One Night Stand, Eight Surprises: Pampered by My CEO Husband --- - Chapter 205: Chapter 205

Two days after the grand opening, the air at headquarters was tense with a kind of silence that begged for someone to break it.
Camille slammed a bowl onto the prep counter with more force than necessary. Noah, scribbling notes in the office, looked up, sighed, and returned to his spreadsheet. Ever since the kiss—no, the accidental second kiss—every shared glance felt like walking across glass barefoot.
So they made a pact.
Professional. Just business.
They even shook on it—firm, formal, dry palms and unsmiling eyes.
But fate, like a meddlesome baker, had other plans.
“Elena wants you two to fly out to Charleston to scout the third location,” Matteo said casually, popping a truffle in his mouth.
Camille choked on her espresso. “What?”
“She says you’re our balance of strategy and soul,” he said, smirking. “Apparently, you’re the dream team.”
Noah’s jaw clenched. “When’s the flight?”
“Tomorrow morning. And yes… you’re booked together.”
Camille narrowed her eyes. “Separate rooms?”
Matteo winced. “That’s the thing. City’s booked up because of some food expo. Only one room left in the boutique hotel she wanted to impress investors with.”
Noah looked up slowly. “Please tell me it has two beds.”
Matteo patted his shoulder. “You’ll love the view.”
Charleston greeted them with jasmine-scented breezes and golden hour light. The boutique hotel was a restored colonial inn with velvet wallpaper and brass fixtures.
Their room was gorgeous.
It had one bed.
A massive, luxurious king-sized bed with crisp white linens and a dark wooden headboard that practically screamed, “Complicate everything.”
Camille blinked. “Well. This is…”
“Unprofessional,” Noah said.
“Mm-hm.”
“Completely inappropriate.”
“Yup.”
She threw her suitcase on the chaise lounge and sat, crossing her arms. “I’ll take the floor.”
“You won’t.”
“Then we draw a line. Down the middle. You stay on your side, I stay on mine.”
He nodded. “Like a demilitarized baking zone.”
“Exactly.”
They avoided eye contact for the rest of the evening.
Their meetings were a whirlwind—property managers, construction leads, a tour of a historic building with creaky floors and endless charm. Noah took meticulous notes. Camille ran her fingers over the window frames and imagined where ovens would go.
At dinner, they were seated side-by-side in a candlelit courtyard café. They said things like “menu flow” and “customer seating,” but beneath the surface was a soft hum of tension neither dared name.
Back at the hotel, Camille peeled off her boots and sighed.
“I didn’t realize scouting could be this exhausting.”
Noah tossed his blazer on a chair. “It’s not the travel. It’s the pretending.”
She looked up, startled.
He crossed the room slowly, stopping in front of her.
“This whole day I kept thinking about that kiss. About every look you gave me and how it makes everything harder. Because I want to be professional, Camille. But I also want you.”
The silence between them cracked like crème brûlée.
Her breath caught. “Noah…”
“We can keep dancing around it. Keep drawing lines. Or we can admit there’s something here that doesn’t fit into a business model.”
Camille stood.
They were inches apart now.
“You really think this won’t mess everything up?” she asked.
“I think it already has,” he said.
Her hands found the hem of his shirt. His touched the back of her neck.
They kissed—slow, unhurried, like they had all night.
And they did.
Clothes dropped like petals.
The city lights spilled through the window, casting golden lace across their bodies as they fell into the sheets.
This time, there was no hesitation. No accident.
Only choice.
Only heat.
Only skin on skin, breath tangled, names whispered like prayers.
Later, tangled in linen, sweat cooling, Camille lay on her stomach, her fingers tracing invisible patterns on Noah’s chest.
“You’re not who I expected,” she murmured.
“You keep saying that.”
“It keeps being true.”
He smiled, eyes half-closed. “What happens when we get back?”
“We draw a new line.”
He raised a brow. “And cross it?”
“Maybe.” She smirked. “If your spreadsheets keep being this persuasive.”
He kissed her shoulder.
She rolled toward him, eyes softening. “This doesn’t have to mean disaster.”
“No,” he said, brushing hair from her face.
“It might just be the best secret ingredient we’ve got.”
They fell asleep like that.
In one bed.
In one impossible, beautiful mess.