Page 7 of Sweetest Temptation
The contractor’s email was music to my ears. I was opening another bakery in Melville Row in just a few short weeks, and I was ecstatic. It was an up-and-coming neighborhood near the beach. Zanova’s Tasty Treats would be the first bakery out that way.
“Perfect. Okay… I’m going to the kitchen to complete this cake order that’s due to be picked up in two hours.”
I left Denise to finish what she was doing, made my way to my office to put my things away, and went into the kitchen. Zanova’s Tasty Treats was my baby. I loved the rhythm of the mornings in the bakery, the steady stream of customers, and the hum of the espresso machine. It was a place where people came not just for the delicious treats, but for the warmth and community it offered.
When I was a little girl, I spent hours tucked away in my grandmother’s kitchen, my chin resting on the edge of the counter, as I watched her hands work their quiet magic. She never rushed, never measured with precision, yet somehow everything she touched turned into perfection. Cakes rising golden brown in the oven, pies cooling on the windowsill, cookies soft in the middle and crisp at the edges; everything she touched was delicious.
The air was always heavy with the scent of vanilla, cinnamon, and butter; scents that immediately told me I was home. To me, her kitchen was more than just four walls. Her kitchen was akingdom of love, where every recipe told a story and every cake was a masterpiece painted in sugar and flour.
As I grew up, so did my hunger. Not just to taste what she made, but to understand it and to hold a piece of her artistry in my own hands. She let me in slowly, teaching me the delicate fold of batter, the soft patience of kneading dough, the quiet skill of knowing when a cake was ready by scent alone. But the greatest lesson she passed down was unspoken: that baking was never just about presentation, it was about care. About memory. About leaving a part of yourself in something that could bring others joy.
When she passed away from heart failure, I was devastated. Her kitchen felt emptier, quieter, as though the magic had left with her. But every time I slipped on an apron, I found her again in the rhythm of a whisk, in the swirl of frosting, in the sweetness rising from the oven. Baking became my tether to her, my way of pulling her love forward into the present.
So, after college, I made a choice. I turned that inheritance into a business. Don’t get me wrong, the road was anything but smooth. I spent countless long nights creating multiple failed recipes until the darkness bled into the mornings. Yet, whenever exhaustion whispered that I should give up, I heard her voice in my heart:“Baking is about love, patience, and a little bit of magic.”Those words became my compass. And even now, every cake I bake is still a conversation with her, carried in sugar, spice, and memory.
Today, my bakery is a testament to her legacy. Every cake I create is a tribute to the love and care she put into her baking. When my customers take a bite of one of my cakes, I hope they feel that same warmth and love that filled my grandmother's kitchen for all those years. Zanova’s Tasty Treats is more than just a business to me. It was my way of keeping her memory alive and sharing a piece of her with the world.
I was putting the last decoration on the two-tier Superman-themed cake when Denise called my phone to let me know that Nyala, my best friend, was on her way to the back.
“Hey, my best bitch!” she yelled when she stepped into the kitchen, a hair net covering her short bob.
“Hey, Ny. What brings you this way?” I removed the latex gloves, and we shared a hug.
“I came to make sure you were officially free from the trash! I wish you would’ve let me tase his ass when he refused to sign them papers the first time. You know I’m about that life.” She patted her purse, letting me know she had her taser on her.
My bestie wasn’t exaggerating. She'd proven time and time again that she definitely had my back! Her having my back is how we first met. Back in high school, I was ambushed by two girls who thought I was interested in one of their ugly-ass niggas. They confronted me on my way home. My hand game is on point, but they were some big bitches, looking like two linebackers on the football field. We were going at it when, out of nowhere, Nyala came charging down the block, landing punches left and right. We did those twins dirty that day. From that moment on, we’d been thick as thieves.
I went on to tell her how I saw Jerome’s daughter at the courthouse. Just talking about it had me getting in my feelings.
“Ny, she looked just like him. Same eyes. Same complexion… She’s what I envisioned our daughter would look like.” My voice cracked.
She wrapped her arms around me and pulled me into a firm embrace. “Aw, Nova, boo. I’m so sorry this happened to you. You deserve better. Better than Jerome’s dog ass, for sure. But you can’t sit around dwelling on the past. I’m not trying to be insensitive or anything, but you need to get back out in the dating game. I’m sure Jerome isn’t out there sulking and shit. I bet that negro is getting his dick wet. Once a dog, always a dog.”
“I really don’t care who Jerome is sticking his dick in, as long as it’s not me. I’m just not ready to deal with anyone just yet. Just thinking about starting all over gives me a headache. I just want to continue my journey, peacefully, doing what I love most, and that’s running my business and baking cakes.”
“Nova, it’s more to life than working. I don’t know the last time I saw you get dressed up. Hell, when was the last time you went and pampered yourself? Got your hair, feet, and nails done? Don’t let that nigga think you down bad and looking all types of ways because y’all are not together. Hell no!” She paused, getting a familiar look in her eyes. “Bitch, I’m setting us up an appointment with Sue Young, so we can get a full body massage, and you can get those crusty-ass feet done.”
“Bitch, my feet ain’t crusty!” I cackled. “And who the hell is Sue Young?” I was confused. “I thought your nail tech’s name was Mr. Lee.”
“It was. But Mr. Lee closed shop and moved to Chinatown, so I had to find a new nail shop. Sue Young got them gifted hands, girl. Look.” She held her hands out for me to see her freshly done nails, which were almond-shaped tips dipped in gold glitter that sparkled under my kitchen light.
“That’s not her name.” I continued to laugh while admiring the symmetry on both hands.
“Yes, it is. I swear! And you know she got the nerve to catch an attitude because I asked could she get me Chris Tucker’s autograph? How was I supposed to know she wasn’t the chick fromRush Hour? They all looked the same.” She shrugged her shoulders like she truly didn’t see the problem.
I chuckled, shaking my head. “Ny, that’s racist!”
“No, it’s not. I bet they be talking about us while they do our nails and shit. They know Black people don’t speak their language.” She scuffed, flipping her hair. “And don’t try to change the subject. I’m picking you up tomorrow for a spa day.”
My best friend was right. The last time I actually cared about my appearance was the night of my anniversary a year ago. Since then, my hair stayed in a messy bun, my nails were bare, and sweats or leggings had become my uniform if I wasn’t actually in my work uniform.
“Do I have a choice?” I rolled my eyes.
“Not really.” We both broke into laughter before she lowered her voice like she was about to spill some tea. “So… Did you hear back from your business manager about the meeting with the tequila guy?”
“Yes! Finally! I was beginning to think he wasn’t going to reach back out. I heard he rarely does meetings, so I was lucky to hear back. I want to get the ball rolling as soon as possible.”
I was in the process of expanding my alcohol-infused cakes and tarts. I already had a contract with a famous brandy brand, but now I was trying to score one with a tequila brand—preferably, Fuego Azul, one of the top brands out right now. Fuego Azul was known for its sleek black bottles, blue-fire logo, and its use of fresh agave in all the flavors. With their tequila, my cakes and tarts would all have sexual themes. My menu already included “Lick Me Slow” cupcakes and my personal favorite, “Cream In Me,” a peach tart topped with twice-whipped cream.
