The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 343

Vanessa raised her hand to signal the waiter, ordering a refill for her latte and Garrison's drink.

As the waiter walked away with the menu, she leaned back in her chair, crossing her hands over her lap, and gave him a once-over. "You look a little better than the last time I saw you. Back in that reception room at The Haven, you looked as pale as a ghost fresh out of the morgue."

Garrison took a sip of the Americano the waiter had just dropped off.

"The NBA had just finished tearing my office apart last time," he said, setting his cup down, his tone flat. "By the way, I still haven't thanked you for that. They really haven't come back since."

"Don't mention it. Lawrence gave the order, and it was my job to get it done." Vanessa waved it off. "Speaking of Lawrence... he asked about you again recently. How's Vitas-1 coming along?"

"The encapsulation is finished. We're ready for mass production."

"That fast?"

Vanessa's hand paused halfway to lifting her latte. She lowered her head, took a sip, and when she looked back up, her tone had shifted back to its usual brisk efficiency.

"Then the next step is applying for the FDA approval number. Do you want me to help expedite the review process? I have contacts at the FDA Review Center, and your clinical trial data... is all in order. If we take the fast track—"

"Not right now."

Garrison cut her off. "I don't want to bring the drug to market yet. I have a more important mission right now."

Vanessa's coffee cup hovered in the air.

She stared at him over the rim, a flash of imperceptible sharpness cutting through her eyes, but it was quickly masked by her trademark open demeanor. "A more important mission? What mission?"

Garrison didn't answer.

He reached up and undid the top two buttons, popping his collar out slightly to wipe it down with a tissue. His collarbones were laid bare, sharply defined, the skin pulled so tight that the elegant architecture of his bones was vividly clear.

Vanessa's gaze dropped to his collarbone, lingered for a second, then slid to his rolled-up forearm, pausing there as well.

Her grip on her coffee cup tightened just a fraction, her thumb absently rubbing against the ceramic.

She had known Garrison for over ten years. From the very first day she had joined Lawrence Sterling's doctoral program, this man had always kept himself completely buttoned-up. His lab coat was always fastened to the very top, his shirt collars immaculately crisp, his cuffs buttoned tight, as if he were encased in an invisible, icy shell.

But right now, with his sleeves rolled up and his collar undone, he was leaner than before. The sharp lines of his frame were undeniably striking.

It wasn't the manufactured, gym-sculpted look. It was an innate, aristocratic elegance—

Possessing a kind of unconscious, ascetic, and broken allure.