DEMETRIA

“Do you know each other?” Mrs. Whitfield asks curiously.

“No -” I started. He intervenes before I can finish my statement.

“Yes, mother, we had a little talk. We met at Nobu, isn’t it, Demetria?” He asks with a glint sparkling in his eyes. His piercing greenish eyes stare at me as though they were searching for something in my soul.

I narrowed my eyes at him briefly and gave my attention to Mrs. Whitfield. “No, Madam, I don’t know your son. It was just a few seconds of talking. Nothing much”

“Well… I thought of bringing my son with me. He'll pay for your service. He's the company's CFO, plus he loves your cookies.”

“No problem.”

“Okay, dear, come… come. Have a seat”. Mrs. Whitfield called out to me.

“Thank you for having me today,” I said to her, ignoring her son, who was staring at me so wildly. I refused to be timid. I need to prove my wit, my business is on a thin line. Contract or not. I still need to win his approval, too. Shit!

“Okay, I can see you came with samples…”, she said

“Yes, I have mini lemon meringue tartlets, almond shortbread cookies, dark chocolate raspberry cake bites, and lastly… cinnamon sugar cookies”.

“Oh! Son, your favorite”. His mother said cheerfully.

“Mhmmm,” he said.

“Why any problem, son? You’ve not even introduced yourself,” His mother taunted him.

“You didn’t do your research before coming?” He asked me, smirking. This boy.

“I’d rather hear from you. Why go to the media? I’m not a fan, I’m always in the kitchen”. I said, staring him down, daring him to say something.

“Are you not from here? You should know the Whitfields”. His mother says. “I now understand why you didn’t recognize me when we first met.”

“I’m from Mexico, I migrated to California because of my business, and the kind of clients that my business would attract, and I’ve not regretted my decision so far”. I explained, looking in Mrs. Whitfield’s direction.

“That’s a good choice. Well done,” she says, appraising me. She turned to her arrogant son. “Introduce yourself, boy,” she said, sternly.

Mothers and their sons.

I chuckled under my breath; it reminds me of my Nanna whenever I sneak to steal cookies.

I’ve loved baking since childhood, learning from my grandmother after my mom died when I was thirteen. My Nanna’s (grandmother) cinnamon-scented kitchen shaped me, and even after she passed two years ago, my love for baking pushed me forward. I trained at the Culinary Institute of America and now run my bakery, Butter & Bloom, in Los Angeles, dreaming of expanding one day.

Mrs Whitfield’s son extends his right hand towards me, drawing me back to the present.

“Marion Whitfield.” He says, voice raspy, full of seduction.

The touch of our hands causes a spark of electricity through me. Heat pooled low in my belly, and I’m turned on. He stares, as if he knows how I’m feeling right now. At this moment, it’s like it’s just the two of us in the room.

“Demetria Hernandez”. I said confidently, I don’t want to look powerless under his gaze. But that’s what is happening to me now.

It’s been two years, and I’ve not been touched by a man. My rose vibrator is not doing the work.

Letting go of his hands too quickly, I pushed the plate to his mother to taste first.

“Please go ahead and taste. Mrs. Whitfield.”

“Okay, dear,”. She first tastes the almond shortbread cookies.

“It tastes so good, girl!” she exclaimed. “Not too much sugar, just right. I love it.”

“Go ahead, son, taste these.” She tells him while switching to taste the meringue tartlets.

Marion Whitfield. His name fits his personality, alright. Like he knows he’s fine and all that. Yeah, handsome devil.

“Care to tell me which one you’ll taste first, Demetria?” He asks me, looking at me, head tilted, undressing me with his seductive eyes. I need to find myself a man. I’m aroused. “Aside from the cinnamon cookies, that's my favourite yet”. He added.

“I’d go for the meringue tartlet, one of my favourites”. I tell him, my eyes on the plate.

If I look him in the eyes one more time, I will have to go to the washroom. ASAP. I won’t fall under his spell. I resist it.

“Hmm,” he says as he tastes my choice. “Tastes just right, I approve”.

