Page 30 of Sweetest Temptation
A Few Days Later
If someone had told me a month ago I’d be flying across the Atlantic to cater for one of the biggest hotel chains, I would’ve laughed them right out of my bakery. But here I was, heels clicking across the tarmac with a racing heart, spinning mind, and last-minute checklists and pastry plans.
I was still on a cloud about Modesty Armstrong and her husband, Jamian, choosing me to design the dessert table for their exclusive pre-opening gala. The new luxury hotel they were opening was on the southern coast of Ibiza. I was excited to explore the Spanish island, and while I felt some pressure to deliver, I was still on a high from my collab with Fuego Azul. I was hopeful that the success from that event would spill over into this catering request. If this opportunity were a part of the next chapter, I was prepared to make this one the sweetest one yet.
Nyala tugged at her duffel, still looking around like we’d somehow wandered onto a movie set. “You realize this ain’t just big,” she said, adjusting her sunglasses. “This is ‘pack your bags, sis, you made it’ big.”
I smiled, though it hadn’t fully hit me yet. “It’s definitely… something.”
One of the flight attendants stepped forward with a polite nod. “Ms. Pierce? Ms. Evans? Welcome. Mrs. Armstrong sent her regards and said to make yourselves comfortable. We’ll be wheels up shortly.”
Nyala leaned closer to me, whispering, “We are flying in style! I can get used to this, friend! Lord, look at God.”
I chuckled, shaking my head as we climbed the stairs. Inside, the jet was everything I imagined a jet would be. The passenger seats were soft leather, and gold accents lined the furniture fixtures throughout the space. Fresh flowers in crystal vases adorned each table, and a faint scent of vanilla and citrus wafted in the air. As I sank into my seat and the engines came to life, I finally let myself exhale.
As the jet lifted off the runway, the city grew smaller beneath the clouds. Three days ago, I was elbow-deep in flour and sugar, selling out of tarts, cakes, and pastries. Now, I was on my way to Ibiza to showcase my craft on an international stage. Nyala was already snapping pictures, giddy like a kid on her first field trip, but my mind wasn’t on the view. My mind drifted to Samir.
I could still see him behind my counter. That stupid, confident grin on his face with sleeves rolled up as he boxed pastries like he’d been born to do it. The crowd loved every second of it. But it wasn’t the attention that stuck with me. It was the way he looked at me. His eyes bore into me as if I were the only thing in the room worth paying attention to. And that kiss…
I touched my cheek lightly, feeling the memory of it. It had been nothing, really. Just a brush of his lips against my skin. Butit had lingered in a way it shouldn’t have. I could still feel the heat of it every time I let my mind wander, and it happened days ago.
He’d texted once since then. A simple message: “You killed it, Ms. Pierce. You should let me take you out to celebrate.” I’d typed out three different responses before deleting all of them and tossing my phone aside.
Samir was a dangerous man. Charming, unpredictable, and far too smooth for his own damn good were just a few qualities that made him a big “no.” But damn if he didn’t make it hard not to think about him. Since being divorced, my mind was far from even thinking about entertaining anyone. Now, here I am, daydreaming about Samir’s handsome, arrogant ass.
The plane leveled out; the engines growing steady. I turned toward the window, pretending to focus on the clouds, but my reflection gave me away as I smiled softly.
“You over there cheesing for no reason. You thinkin’ about that tequila man, ain’t you?” Nyala smirked.
I rolled my eyes, trying to play it off. “Please. I’m thinking about desserts.”
“Mhm.” She laughed. “Yeah, you lookin’ like you want to taste something, all right.”
I tried to ignore her teasing, but the truth was, she wasn’t wrong. And that was the problem because no matter how high this plane climbed, part of me was still standing in that bakery with Samir. His voice, his scent, and that damn smirk I couldn’t forget was locked in my mind. And it sat there for the entire seven hours it took for the jet to touch down smoothly on the runway.
Sunlight streamed through the oval window brightly illuminating everything in the jet that was gold. We were in Ibiza, and already I could see the geographical difference between this island and home. The sun looked different, clearersomehow, shimmering with heat and promise. As soon as the cabin door opened, the faint scent of sea salt and blooming citrus drifted in.
“Girla!” Nyala’s voice came from across the aisle, her face lit up with excitement. “We in Ibiza! I could cry.”
“Don’t start crying yet. We still got to make it to the hotel before you embarrass us.” I laughed softly, but my pulse thrummed with quiet disbelief.
“Embarrass us? Please! I’m about to show out in these Ibiza streets,” she said, smoothing her hair as we stepped down the stairs onto the private runway.
A glossy black Rolls-Royce Cullinan idled nearby, its driver waiting beside it with a sign that read “Ms. Pierce.” He gave a courteous nod as we approached. “Welcome to Ibiza, Ms. Pierce. I’ll be taking you to Casa Solara Resort. Mrs. Armstrong is expecting you later this evening.”
The words Mrs. Armstrong still sounded surreal. I’d done custom dessert tables for weddings, fundraisers, even celebrity events, but this was another level.
As we drove along the winding coastal road, I stared out the window, taking in the island’s view. Turquoise water stretched endlessly, dotted with sailboats. White stucco villas with terracotta roofs sat perched on hillsides like something off a postcard.
“Nova, this doesn't even look real,” Nyala murmured. “Look at that water! Look at those houses! I’m ’bout to move here and marry me a rich Spanish man.”
I smiled but didn’t answer. The car curved up a narrow hill, and suddenly the resort came into view. Casa Solara, an architectural masterpiece overlooking the ocean, sat before us, a short distance away. The sun reflected off glass balconies, and the beautiful palm trees swayed lazily in the warm wind. The Armstrongs spared no expense with this hotel.
“Damn,” Nyala whispered. “We are not in Melville no more.”
Our driver pulled up to the front of the hotel and assisted us out of the car. After we collected our bags from the truck, we walked inside the massive doors.I have never seen a hotel this beautiful, I thought to myself as I rolled my suitcase through the lobby. To my left was a grand staircase that spiraled upward and looked very expensive. To my right was a lounge area with plush armchairs and low tables set against a backdrop of floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing a stunning view of the ocean. The reception desk was a sleek counter of polished wood and glass, manned by two beautiful women dressed in business attire.
“Oh, bitch! You see this place? It’s sexy and gorgeous at the same time. I’m trying to be a whole hoe out here in these skreets!” Nyala whipped her long braids over her shoulder and started twerking. I swear, this girl would twerk any and everywhere.
