Chapter 2 Paparazzi and Pepper Flakes

Riley Quinn hadn't seen Ariana West in a week.

She told herself it meant nothing. After all, the woman was likely back in boardrooms and power lunches. Billionaires didn't linger in corner pizzerias. And yet, every time the bell over the shop door jingled, Riley's heart performed a tap routine she couldn't silence.

Friday evening brought rain and low morale. The delivery app pinged once in the past hour, and her playlist had spiraled into obscure lo-fi blues. She leaned on the counter, twirling a wooden spoon like a baton, when the door swung open in a gust.

Ariana stood there-drenched, radiant, and out of place in the flickering neon of Brick & Basil.

"I need something spicy," she said, voice steady, trench coat soaked.

Riley smirked and waved her toward the stool. "Emotional heat or culinary?"

"Both, ideally," Ariana replied, shaking out the wet folds of her coat.

Riley reached for the chili flakes and a jar labeled Too Much Confidence. She kneaded dough without breaking eye contact.

"You vanished," Riley said casually.

"I had a summit, three interviews, and a mild scandal brewing," Ariana replied. "Also, I wasn't sure showing up here again wouldn't spark tabloid rumors."

Riley froze mid-stretch. "Tabloids?"

Ariana pulled out her phone and showed a headline: "Wall Street Queen Finds Flavor in Brooklyn: Romance or Acquisition?" Beneath it was a photo-grainy, taken through the rain-from the night Ariana had left with a slice in hand.

Riley stared, her voice quiet. "That's insane."

Ariana slid the screen away. "It's noise. But noise travels."

Riley finished the crust and slid it into the oven. The silence that settled was only broken by the hiss of melting cheese.

"They make you nervous?" Riley asked.

"They make everyone nervous," Ariana replied. "But I'm not just anyone."

"I noticed."

Ariana smiled faintly.

The pizza was molten, crowned with peppers and caramelized onions. Riley sliced two pieces and passed a plate to Ariana.

"Don't underestimate spice," she warned. "This one bites."

"I've survived investor lawsuits. I'll survive paprika."

Ariana took a bite. Her brows lifted, cheeks flushed.

"Okay," she admitted. "It bites. Nicely."

They sat in the dim light of the shop, opera humming from the speaker near the espresso machine. Outside, thunder rolled like distant applause.

"You make food like it's art," Ariana said, reaching for her water.

Riley leaned back, one leg draped over the stool rung. "I make food like it's a love letter-bad punctuation and all."

Ariana laughed, softer this time, almost vulnerable. "You're unlike anyone I've met."

"And you've met everyone."

"Almost."

Their plates emptied slowly. Neither reached for their phones. Time flowed in butter and warmth.

Riley glanced at the window. "There's someone across the street watching us."

Ariana turned subtly. A figure held a camera under an awning.

"More paparazzi," she muttered.

Riley shook her head. "We're not celebrities."

"You're trending," Ariana replied. "I've had three PR experts send me restaurant proposals."

Riley stared. "Seriously?"

"They think pairing with you is edgy. Sexy. Authentic."

"I'm just me."

"That's your brand now."

Riley groaned. "I didn't ask for this."

Ariana reached across the counter, her fingers brushing Riley's knuckles. "Sometimes attention finds people who deserve it."

Riley froze. The moment stretched between them-quiet and charged.

Then the bell rang again.

Jaxon.

He stepped inside like he owned the floor. Leather jacket glistening with rain. Eyes scanning Ariana like she was a rival product launch.

"Well, well," he said. "Didn't think you'd mix suits with slices, Ri."

Riley tensed. "Leave."

Ariana stood, expression unreadable. "You're Jaxon?"

He smirked. "Guilty."

"Interesting," she said flatly, folding her napkin. "You look like a cautionary tale."

Jaxon's grin faltered. "She's got a sharp tongue."

"She's not your audience," Riley snapped.

Jaxon turned toward her. "Just dropping by. You used to tell me about your dreams in this place. Now you're selling them to billionaires?"

"She's not buying anything," Riley said.

"Yet," Ariana added.

Jaxon raised his brows. "Careful. Headlines have a cost."

"You should go," Riley said again.

He shrugged, stepped backward, and exited into the rain.

The door clicked shut.

Riley turned toward Ariana. "Sorry. He's history."

Ariana was silent for a moment. Then she smiled. "History has bad timing."

They both laughed. The tension melted like cheese left too long under a lamp.

That night, Riley closed late. The rain had cleared, but the buzz remained. Her phone kept lighting up-press inquiries, invitations, influencers tagging her shop on social media.

She sat at the counter, feet aching, brain spinning. A knock at the back door startled her.

Ariana, holding an umbrella and two cups of hot chocolate.

"I figured you needed a break," she said.

Riley opened the door and let her in, her smile blooming.

Ariana handed her a cup. "No chili flakes this time."

They sat on overturned crates, the kitchen dim, steam swirling in the quiet.

"What happens next?" Riley asked.

Ariana sipped slowly. "Whatever you want."

"Even if it's small?"

"Especially if it's real."

Riley breathed out. "I don't know where this is going."

"Neither do I," Ariana admitted. "But I like the direction."

She leaned in, brushing a strand of flour from Riley's cheek.

And for the first time, Riley didn't feel like she had to be anyone else.

Just a girl. With a pizza oven. And a chance.