MW CH31

Chapter 31: I Only Meant to Rub a Little

Searched the shop name from the video—hoped to snag some black buckwheat to support them. Nope—not just buckwheat, all aid products sold out. No room for me to pitch in.

The core of this aid thing—helping Cuoyansong grow, right?

Maybe… I could too?

Pushed the meeting room door—Huangfu Rou, mid-speech, paused. Waited till I sat before barking orders.

“Brief by Friday…”

Pen scratched notebook—rings, necklaces, bracelets, brooches—rough outlines, no frills. Then, beside them, key points:

1. Ethnic flair;
2. Charity piece;
3. Unique.
   Checked “brooches”—fit all three.

“Got an idea.” Raised my pen—silent “shh”—room hushed. Stared at my notes, pitched the raw plan forming in my head.

“You’ve probably heard—I hit Cuoyansong in Shannan, Cenglu heartland. They’ve got this ‘Xin Yin’ culture…” I spun the tale—family, love in “trust seals”—paused, then dropped it. “I’m thinking of twelve Cenglu-style brooches, one per month—infused with heritage and romance. Charity line—all proceeds to Cuoyansong’s Hope Primary School.”

“Charity?” Sales head clicked. “Like Bulgari’s charity necklace?”

“Yeah, but not that pricey.” Stood, grabbed the whiteboard, wiped it clean. “Less traditional jewelry—more cultural merch. Cenglu’s ancient roots add depth…”

“High-value add-on!” Product head nailed it.

Snapped my fingers at him. “Exactly.”

I poured it out—passion, nonstop—everyone swayed, except Huangfu Rou.

“Cenglu’s no hot culture—not Dunhuang Mogao Caves, British Museum, or some trendy toy brand, game IP. Marketing-wise, starting with a base beats building from scratch.” Cool-headed breakdown. “Why Cenglu? Just ‘cause you went to Cuoyansong and pitied the kids?”

“Exactly why we should push it—nobody knows.” Capped the marker, toyed with it, sat. “Why Cenglu? One—you’re right, I went, saw the kids need it, so I picked them. Two… I’ve got ties with their Yan Guan. If he’s our cultural advisor, it’s a boost.”

“Yan Guan?” Ad guy Xiao Ma perked up. “That ‘Pinjia’ blowing up lately?”

“Pinjia?” Blank stares all around.

Xiao Ma launched in. “Ugh, you lot clearly don’t scroll hot guy vids…”

Phone out—searched Mochuan’s pics, passed them round.

Huangfu Rou’s stance softened at the sight. “…Not impossible. If he plays ball with marketing, we save big on promo.”

“Fame for us, gain for them—win-win. I say go.” Vivian piped up.

Hands gripped the pen’s ends on the table—I grinned. “Glad we’re on the same page fast. Only hitch… convincing him.”

Huangfu Rou froze. “Wait—you haven’t pitched him?”

Looked at her, shrugged. “Thought hit me ten minutes ago—how could I? I said if he’s in, if…” Pointed at product head. “Friday—product proposal. I need it to sway the Cenglu Yan Guan.”

Even with Mochuan and me tight, business is business—can’t go empty-handed.

“This…” Han, product head—Huangfu Rou’s hire—glanced at her. She nodded slight—he took it with a smile.

I rarely meddle in studio stuff—shove unrelated grunt work to Huangfu Rou—no wonder their reflex.

Tossed the pen down, stood. “If I nail the Yan Guan, we roll. If not, don’t ask—just pretend I never brought it up.”

Friday—Han’s proposal hit my inbox. Dry, clichéd—template trash. Too late to redo—I reworked it overnight.

Done, I didn’t barge in—texted Mochuan the gist, asked his take. “Will consider” reply—had the hard copy flashed to Haicheng Uni.

No clue how long he’d mull—waited, antsy.

Lucky me—he didn’t drag. Night of delivery, he called.

His role’s tricky—tons to hash out, phone’s no good. Face-to-face needed.

Checked the time—7 PM. Perfect for business.

“How about my place? We can take it slow?” Held my breath asking.

Pause—then: “Okay.”

Relief flooded. “I’ll wait.”

