CHAPTER 503: CHAPTER 501: A SENSE OF CRISIS

The light from the cell phone illuminated Fu Jinghen’s face.

Unlike the joking nature of his chats with Wen Qiao, his expression was now rather cold.

Once the hot search issue came up, Fu Jinghen had started investigating, and naturally, he knew who Wen Qiao met on the plane and after landing.

After reviewing his chat history with Wen Qiao, a strong sense of crisis welled up inside Fu Jinghen.

If it were immature kids like Shi Koufan and Qi Ming, Fu Jinghen would have easily handled them.

But it just had to be Huo Mutian, the old hand at wooing women nestled amidst a crowd of them, skilled in a variety of techniques of dealing with women, and Wen Qiao was at an age where she was keen to play around; one couldn’t be sure that one day half of her soul wouldn’t be hooked away.

With a slight headache, he pinched the bridge of his nose and pulled up Cheng Jue’s WeChat.

[Fu Jinghen: Are you there? Need to ask you something.]

Since sorting out the incident last night, Huo Mutian hadn’t sent any more messages to Wen Qiao, nor had she taken the initiative to contact him, giving him plenty of time to think.

The next afternoon, just after Wen Qiao finished filming a scene and sat down in her small tent, a meticulously dressed man appeared before her.

He carried a bamboo basket in each hand and looked at her with a smile, "Miss Wen, someone ordered pastries from Mingyang House for you and especially instructed me to deliver them."

Wen Qiao was a bit stunned, "Ah? Who?"

Lin Ruochun also looked up from her phone and gazed at Wen Qiao.

The man smiled slightly, placed the food basket on the small square table, and walked away.

Wen Qiao and Lin Ruochun turned their heads to watch him go.

The delicately packaged bamboo basket, placed on the square table piled with scripts and water cups, seemed somewhat out of place.

Lin Ruochun, recognizing the pattern on the food boxes, knew this was the signature pastry from a famous tea house in East Hang City.

Although it was a tea house, the pastry chef’s skill was unmatched, handed down from generation to generation, specializing in traditional pastries. The style and taste of the pastries weren’t something the customers could decide on; it all depended on the chef’s arrangement.

The pastry shop didn’t accept reservations, and was open every morning from nine to ten o’clock. The pastry chef made them fresh and sold on the spot, only making three servings each day, closing once sold out.

Lin Ruochun asked, "Who is this ’someone’?"

Wen Qiao: "..."

Good question.

She wanted to know too.

Lin Ruochun then asked, "Could it be my brother?"

Just as her words fell, Wen Qiao’s phone buzzed once, alerting her of a new message.

Grabbing her phone, she unlocked it and entered the WeChat interface. As she watched the small icon at the top loading the message, Wen Qiao suddenly had a moment of telepathy.

She roughly guessed who sent it.

Once the message loaded, "Huo Mutian" appeared at the top of her WeChat message list.

[Huo Mutian: Did you receive the items?]

[Qiaoqiao’s not full: Received them, Mr. Huo has been generous.]

[Huo Mutian: I was discussing matters at Mingyang House today and thought you might like pastries, so I sent a portion your way, and you can share with the crew too.]

Following the usual pattern of a conversation, at this point, Wen Qiao should have asked, "How did you know what I like to eat," to which the other person would reply with something disgustingly greasy like "telepathy" or a line that shows they’ve paid attention like "I saw it on your friend’s circle or Weibo," or perhaps something presumptuous like "Don’t all women like these sweet treats?"

If it went in this direction, the time it would take for the novelty between the two of them to wear completely thin was not long.