His mother clears her throat, glancing at Marion and me as if we had a secret hidden from her. You can’t blame me; your son is good-looking, a hot one at that. He is arrogant, too. He needs to come down from his high horse. He’s still not forgiven for how he spoke and dismissed me on Friday night, contract or not.

“So… What do you say, son?” His mom addresses him.

“It’s alright, but we need a second tasting, another batch to be approved”. He tells his mother, but he’s staring at me.

WHAT!

“Why, son? If these are good, I trust that what she’ll add to these will taste delicious. She’s talented. I thought after this first tasting, there wouldn’t be any need for a second.”

“You can’t be too sure, mother, a mishap can happen on the D-day”. He says with a final tone.

Yeah, right! I scoffed internally, like I knew this would happen, after all, I also call this the first tasting.

“Would it be a problem, Demetria?” His mother queries.

“No problem, Madam, just let me know the date and time, and where to meet.”

“We’ll come to your bakery. Monday, same time today”. He commands.

“Sure, Mr. Whitfield. It’ll be an honour”. I tell him, forcing a smile on my face.

“Then, we’re done here”. He says, bluntly.

In my head, I was already planning his funeral. Infuriating man.

“Thank you for today, dear.” Mrs. Whitfield adds, so elegant, that one, unlike her arrogant son.

“My pleasure, Madam,” I said, getting up to leave. “Please enjoy the rest of the cookies. I’ll take my leave now”.

As I turned to leave, she called out to me. “This is something small for today, it’s not payment for the contract, though.”

“There’s no need, Madam,” I said, shaking my head.

“I insist, dear.”

With that, I accepted the envelope. “Thank you so much. See you on Monday.” I smiled politely, though my glare toward her son was sharp enough to cut steel. If looks could kill, Marion Whitfield would be six feet under.

“Till we meet again.” She embraced me warmly before glancing at her son. “Escort her, Marion.”

Oh hell no!

“There’s no need for -” I began.

“No, dear, he’ll go with you. Won’t you, Marion?”

“Why not, mother? Let’s go, Miss Hernandez”. His tone was cool, detached, yet he still moved ahead to open the door. A stoic man playing at being a gentleman, perhaps.

As we stood in the elevator, it felt like the minute ride was taking forever. With the way he is staring at me, I felt heated, I could tell my face was reddened like it’s on fire. He had that effect on me, and he knew it.

“Thanks for the cookies you sent my driver to bring to me”. He spoke lowly.

“You’re welcome,” I said. My eyes stayed glued to the doors.

“Do you have a problem with me, Demetria?” His voice was low, teasing. “Speak. Whatever’s in your head. I can practically see the steam puffing out of your nose.”

That did it. I turned, my teeth clenched.

“You’re so full of yourself, you know that?”

He shrugged lazily. “It comes with being a boss.”

I laughed bitterly. “No, it comes with being arrogant. Infuriating. And completely insufferable. Since the day we met, you’ve been nothing but blunt and dismissive. Do you even know how to talk to a woman? Or is this your default setting?”

If this man thinks he can command me like one of his boardroom suits, he’s mistaken. And yet…my pulse betrayed me.

He didn’t flinch. Instead, he smirked. “To answer your question, I don’t have a woman.”

Really? That’s all that he heard. Yeah, I can’t wait to leave his presence long enough.

After a few seconds, the elevator comes to a stop. I head out first, head held high, forgetting him in my presence.

As I’m about to open my car door, he yells.

“WAIT!”

I froze. He was suddenly there, close, too close, his cedarwood cologne wrapping around me. He reached past me and opened my car door.

“When I’m with you, don’t open the door,” His tone was firm. Commanding.

“After this deal, we won’t see each other again. Why bother?” I taunt him.

He leaned down, his lips grazing dangerously close to my ear, his voice a low whisper that sent heat spiralling through me.

“We’ll see each other again after the gala is over, Demetria. It’s a promise.”

My heart stumbled, and I hated it.

In my head, though, I was already sharpening knives.

Game on, Whitfield.