bad?”

“Oh, no. It smells like some of the coffee I’d had in Rome. It’s terrific. Did you import this?”

Carol smiles. “We grow it in some plots of our land. We try to be as diversified as possible when it comes to farming. It keeps the health of the soil and also wards off some of the pests.”

Gabriel nods. Interesting, he thinks. And he’s not even kidding about the coffee—it really is that good. He even slurps it noisily in front of Mariya, hoping it would get her approval. And it works—for the first time since he’d met her this morning, he sees a glimmer of a smile in the corners of Mariya’s face. And it feels so special and “rare” that it makes Gabriel stop and stare again at her—which has the effect of making the girl frown at him again.

“Do you always stare at people on the dining table, mister?”

Gabriel laughs and raises his hands in a gesture of surrender; Carol laughs, too, shaking her head. She’s used to the antics of her younger daughter, obviously, and whatever this is, this is supposedly “normal” in this house, with this cute little Tinker Bell bossing everybody around.

After breakfast, Gabriel even tries to help Carol out in taking away the dishes, to which Claire’s mom vehemently resists. “You know you shouldn’t, young man. Leave it to the ladies.”

Mariya’s wiping the table clean. She stops and says, “Yes, because you might break a plate. And that’s gonna cost you. Then you will have to pay for anything you break. Do you even have money?”

Gabriel laughs. He shrugs. “You’re right. I’m too clumsy I might just end up breaking half of the fine china.” He turns to Carol. “Thank you, ma’am, for such a fine breakfast. I guess I’ll move along and find Claire.”

“Oh, shouldn’t you change clothes first? You’re still wearing pajamas.”

“That’s fine, Mom,” Mariya interjects. “He can go out wearing that. Nobody cares.”

Carol shakes her head. “No. I’ve put enough clothes in your room’s wardrobe, Gabriel, so you can choose and wear the ones you think best fit you. Just go and change before you go out there.”

“Okay, thank you, Ma’am,” he says. Then as he turns, he looks back at Mariya, who’s currently glaring at him in a corner, and blows a raspberry on her. He turns and walks away before she could react.

Back in his room, Gabriel discovers Carol’s not joking—there’s a wardrobe filled with clothes that seem they were carefully chosen for him. Although obviously, these belong or once belonged to the man of the house. David is a bit stocky now, so it’s quite a revelation to see the clothes that show how he used to be such a slim, or a dashing, younger man.

He takes out a long-sleeved checkered shirt, which he feels is in keeping with the general “look” required of the farmhands, and a classic denim pants. The shirt fits him very well, as the reflection on the mirror shows. He could pass of as someone who has lived here all his life. He’s just pulled down his pajamas and wearing his undėrwėȧr, when a voice surprises him from behind.

“Checkered shirt and denim,” Mariya says, standing by the open door, her arms on her ċhėst. “That’s too cliché, even for you. Don’t you think?”