Call ended—I tidied like mad. Cleared the messy desk, fixed pillows, trashed fridge rot… Near spotless, Mochuan arrived.

Central AC on—I rocked a thin sweater. He stepped in, felt the heat—shed his black coat, draped it over his arm.

“Give it here—I’ll hang it.” Reached out.

He thanked me, handed it over.

Told him to sit—took the coat to my room, hung it up.

A light sway—sandalwood hit my nose. Sniffed closer—came from the eighteen-bead clasp on his chest.

This—his third or fourth clasp swap? Loves pretty things… Never pegged that in school.

Back out—he wasn’t sitting. Stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, gazing.

Decent spot, high floor—Haicheng’s big three buildings in view. Guests always loved it.

“Drink or tea?” Headed to the kitchen.

“Hot water’s fine.” His voice trailed.

Soon—hot water for him, whiskey for me—back to the living room. Pushed his over, kept mine.

“You really love booze.” Eyes on my glass. “We’ve got business—don’t get drunk.”

Meant to say one whiskey’s nothing—met his dark stare, flashed to that night, three meters back—what he did…

Coughed, set the glass down—barely sipped, body flared hot.

“Got it.” Tugged my collar, looked away, uneasy.

Neither mentioned days ago. Me? Pointless—he ditched me at the door, unbothered if I noticed, unfazed by questions he’d dodge. Him? Not mentioning—classic.

Laptop out—talked, took notes. He’d advise culturally—no sales streams or events.

Looked up, teasing. “What about days ago? Yan Chuwen sent me your stream vid—big crowd.”

He paused flipping the proposal—resentment thick in face and tone. “…They said it’s part of the seminar—everyone joins, learns, recaps.”

No wonder he dodged when I asked if digital rural aid meant live sales—already roped in.

“Fine—no streams.” Noted it—legal’d draft it in.

Then—Pinjia usage rules, his image limits, brooch dos and don’ts—deep dive, thorough.

Wrapped up loose ends—near midnight. He didn’t hint at leaving; I didn’t call it.

Grabbed my pad—strike while hot, nail the twelve brooch elements.

Shifted to the dining table—face-to-face. He described Cuoyansong’s months; I sketched matching brooches.

“January—icy, snowy white everywhere. Icicles under eaves—careful knocking them off, or they’ll hit someone…” Mochuan recalled, flat tone, plain words—mesmerizing combo. “Great Hall’s eaves—too high, tough to clear. Wanted a good tool—never found one. Couple years back, Xiao Yuan snagged a long bamboo—worked great, just a pain to store…”

“…April—snow melts, valley wild cherries bloom—Cuoyansong’s liveliest. Cenglu’s biggest fest, Deer King’s Birthday—like your Xia New Year.”

“…July—summer, but Cuoyansong’s cool. Grapes, blueberries ripen—mountain mushrooms sprout. Cenglu saying: ‘July hits, mouth won’t shut’—too much to eat.”

“…September—chills creep in. Too many persimmons—string ‘em up, hang ‘em. Back when Cuoyansong was scarce, sweets rare—hanging persimmons were Cenglu kids’ top treat.”

“…December—Winter Abundance Festival, second biggest. Up early—temple porridge, my blessings…”

His words birthed twelve rough brooch drafts on the pad—varied shapes, elements—crude, needing polish.

He propped his face—eyes glazing—tired. Jutted my chin—crash on the sofa.

In Pengge, he slept at nine—this was way past. Holding out? Impressive.

No protest—up, flopped on the sofa.

Sketched a bit—glanced at his sleeping face—brooches faded, turned to his portrait.

Birdsong outside—dawn peeked—I stopped, stretched.

By his side—watched him sleep—a wild thought hit.

Like me faking drunk—he’d play along whatever I did, right? So… kiss him now—would he fake sleep or shove me off?

Question, sure—but the instant it formed, I knelt one knee on the sofa, leaned in—had to test it.

One hand braced the couch, other cupped his face—lips lowered slow.

Lips met—waited—no push, no rage. Corners ticked up—he’d play sleeping beauty, long as I didn’t cross too far.

Too far? Subjective. Warned myself—careful, cautious—but adrenaline and dopamine hijacked me. Meant to just rub a little—oops, tongue slipped all in.