chapter 8

Chapter 21

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Poor, impoverished fondant. Be thankful that I have a freaking crush on you, Cheeto.

"I hate this," she groaned, pulling out another lump of the pastel dough from her hoodie. "I don't know a single thing about baking!"

"Maybe it's a curse, Spencer," he sighed and helped the struggling woman, removing any tiny bits and stray pieces from her arms. He changed his clothes and the old one with splotches of bright stain was already thrown into the washing machine. After the accident, the two resulted to using the frosting they barely whipped up earlier.

"I'll let you take the wheel on that one, I wanna eat something edible." She nervously chuckled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ears. She stared at Aster's retreating figure and found him coming back after a few moments.

"Um, I have to go back and get a clean hoodie." She walked away, leaving a significant amount of space between the two of them before turning around and running towards the door. But her plan to get away from the chef went all in vain when she felt his hand wrap around her hoodie.

He turned her around, pulled her hands, and put a gray shirt on top.

"Wear that."

"But–"

"You're planning on escaping."

Before she could even say anything, she found herself getting dragged to the corner where the door to the bathroom is.

"Change," he sighed, turning to the kitchen island. "I'll prepare all the stuff and we'll finish the damn cake."

"I don't–"

"We'll be finishing the cake," he cut her off. "Together."

Her face turned sour just by imagining the fiasco that was yet to happen. "Fine. Now, shoo!"

He shook his head and closed the door, leaving her in a mental breakdown in front of the huge mirror.

Goodness gracious, I think I'll burn his place down. Feck.

She slapped herself, huffing and facing the reality that –

I still wouldn't know how to cook anything decent after this. Bless my soul.

She wasted no more time and changed her clothes, mindlessly inhaling the addicting scent of Aster Flaming Hot Cheeto Santos.

Gosh, he smells like flowers.

And good heavens, I freaking love flowers. Goodness gracious.

I'm a grown-ass woman with enough experience with heartbreaks, so entertaining my feelings for another guy is a no-no.

"Spencer! Are you sleeping there?!"

"What– no, what the heck!" She shouted back, wincing at the loud knocks that stopped her from her self consultation.

Or reflection. Whatever.

"Just gimme a second, I don't have a freaking hair tie!"

"Not my fault that your hair is always in the way."

This guy!

"Tch." She opened the door, her face almost crashing to his chest as they both surprised each other with her sudden appearance. Aster cleared his throat and stepped aside, letting her walk out and stared at the confections in the kitchen, pretending as nothing happened.

Great, dumbo, you just made things a lot more awkward. Yay.

He slammed a carton of whipping cream onto the marble countertop. "Here, help me whip it up."

"Sure." She was about to pour the cream onto the bowl of the stand mixer when Aster slapped the back of her hands.

"Use the whisk."

"Eh?"

He sighed and put two glass bowls near them. "We're going to whip it by hand."

Her face wriggled in disagreement. "No thanks."

His eyebrows furrowed. "Why not?"

She sighed, using the whisk to point at Aster's face. "The cream will fly to neverland, Cheeto. Trust me, it's gonna be a waste of time and money." She scratched her neck and pouted.

"Nah. I doubt that. We managed to bake a decent, edible cake, right? It wasn't too bad. Just calm down."

Her gaze averted to the vanilla cake laying idly on top of a cooling rack not very far from their reach.

"On second thought, I think we made a lump of soft bread." She bit her lip and sighed again.

"Don't be too pessimistic. Ayos lang 'yun." It's fine.

"But, still!" She massaged her temples and played with the whisk on her hand. "You know what, I'll just watch you do it properly."

He frowned and took out another whisk from the cabinet. "No can do."

"What?! No! I have the right to refuse."

He stayed silent and poured equal amounts of whipping cream on the two bowls, pushing one towards the sweating girl.

"You already did your Megan therapy, this is called Aster the pogi's therapy. Now be an obedient human being and hold the bowl properly– no, not like that, good grief."

"You said 'hold'! I'm holding it–"

"Relax, Spencer. You don't need to hug the poor bowl. It won't shatter."

She pouted again and placed it back on the counter. "I might break that forsaken thing! I can't do it, Cheeto." She put the whisk down and crossed her arms.

His gaze softened as he tried putting the whisk back into her hand. "How many times should I tell you to relax?"

Damn it, his voice... Why is his voice so freaking soft?! What the heck?

"That's illegal, Cheeto. Know your limits, gosh."

He whipped his head back up. "Anong sinasabi mo?" What are you saying?

Feck. "Nothing."

"How about this," he rubbed his hands together, looking back at the cool cream left desolate and almost forgotten. "The first one to reach stiff peaks will be treated with free breakfast, lunch, and dinner of their choice." He averted his gaze from the ground to her indifferent face. "For a month," he added.

Free food... She smirked.

"I will say yes, but with a few conditions."

He rolled his eyes and walked away to get a glass of water. "Of course. Shoot."

Her smirk grew wider. "Firstly, I wanna have a ten-second headstart, 'cause I have a feeling that your hands are fast."

He nodded. "Not a problem for me. What else?" He glanced back at the bowls as he gobbled his water again.

"Okay. Secondly, Let's extend it to a year."

Aster choked.

Fudge, my bad, hotshot.

"Excuse me," he coughed again, taking the handkerchief Megan handed out. "So if you lose, you'll basically feed me."

She nodded nonchalantly.

"For a year. 365 days. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner."

She stopped moving for a second before nodding again.

"Spencer, are you sure? I mean, we both don't have any problem with money but, damn, that's a lot. If I win, I can demand to eat at a Michelin starred restaurant every night."

She clicked her tongue in annoyance, grabbing the whisk again. "Let's just get this done, chef. Get ready to lose."

He shrugged, sighing, and holding his bowl as he stared at her giddy hands. "Sure, you can start now."

Free food, come to mama. She let out a giggle before whisking away like her life– more like her beloved wallet– depended on it.