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Sweet Heat

Ariella Zoelle

ChapterOne

Niccolò

“I’m sorry, you want me to dowhat?” Surely, I had heard Zazie wrong.

My publicist grinned at my reaction, sipping coffee as she sat at my kitchen island counter with a cocky smirk. “You heard me.”

“Oh, I heard you. I just refuse to believe you’re askingmeto go onSweet Heat.” I leaned back against the counter, looking at her critically over the rim of my mug. It was a famous internet show where the sassy little twink of a host named Adler Sutton made desserts that were increasingly spicier until he melted what was left of your poor taste buds. “You’ve lost your mind, my friend.”

“Why? It’ll be great for your brand.”

“I believe my exact words were ‘Adler’s desserts are all style, no substance—like biting into a painting of a cake and choking on the frame.’ And you want me to go on his little show for what reason, exactly?”

“First off, you can’t call a show with billions of views ‘little.’” Refusing to relent was one of Zazie’s strengths when she used it in my favor, but it was a double-edged sword when she turned it against me. “More importantly, doing it will introduce you to a whole new generation of younger influencers to compete onUnder Pressure, so there’s a very real benefit for you.”

It was true that my TV show, which pitted professional chefs against social media influencers, could use some better talent, but I refused to do it at the cost of my dignity. “I’m a Michelin-starred chef?—”

“Who’s afraid of a little dessert?” Zazie asked with a cheeky grin.

“I’m notafraid,” I peevishly retorted. “I’m professionally concerned.”

She snickered before taking another sip of coffee. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

I scowled at her refusal to believe me. “My taste buds are too valuable to be destroyed by Adler’s culinary terrorism.”

“Pfft, you act like they wouldn’t grow back.”

“That’s not the point. His desserts are designed for likes, not bites.”

“Ooh, that’s a good burn. You should remember to post that online,” she teased. It was impossible to be mad at her when she looked like a cute pixie with pink-and-purple hair and matching glasses in a cat-eye style.

I sighed as I drank more coffee to calm myself. “I’m Niccolò de Rosa, one of the most famous chefs in the world. It’s unnecessary for me to go on some stupid internet show for extra clout. My Michelin stars speak for themselves.”

“Yes, because Michelin starsreallyimpress the kids these days.” She laughed at my scowl. “Look, if you want to stay relevant and keep growing your show to its full potential, it means playing the going viral game. I guarantee your appearance onSweet Heatwill break the internet. We’re talking about at least one hundred million views here, Niccolò. Can you affordnotto do that?”

Even with my impressive social media stats, that kind of viewership was worth considering.

“What’s he trying to prove with gochujang gelato? That he can ruin two things at once?” I scoffed when she laughed at my joke. “As much shit as I’ve talked about his show over the years, I can only imagine the revenge he’s planned against me.”

“But that’s half the fun,” Zazie insisted.

“Why would I ever voluntarily go on his show, which is a food torture porn crossover from hell betweenSawandThe Great British Bake-Off?”

She tapped her lower lip. “I guess asking a man who can’t handle an undercooked scallop to be brave enough to go on a show run by a twenty-four-year-old who?—”

“Who is a pretentious, pepper-pushing pastry destroyer that thinks turning everything into an edible chemical weapon is peak content,” I interrupted with a growl. “His ghost pepper profiteroles are an insult to the culinary arts.”

Zazie changed tactics. “But imagine how good it’ll feel to insult him to his face after shit-talking him for the past four years from behind the screen.” She knew me too well because that was indeed an excellent selling point. “The fans will eat that shit up with a spoon and beg for more.”

“And all it will cost me is my dignity and ability to taste food for the next month.”

“Well worth it, if you ask me.”

I glared at her for good measure. “You only say that because he won’t be trying to melt your face off on camera.”