THE SWEETEST DEAL - Chapter 2: Taste Of Risk

The dress was a statement.

Red. Silk. Backless. It clung to Lisa’s curves like it had been stitched for her skin alone. Every step she took felt like a dare — not just to the world, but to herself. She hadn’t worn red in years. Not since the night she’d walked away from a life that nearly consumed her. But tonight wasn’t about the past. It was about power. About reclaiming the parts of herself she’d buried beneath flour, sugar, and silence.

The rooftop lounge loomed above Nairobi’s skyline like a secret whispered only to those bold enough to listen. From the moment she stepped out of the elevator, the city’s chaos melted away. Up here, everything was curated — the lighting, the music, the scent of citrus and smoke that lingered in the air like a promise.

And then she saw him.

Malik.

He stood near the bar, dressed in black. No tie. Shirt unbuttoned just enough to hint at the strength beneath. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes — those dark, unreadable eyes — locked on her the moment she entered. And didn’t look away.

Lisa’s heels clicked against the stone floor as she approached, each step deliberate. She felt the weight of every gaze in the room — but none of them mattered. Only his.

“You wore red,” he said, voice low, like it was meant for her ears alone.

“You asked,” she replied, lifting her chin.

“I didn’t think you would.”

“Then you don’t know me at all.”

A flicker of something passed through his eyes — amusement, maybe. Or something darker.

He offered his arm. She hesitated, then slid her hand into the crook of his elbow. His body was warm. Solid. And when their skin touched, something electric passed between them. A current. A warning.

He led her through the lounge, past clusters of Nairobi’s elite — influencers, CEOs, politicians’ sons — all sipping cocktails and pretending not to stare. But they did. At her. At him. At the strange gravity between them.

At the far end of the rooftop, a private tasting station had been set up — marble counters, brass fixtures, and a single spotlight that made the space feel more like a stage than a kitchen.

“This is yours,” Malik said. “No limits. No rules. Just flavor.”

Lisa stepped behind the counter, her fingers brushing the cool marble. Her tools were already laid out — knives, piping bags, ingredients prepped to her exact specifications. He’d remembered everything.

She looked up. “You planned this.”

“I don’t improvise,” he said. “Not when it matters.”

Lisa smirked. “And I’m the risk?”

Malik leaned in, voice low. “You’re the storm.”

The words hit her like a match to dry kindling.

She turned away before he could see the flush rising in her cheeks. “Then let’s see if you can handle it.”

And she began.

She moved like a woman possessed — slicing, whipping, torching. Her hands were steady, her instincts sharper than ever. She made dark chocolate tarts with chili and sea salt, passionfruit pavlovas with burnt sugar, and her signature lemon ginger cookies — the ones that had started all this.

The crowd gathered, drawn by the scent, the spectacle, the woman in red who moved like fire and precision had fallen in love.

But Lisa only saw him.

Malik stood just beyond the counter, watching her with a gaze that felt like a touch. He didn’t speak. Didn’t interrupt. Just watched — like he was memorizing her.

When the final dessert was plated, Lisa stepped back, breathless.

Applause broke out. Phones flashed. Someone asked for a selfie. She smiled, nodded, played the part.

But her eyes found his.

And he was already walking toward her.

“You didn’t just cook,” he said, voice low. “You performed.”

Lisa tilted her head. “That wasn’t the plan.”

“Then I’m terrified to see what happens when you try.”

He offered her a fork with a bite of the chili chocolate tart. She hesitated — then leaned in, lips parting.

The flavor hit her tongue like a slow burn — rich, dark, with a heat that built and lingered.

She met his gaze. “You like playing with fire.”

Malik stepped closer, his voice a whisper. “Only when it’s worth getting burned.”

The space between them shrank. The city faded. The music blurred.

And for one breathless moment, Lisa forgot every reason she’d built walls.

Because the taste of risk?

Was intoxicating.

He reached out, brushing a crumb from the corner of her mouth with the pad of his thumb. The touch was featherlight — but it sent a jolt through her spine.

“You’re dangerous,” she whispered.

“So are you,” he said. “That’s why this works.”

Lisa’s breath caught. Her heart thundered.

And just like that, the line between business and something else — something raw and electric — blurred beyond recognition.