Page 22 of Sweetest Temptation
“Good evening. Is this Ms. Zanova Pierce?” the caller asked in a steady tone.
“Yes. Yes, it is. Did someone break into my shop?” I asked, already bracing myself for the worst.
“The alarm was set off. When the police arrived, they checked, and nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary.”
My chest loosened a fraction, but that unease didn’t let go. “So… it was a false alarm?” I pressed, trying to calm the storm in my stomach.
“That’s what it appears to be. But here’s the thing…” The man hesitated, his voice dropping just slightly, as if choosing his words carefully. “The officers reported that your back door was unlocked when they arrived. No damage to the lock, but it was wide open.”
“That’s not possible. The alarm won’t set unless all the doors are secured. I always make sure of it.”
“Yes, ma’am. I just wanted to confirm that you’d like us to reset the alarm system and keep monitoring overnight.”
“That’s fine. I’m on my way. Thank you.”
I tossed my cell on the bed and quickly got dressed, throwing on some black leggings and a hoodie. I slipped my feet into some slides, put my hair in a sloppy bun, grabbed my keys, and was out the door. When I pulled up to my bakery, I was confused. The alarm people said the police would be here. From what I could see, everything looked fine.
Shutting my engine off, I grabbed my .22 LR pistol from the glove compartment and carefully climbed out of my ride. I scanned my surroundings before unlocking the front door to my bakery. With my gun at my side, I unlocked the door, pushed it open just enough to peek inside. The smell of sugar and flour clung to the air. Nothing seemed to be out of place. Still, I didn’t trust it.
As I took one careful step forward with my finger on the trigger, I heard a low growl of an engine pulling into the parking lot. My entire body went rigid. Slowly, I turned around and raised my gun as a sleek, black Lamborghini rolled to a stop at the curb. The driver’s door swung open, and out stepped Samir as smooth as ever, his smirk cutting straight through the night.
“Who you gon’ shoot with that little shit, Ms. Pierce?” He chuckled as he swaggered over to me, his cologne reaching me before he did.
I unintentionally licked my lips. This man was just too damn gorgeous. Smooth dark skin that gleamed under the streetlight, thick brows that framed his dark eyes, and a well-groomed beard that made him look like sin wrapped in sophistication. The gray sweatsuit he wore made him look effortlessly fine. My eyes made a detour to his crotch, but I quickly recovered.
“Did you have something to do with my alarm going off?”
“I did. It was the only way I knew you would meet me.”
“Are you insane? You had me thinking something happened to my shop. And I could’ve shot you, fool!”
“As you can see, everything is fine. And I ain’t scared of that little gun you got, love. You need to get something bigger than that to take a nigga like me down.”
“You broke into my shop to play games? Well, this is not funny, Samir. I was scared!” I hissed at him.
He slipped a hand into the front pocket of his hoodie and pulled out a dark glass bottle. It was a bottle of Fuego Azul; the one I wanted to use for my tarts.
“Are you playing delivery boy now?”
He chuckled, the sound low and taunting. “Not delivery. I wanted you here, so you could show me what you can do with this. I want to see if you can take my tequila and make something unforgettable with it.As you said…Something that’ll have people lining up around the damn block.”
“All of this to pitch me a business idea? The same one you turned down?”
“Not a pitch, Zanova. An opportunity. I want you to make me one of your best desserts using this. If it impresses me, you won’t just get my approval; I’ll sign your proposal, and we can make moves.” He held up the bottle. “This is my newest flavor. It drops in a few weeks. It has a hint of pineapple, caramelized agave, warm allspice, and a precise infusion of guajillo and habanero chili for heat. Do we have a deal?”
I stared at him before I reached out and wrapped my hand around the neck of the bottle. His grip lingered for a second too long before I tugged it free.
“Fine! I’ll take your deal. But understand this… I don’t work for you, Samir. If this works, it’s becauseImade it work. My name, my recipe, my bakery. You’re just the bottle I’m pouring into it.”
His smirk curved slowly, his eyes glinting like I’d just played the exact card he wanted me to. “That’s what I like about you, baby girl. You don’t just take ideas, you flip them on their head.”
“Good. Then watch me flip this one.” I winked. “Let’s go.”
Without waiting for his response, I stepped inside and flipped on the lights. They came to life, bouncing off stainless steel counters as I headed straight for the kitchen. My apron came off the hook, and in seconds, I was in motion. I sliced some pineapples—cream poured, sugar measured, eggs whisked. The rhythm of my work steadied my pulse, every movement reclaiming control. Samir got comfortable on one of the wooden stools in the corner, and I could feel his eyes on me as I carefully mixed in the tequila.
“This tart is called “Sweetest Temptation”. It’s a pineapple crème brûlée. It’s smooth and sweet at first, but has a little kick at the end from the tequila. Just long enough to make you want more.”
“Sounds like you,” he murmured.
