Woman Picks Up Catering Supplies, Never Realizing The Millionaire Loading Her Van Will Soon Love Her
The Millionaire in the Loading Dock
Zayn had exactly 45 minutes to pick up three trays of smoked salmon canopes, two cases of sparkling elderflower water, and a five-tier cake that looked like it had been sculpted by angels.
“Of course the bakery’s loading dock would be blocked,” she muttered, shoving her keys into her purse as she stepped out of her aging van.
The heat pressed down on her like a weight. She rounded the corner of the sleek black building, heels clicking against the sidewalk, and nearly collided with a man in a fitted navy t-shirt and dark jeans.
He was carrying a tray of appetizers.
“Wo, sorry,” he said, steadying the tray with one hand and reaching out to stop her from stumbling with the other.
She blinked. He was tall and broad-shouldered with sun-kissed skin and a sharp jawline, like someone you’d see on the cover of a luxury watch ad.
His hazel eyes crinkled slightly as he looked at her.
“Didn’t mean to almost knock you out with shrimp toast.”
She exhaled a laugh.
“It’s fine. I’ve had worse injuries from crab cakes.”
He grinned.
“You must be here for the event pickup.”
“Yeah. Zayn. Zayn Catering. Got it,” he said, setting the tray gently on a rolling cart.
“I’ll help you load it.”
She hesitated.
“You work here?”
“Something like that,” he said with a shrug, already grabbing the next tray.
Ara followed him toward the loading dock, trying not to let her eyes linger too long on his back.
The way he moved was fluid, confident, and strong. He was definitely not the usual bakery assistant, but maybe he did CrossFit.
Whatever. She had a wedding to cater in four hours and barely enough staff to pull it off.
“You’re doing this alone?” he asked as he loaded the first tray into her van.
“I have a small team meeting me at the venue. Just running behind. The bride changed the menu last minute because her cousin went vegan.”
He laughed, the sound rich and low.
“Sounds chaotic.”
“You have no idea,” she said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “But it pays the bills.”
“You always this calm when chaos happens?”
She shrugged.
“It’s either stay calm or cry in the walk-in fridge.”
He gave her a look.
“You don’t strike me as the fridge crying type.”
She tilted her head.
“And what type do I strike you as?”
He paused, gaze catching hers for a second too long.
“The kind who figures it out no matter what.”
Something fluttered in her chest. She looked away.
“Well, thanks for helping. I’ve got to get this to Rosewood Hall before the bride loses her mind.”
“I know that place,” he said. “Fancy. Need help unloading when you get there?”
Ara laughed.
“You offering to drive across town and haul trays?”
“Why not?”
“Because you don’t even know me.”
He extended his hand.
“Quentyn Jameson.”
She shook it.
“Now I know you.”
She narrowed her eyes playfully.
“Still not a reason to drive to the venue.”
He grinned.
“Fair enough. But if you need backup, I’m good with cake boxes and panicked brides.”
She raised a brow.
“Is that on your resume?”
“Among other things.”
Before she could ask what those other things were, a woman in a white chef’s coat called from inside the bakery.
“Quentyn, the macarons are ready!”
“I’ll be right there!” he called back.
He turned to go.
“You’re good from here?”
“Yeah, thanks again.”
He gave her a small nod and stepped back, letting her close the van.
As she pulled away, she caught one last glance of him in the mirror, lifting a silver tray effortlessly like he belonged in a world she didn’t have time to understand.
She didn’t know that name, Quentyn Jameson, but he knew hers.
Three days later, she was elbow-deep in flour prepping hors d’oeuvres for a corporate gala when her assistant, Misha, burst into the kitchen.
“You will not believe who just walked into the front office!”
“Unless it’s a billionaire offering to fund our next expansion, I’m not interested.”
Misha stared at her.
“Close. That guy from the bakery. He’s here.”
She frowned.
“Quentyn?”
“Yeah. In a suit. Like, a real suit. He looks like he stepped out of a GQ spread, and he brought champagne. Expensive champagne.”
“What?” she said, wiping her hands and hurrying out.
Sure enough, there he was, same confident eyes but now in a tailored charcoal suit.
He was holding a velvet box of Dom Pérignon like it weighed nothing.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I owed you a favor.”
“A favor?”
He glanced around.
“Thought you could use an extra hand before the gala, and I brought a gift.”
She crossed her arms.
“Why?”
He looked at her, serious now.
“Because I haven’t stopped thinking about you since you almost knocked the shrimp toast out of my hands.”
Her breath caught.
“And because,” he added, “you’re the most grounded, capable woman I’ve met in years.”
She blinked.
“You don’t even know me.”
“I want to.”
He looked so sincere and calm, like he wasn’t the type to say things he didn’t mean.
“I don’t usually let strangers into my kitchen.”
“Then let me earn my way in.”
She stared at him for a moment.
“Fine. But if you ruin the puff pastry, I’m kicking you out.”
“Deal.”
He followed her back into the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves as he worked.
He was peeling cucumbers, slicing cheese, and arranging skewers. It became clear he wasn’t just doing this for fun; he was actually good at it—focused and intentional.
“So what do you really do?” she asked finally.
He smiled.
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
She rolled her eyes.
“That’s not ominous at all.”
