Shes Mine To Claim Tasting And Claiming His Luna

"Hows your skill?"

"I have high standards in that aspect," Cynthia Wen asked nonchalantly, her long legs crossed, the delicate bells on her ankles chiming softly as her foot grazed Troy Lins calf.

Troy met her gaze, his features hard and his voice cold, "180."

Cynthia, puzzled, "Height?"

Troy, with a deadpan expression, "Duration, in minutes."

Cynthia was in the depths of despair, having just gone through a breakup with her boyfriend of seven years and being framed by her so-called best friend, which led to her leaving the company she had worked at for a decade. Her state of mind could be summed up in one word: muddled.

Outside the window, the city was bustling, but inside, Cynthias red dress was the center of attention. Her legs were crossed, and the bells on her ankles jingled with each swing.

Troy sat across from her, his back straight, his features stern, and his expression cold, complemented by his worn black short-sleeved shirt and neat buzz cut. His image was rough yet firm.

The matchmaker, eager to make a good impression, spoke highly of both, focusing on the positive. Cynthia responded sporadically, her whole demeanor exuding a languid tone, clearly uninterested.

It was during the matchmakers Nth attempt to encourage her to be more engaged, prodding her waist, that Cynthia asked the question with a light smile that left a lasting impression.

The room seemed to hold its breath after her question. Troys temple visibly throbbed. Without a beat, he stood up, nodded politely to the matchmaker, and in a deep voice said, "Ms. Zhao, I apologize, but I have to get back to my shop. Its urgent."

The matchmaker, caught off guard, was too embarrassed to insist on keeping him and tried to make one last effort, "Troy, you see..."

Before the matchmaker could finish, Troy had already left, his long strides carrying him away.

Cynthias naturally soft eyes did follow him for a moment. He had long legs, broad shoulders, and a narrow waist, with a muscular build. It was evident that he was in good physical shape.

As Cynthia was lost in thought, the matchmaker slapped the table in front of her, clearly frustrated, "Tell me, how many is this this week?"

Cynthia snapped back to reality, her red lips curving into a smile, her eyes sparkling, "Twelve."

The matchmaker, momentarily dazzled by her smile, collected himself and deliberately put on a stern face, "You should be ashamed to say it. One more, and youll have the thirteen protectors."

Cynthias lips twitched, "Oh."

Cynthias attitude towards blind dates was too passive, not fitting the conventional views on marriage for a woman in her thirties in a small county town.

The matchmakers face fell, "Cynthia, this isnt the big city youre used to. Being unmarried at thirty here is a subject of gossip. Honestly, Im only doing this because were distant relatives..."

Distant relatives.

If the matchmaker hadnt mentioned it, Cynthia would have almost forgotten. She and the matchmaker were indeed related, albeit distantly. The matchmaker was her great-aunts second cousins wifes cousin.

That relationship was indeed substantial.

The matchmaker left in a huff, clearly annoyed.

As soon as the matchmaker left, Cynthias phone on the table vibrated twice. She looked down to see a message pop up on her screen.

[Its been three months. Are you really not coming back? Are you really willing to spend the rest of your life in that small county?]

Cynthias fingers swiped across the screen, about to reply to the sender, when a friend request suddenly appeared.

Cynthia paused, clicked on it, and a dark profile picture caught her eye. The name was鈥擳roy Lin.

Cynthia raised an eyebrow, not accepting the request but sending a questioning mark instead: ?

The other party: 180.

Cynthia: What? Height?

The other party: Duration, in minutes.