Express Delivery: Spiced and Stirred

Chapter 3: Baguette Combat

Zayyan had his hand on the heavy brass handle of the office door, his mind already racing through the shortcuts he’d take to reach the docks. He could almost feel the wind against his face and the roar of a Ducati engine between his legs.

But the door didn’t wait for him to turn the handle. It exploded inward, forcing Zayyan to hop back with the grace of a startled cat to avoid getting his nose flattened.

"Keisha! Tell me the rumors are lies!"

A man stormed in, flanked by two towering mountains of muscle in black suits. The newcomer was dressed in a white linen suit that screamed 'I own a yacht and I’ve never worked a day in my life.' His hair was slicked back with enough pomade to constitute a fire hazard, and his face was twisted in a look of profound offense.

Zayyan blinked, glancing at the empty delivery bag still slung over his shoulder. "Man, this office has more traffic than the highway at rush hour. Do you guys even do work here, or is it just a revolving door for dudes in expensive suits?"

The man in white stopped mid-stride, his eyes landing on Zayyan. He recoiled as if he’d just stepped in something unpleasant. "What is this? Why is there a... a commoner in your office, Keisha? And why does it smell like a street market in here?"

Keisha didn't even look up from her tablet, though her jaw tightened. "Hello, Marcus. I see you’ve forgotten how to use a telephone. Again."

"I heard you fired Julian’s firm," Marcus snapped, marching toward her desk. He ignored Zayyan entirely, treating him like a piece of furniture. "And then I heard you replaced them with—and I quote—'a boy who smells like shrimp paste.' Please tell me this isn't the boy."

"His name is Zayyan," Keisha said, her voice dropping into that icy, dangerous register Zayyan was starting to recognize. "And he’s more competent than Julian’s entire security detail combined."

Marcus let out a sharp, barking laugh. He turned to his two bodyguards. "Did you hear that, boys? This little delivery rat is the new 'Special Ops.' I bet his specialized training involves navigating a bicycle through a red light."

Zayyan leaned against the wall, a playful smirk dancing on his lips. "Actually, I prefer lane-splitting during heavy rain. It’s more of a thrill. And for the record, it’s laksa, not just shrimp paste. You should try some. Might help you grow a personality."

Marcus’s face went from pale to a vibrant shade of pink. "You have a lot of nerve speaking to me, kid. Do you have any idea who I am? My family owns the steel that built this very tower."

"Cool story," Zayyan said, reaching into his delivery bag. "Did they also build the ego you’re lugging around, or did you buy that separately?"

Marcus ignored him, turning back to Keisha. He reached out, placing a hand firmly on her shoulder—a gesture that was meant to be comforting but looked entirely like a claim of ownership. "Keisha, darling, you’re clearly stressed. This whole 'boardroom coup' has you making irrational decisions. Come to dinner. I’ll have my men take care of this... distraction."

Keisha stared at Marcus’s hand on her shoulder. Her eyes went cold. "Take your hand off me, Marcus."

"Now, don't be like that," Marcus cooed, his fingers tightening slightly on her blazer. "I’m just trying to protect your interests. You need a real man by your side, not a fantasy project from the slums."

Zayyan’s smirk vanished. The playful light in his eyes died, replaced by something sharp and focused. He didn't like the way Keisha’s posture stiffened. He didn't like the way Marcus looked at her like she was an asset to be managed.

"Hey, Suit-and-Tie," Zayyan said, his voice low and steady. "The lady said to let go."

Marcus didn't even turn around. "Guard. Remove this trash. He’s polluting the air."

One of the mountains—a man whose suit jacket looked like it was screaming for mercy—stepped toward Zayyan. He reached out a massive hand to grab Zayyan’s collar.

Zayyan didn't move until the last second. He reached into his delivery bag and pulled out a long, paper-wrapped object.

WHACK.

The sound was like a wooden bat hitting a rug. The bodyguard staggered back, clutching his forearm, his face twisted in confusion.

"What the hell was that?" Marcus shouted, finally spinning around.

Zayyan held up the weapon. It was a baguette. A three-day-old, rock-hard, artisanal sourdough baguette that he’d forgotten to deliver to a disgruntled customer that morning. It was practically a club of calcified wheat.

