THE SWEETEST DEAL - Chapter 1: Heat In The Air

The scent of cinnamon and vanilla clung to the air like a soft blanket, wrapping itself around the tiny bakery Lisa had built with her own two hands. It was her sanctuary — a place where sugar masked sorrow, and spice whispered secrets only she understood. The hum of mixers, the low jazz curling from the corner speaker, the golden afternoon light filtering through lace curtains — it was a world she’d crafted from scratch. Safe. Predictable. Hers.

Outside, Nairobi pulsed with life — matatus honking, street vendors shouting, the sun baking the pavement until it shimmered. But in here, time slowed. In here, she was in control.

Lisa stood behind the counter, her apron dusted in flour, piping the final swirl of buttercream onto a tray of cupcakes. Her fingers moved with precision, but her mind wandered. She’d been up since dawn — baking, prepping, avoiding the ache that sometimes crept in when the world got too quiet.

The bell above the door jingled.

She didn’t look up. Probably another walk-in asking if she sold meat pies. She didn’t.

“This is… not what I expected,” came a voice.

Deep. Measured. Smooth as aged whiskey. And laced with something else — curiosity, maybe. Or challenge.

Lisa looked up — and froze.

He was tall. Broad-shouldered. Dressed in a dark navy shirt that clung just enough to suggest strength beneath the fabric. Sleeves rolled to the elbows, revealing forearms that looked like they belonged to a man who didn’t just sign contracts — he enforced them. His skin was a rich bronze, his jawline sharp, and his eyes — dark, unreadable — scanned the space slowly before settling on her.

“You’re Lisa,” he said. Not a question. A statement.

“I am.” She set the piping bag down, wiping her hands on her apron. “You’re… not here for a cupcake, are you?”

He smirked. “No. I’m Malik. I own the new rooftop lounge opening up on Ngong Road. I came across your lemon ginger cookies at a private tasting last week.”

Lisa blinked. “You came here for cookies?”

“I came here for you.”

The words hit her like a jolt. Not loud. Not aggressive. Just… certain.

He stepped closer, gaze steady. There was something about the way he moved — deliberate, confident, like he was used to being obeyed. Or desired.

“I’ve tasted a lot of dessert — and dealt with even more chefs. But your work? It’s layered. Bold. You bake like someone who’s been hurt — and healed. That’s the flavor I want in my space.”

Lisa’s breath caught. No one ever talked about her baking like that. Not like it was personal. Not like it was her.

“Is that your pitch?” she asked, voice quieter than she intended.

“No,” Malik said, his voice dropping lower. “That’s just the truth. My pitch comes next.”

The air between them shifted — thickened. The scent of sugar and spice was suddenly intoxicating. Or maybe it was him.

Lisa crossed her arms, trying to steady herself. “You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough,” he said. “I know you’re the kind of woman who doesn’t just follow recipes. You create. You feel. And I know that kind of passion doesn’t come from nowhere.”

She hated how easily his words slipped under her skin. How they stirred something she’d buried beneath layers of buttercream and bravado.

“I’m not looking for a partnership,” she said, though her voice lacked conviction.

“Good,” Malik replied. “Because I’m not offering one.”

Lisa frowned. “Then what are you offering?”

He leaned in, just enough to make her pulse quicken. His scent — something clean, masculine, with a hint of sandalwood — curled around her like smoke.

“A challenge,” he said.

She stared at him, heart thudding. “What kind of challenge?”

Malik’s smile was slow, deliberate. “Let me show you the space. One night. You bring the heat. I’ll bring the crowd. If it works, we talk. If not, you never hear from me again.”

Lisa hesitated. She didn’t like being cornered — even by someone this… compelling. But something about his confidence, his certainty, made her curious. Dangerous, yes. But curious.

“And if I say no?”

He shrugged. “Then I’ll leave. But I think you won’t.”

She hated that he was right.

Lisa exhaled slowly, her eyes narrowing. “One night.”

Malik’s gaze didn’t waver. “One night.”

He turned to leave, but paused at the door. “Oh — and Lisa?”

She looked up.

“Wear red.”

The bell jingled again as he disappeared into the Nairobi heat, leaving behind the scent of spice, the echo of his voice, and a woman who suddenly wasn’t sure if the fire in her oven was the only one she needed to worry about.

Lisa stood there for a long moment, her hands still dusted in flour, her heart pounding like she’d just stepped into something far more dangerous than a business deal.

She didn’t know what Malik’s game was — but she knew one thing.

She was already playing.