One Night Stand, Eight Surprises: Pampered by My CEO Husband --- - Chapter 203: Chapter 203

Sweetheart Bakery was quiet, except for the low hum of the fridge compressors and the occasional creak of the old pipes. The kitchen, for once, had been scrubbed into a gleaming lull—every bowl in its place, the stainless steel counters wiped down to a mirror-shine. But even in the silence, the storm was brewing.
Camille stood in front of the central island, arms crossed, eyes locked on Noah like he’d suggested baking with margarine.
“Spreadsheets don’t create flavor,” she snapped. “They don’t smell like caramelized edges or make people moan with the first bite.”
Noah didn’t flinch. He adjusted his glasses with maddening calm. “They also don’t burn batches because someone refuses to measure ingredient cost ratios.”
“Oh, screw your ratios.”
Noah moved around the island and pulled up a tablet. “Your olive oil rosemary loaf—do you know what the margin is?”
“I know it’s delicious.”
“It’s also your most expensive item to make. Low yield, high waste, and you serve it with whipped ricotta you could bottle and sell separately. You’re leaving money on the table.”
She scowled. “That bread won us three local food awards.”
“And now it’s dragging down your production efficiency by eleven percent.”
Camille’s eyes narrowed, dark and glittering like burnt sugar. “Fine. You want numbers? I’ll give you numbers. Come back here at midnight. I’ll walk you through a real batch—my way. Then you can run all your precious data on something made with instinct.”
Noah stared at her.
“Midnight it is,” he said quietly.
He returned at twelve on the dot, hair damp from a quick shower, sleeves rolled, tie gone. Camille was already there, apron tied, flour on her cheek like war paint. Her arms glistened slightly with sweat, the ovens already warming the space into something intimate and fevered.
“Hope you ate,” she said, tossing him an apron.
“I live dangerously.”
“Good. You’ll need your blood sugar.”
She guided him through every step of her process—her flour mix, the exact olive oil she infused with rosemary the night before, her slow kneading technique. Noah asked questions. She snapped back with answers. The rhythm was strange but oddly synchronized, like rival pianists learning to share a bench.
He took notes. She scowled at them.
“Do you ever do anything without measuring first?”
He looked up from his scribbles. “Only when it comes to you.”
Camille paused, elbow deep in dough.
Noah blinked. “That came out wrong.”
“Did it?” she asked, voice low.
They held each other’s gaze. The air shifted. A charged silence buzzed between them.
The scent of warm yeast and rosemary wrapped around them, soft and golden.
Camille broke the tension with a laugh. “You’re not as robotic as you pretend to be.”
Noah cracked half a smile. “Don’t tell my spreadsheets.”
By 2 a.m., the loaves were cooling on the rack.
Noah picked one up, slicing a thick piece. He tasted. Closed his eyes.
“This… is better than numbers.”
Camille raised an eyebrow. “Say that again. Slower.”
He laughed, surprising himself.
They sat side-by-side on the prep table, sharing the bread, dipping it into little dishes of sea salt and oil.
She nudged him with her knee. “You really think I don’t know my margins?”
He tilted his head. “I think you care more about flavor than finance. That’s not wrong. But if we can give your food the runway it deserves—we both win.”
She sighed, looking down at her hands. “I used to dream of owning a food truck. Park it near concerts. Serve drunk people the best thing they’ve ever tasted. I didn’t need charts. Just heart.”
He was quiet for a moment. “What changed?”
Camille hesitated. “My mom got sick. Hospital bills. I needed stability. That dream... it stopped being realistic.”
Noah’s voice softened. “I’m sorry.”
She nodded, then shook it off with a shrug. “Life happens. But sometimes, when I’m elbow-deep in dough, I forget the weight for a while.”
He looked at her, really looked. “You’re brilliant. You know that, right?”
Camille scoffed. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
Noah smirked. “You intimidate me.”
Her eyes flicked up.
“I don’t mean that in a bad way,” he added quickly. “You’re… intense. Focused. It’s magnetic.”
Camille’s lips parted, surprise softening her face.
“I didn’t expect you to notice,” she said quietly.
“I notice everything,” he replied.
She reached for another slice of bread but missed, hand brushing his instead. Neither of them moved.
“Are we… doing this?” she asked.
He didn’t answer with words.
He kissed her.
It was soft at first, exploratory, tasting like rosemary and midnight and slow-building heat. Then she pulled him closer by the front of his shirt and kissed him again, deeper, hungrier.
They broke apart, breathless, forehead to forehead.
“This is a bad idea,” she whispered.
“The best ones usually are.”
By the time the sun started to paint the horizon with gold, the loaves had cooled, the dough bins were cleaned, and Noah’s tie was still draped over the dough hook.
Camille buttoned her coat, glancing at him.
“Don’t expect things to be less complicated,” she said.
“I wouldn’t respect you if they were,” he said.
She gave him a crooked grin and left, door swinging shut behind her.
Noah stayed a few moments longer, breathing in the still-warm air of
flour and something he couldn’t yet name.
He didn’t know where this rivalry-turned-something was headed.
But it tasted like more.