Chapter 5: Hate at First Sight

DEMETRIA 

“THAT'S AMAZING, CONGRATULATIONS!” Anastasia shrieked, her voice bursting through the phone like a firecracker. “We need to open your red wine and celebrate. I’m not taking no for an answer.”

I laughed, grinning so wide my cheeks hurt. Her enthusiasm had that effect-it was impossible to stay calm around her. “Yeah, we'll do that,” I said, my voice bubbling with excitement. 

“Sure, I'll come over to your house when I get off work,” she said quickly, lowering her voice. I could hear faint chatter in the background-clients, no doubt.

“I'll be waiting,” I replied, biting down on my lip to keep from giggling like a teenager.

“Okay, see you later, a client just walked in,” she whispered hurriedly before the line went dead. Anastasia’s job as an art curator kept her busy-always on the move, always in heels. 

I just told her about my contract with Mrs. Whitfield. I didn't mention her name to Anastasia. I'll wait until she comes over and go into details about everything. For now, I’ll go over the contract thoroughly before signing, reading to know the assortment of baked goods needed. I need to have a discussion with my employees and start preparing for the deadline.

I gathered my team in the back kitchen, the air thick with the scent of cinnamon rolls and fresh cookies. Flour dust clung to the stainless-steel counters, and the warm hum of ovens gave the space a heartbeat of its own. 

“Alright, guys,” I began, tapping my pen against the table. “Mrs. Whitfield’s charity gala is in two weeks. We’re responsible for the dessert spread before the main course. This isn’t just any order - it’s for over two hundred guests, and the client’s expecting elegance and flavor in every bite.”

Brielle, my head decorator, flipped open her sketchbook. “I’m thinking a tiered display of mini fruit tarts and lemon meringue bites. The colors will pop under the lighting in the hall of the event centre.”

“Perfect,” I said, seeing Amanda jotting it down. “We’ll also do a variety of cookies - chocolate chip, almond shortbread, and maybe a lavender sugar cookie for something unique. Let’s aim for about two thousand cookies total, evenly split between the flavors.”

Matthew, our pastry chef, leaned in. “What about pies? We could do mini pecan and apple pies - easy to pick up, no mess.”

“Yes,” I nodded. “Mini everything. This crowd doesn’t want to juggle plates before dinner. And we’ll have a few centerpiece cakes - something eye-catching, but easy for the servers to portion if anyone asks.”

There were murmurs of agreement as everyone scribbled notes. I pointed to the prep schedule pinned to the corkboard. “Week one: finalize flavors, order all specialty ingredients, and start testing presentation. Week two: bake in stages - cookies first, pies next, cakes last - so everything is fresh for delivery. And remember, this is a high-profile event. Mrs. Whitfield is paying generously, but more importantly, this is a chance for our bakery’s name to travel in some very influential circles.”

The team nodded, exchanging excited glances. Two weeks felt like plenty of time, but I knew the days would disappear faster than sugar in hot tea. 

Later, I picked up dinner for Anastasia and myself. Nobu. The restaurant glowed in sleek minimalism, its glass windows spilling golden light onto the dark Malibu evening. Inside, laughter and the clink of glasses floated over the hum of conversation. Celebrities and executives filled the tables, every detail screaming luxury.

I ordered Black Cod with Miso, an iconic Nobu dish, buttery and rich, the kind that melts on your tongue, for myself. For Anastasia, I chose the Rosemary Panko-Crusted New Zealand Lamb Chop–elegant and indulgent, just like her taste. 

Standing at the counter, I scanned the machine to make a payment for the meal. I stepped out, and walked towards my car.

“Ooomphhh!” The air whooshed from my lungs as I slammed into something unyielding. Pain jolted through my shoulder, and I staggered back, clutching the plastic bag containing the food firmly. That hurts.

I blinked up, my heart stuttering. Not something. Someone. A man.

He was tall—easily six foot three—with broad shoulders filling out a tailored navy suit that whispered money with every stitch. The faint scent of cedarwood and expensive cologne clung to him. He is scrolling through his phone, oblivious to the world he bulldozed through.

He hadn’t even noticed me. Of course not. Men like him rarely did—until they had to. Seconds dragged before he finally shifted his gaze towards me. 

With a sharp, squared jawline framed by a perfectly shaped, thick beard. Full, pink lips that looked entirely too soft for someone like him. A long, clean-cut nose leading to those piercing, greenish eyes that seemed to strip away more than I was willing to give. He narrows his eyes as though trying to pull me into focus. Then he opened his mouth to speak. 

“You should take a picture - it lasts longer,” he said, dripping sarcasm.

Electricity shot through me at the sudden sound of his voice – low, raspy, rough. Now staring at me, I also stared into his face. Heat crept up my neck. He reminded me of Smith’s song “Handsome Devil". Damn! Fine arrogant prick.

“Why would I waste my phone storage?” I shot back, tilting my head just to mock his arrogance.

“Then, watch where you’re going,” he said smoothly, like it was a fact, not an accusation. His voice was deep, controlled, and annoyingly calm.

I blinked. “Excuse me? You barreled into me.” If I hadn’t held on tight to the takeout bag, the food would’ve spilled onto the floor.

One thick eyebrow arched, as if I’d just told him the earth was flat.

“Pretty sure you weren’t paying attention,” his voice low and unhurried. His gaze swept over me from head to toe, deliberate and unapologetic. 

A pulse of heat shot through me at the seductive glint in his eyes - the kind of look that made my stomach flip and my thoughts scatter. He stared at me like I was his next meal, served up and ready, and he was deciding where to take the first bite.

Something flickered in his eyes - amusement? Irritation? I couldn’t tell, but his mouth tilted into the faintest smirk. “Have a good night,” he said, stepping aside like this was the end of the conversation.

My heart was pounding - not from attraction, definitely not, but from sheer frustration. Right? The nerve of this guy. Now focused on my surroundings, I turned on my heel and walked away, muttering under my breath, “Handsome Devil.”

Still, for some reason I couldn’t explain, I felt the hair at the back of my neck rise. I found myself glancing back once… and of course, he was still there, watching me while I slid into my car, leaving the premises.

I hope we don’t cross paths again…