"It’s a baguette, Marcus," Zayyan said, testing the weight of the bread in his hand. "Stale enough to crack a windshield, and apparently, just the right size for a bodyguard’s ego."

"Are you kidding me?" the second bodyguard growled, lunging forward.

Zayyan didn't wait. He swung his empty delivery bag, the heavy thermal lining and metal buckles acting like a flail. The bag caught the guard across the chest, knocking him off balance. Before the man could recover, Zayyan stepped in close—inside the man’s reach—and delivered a sharp poke to the solar plexus with the tip of the baguette.

"Hah!" Zayyan exhaled as the guard wheezed, doubling over. "That’s the 'Baker’s Special,' buddy. High in fiber, low in mercy."

"Get him! Use your batons!" Marcus screamed, retreating toward the windows.

The first guard pulled a collapsible baton, but Zayyan was faster. He dropped to a crouch, swept the guard’s leg with a low kick, and as the man fell, Zayyan used the baguette to jam the baton's mechanism before it could fully extend. With a fluid twist, he tossed the bag over the guard’s head, blinding him, and then tapped him neatly on the temple with the bread.

The guard slumped to the carpet, more stunned by the absurdity of the situation than the actual pain.

Zayyan stood up, breathing slightly harder, a reckless grin returning to his face. He looked at Marcus, who was now backed against the mahogany table, trembling.

"You’re... you’re insane!" Marcus stammered. "You attacked my men with... with bread!"

"Hey, don't blame the bread," Zayyan said, walking toward him with a slow, predatory stride. "It’s all about the delivery. And right now? I’ve got a very special delivery for you."

Zayyan stopped right in front of Marcus. He was a head taller than the "steel heir," and far more intimidating despite his grease-stained pants. He leaned in, the tip of the stale baguette resting right against Marcus’s expensive silk tie.

"The lady told you to let go of her shoulder," Zayyan whispered. "And you didn't listen. That’s a one-star review in my book, Marcus. And I really, really hate one-star reviews."

Marcus looked at the baguette, then at Zayyan’s eyes, which were burning with a dark, dangerous intensity. "I’ll have you arrested! I’ll buy the police department!"

"You could try," Zayyan shrugged. "But by the time they get here, I’ll have fed you this entire loaf of sourdough. Without a drink. Do you know how dry this stuff is? It’s a health hazard."

"Marcus," Keisha’s voice rang out, calm and cutting.

Marcus looked over his shoulder. Keisha was standing now, her arms crossed. She wasn't looking at him with fear or even anger anymore. She was looking at him with pure, unadulterated pity.

"Leave," she said. "And take your 'mountains' with you. If I see you in this building again without an appointment, I’ll let Zayyan show you what he can do with a side of garlic knots."

Marcus didn't need to be told twice. He scrambled toward the door, tripping over the legs of his groaning bodyguards. "This isn't over! My father will hear about this! You’re finished, Keisha! Finished!"

The doors slammed shut behind them, leaving a sudden, ringing silence in the office.

Zayyan looked down at the baguette in his hand. A small chunk of the crust had chipped off. "Man. That was a good loaf. What a waste."

He heard a soft, muffled sound. He looked up, surprised.

Keisha was standing behind her desk, her hand pressed firmly over her mouth. Her shoulders were shaking.

"Wait," Zayyan said, blinking. "Are you... are you laughing at my weapon of choice?"

Keisha let out a breathy, genuine laugh, her eyes sparkling in a way that made Zayyan’s heart do a weird little somersault. "A baguette, Zayyan? Really? You just took out two professional security contractors with a piece of stale bread?"

"It’s aerodynamic!" Zayyan defended, tossing the bread back into his bag. "And it’s sustainable! Much better for the environment than a taser."

Keisha walked around the desk, stopping a few feet from him. The "Ice Queen" mask hadn't just slipped; it had shattered. She looked at him—really looked at him—and for the first time, the calculation in her eyes was replaced by something warmer, something softer.

"You’re a complete disaster," she murmured, though there was no bite in the words.

"I prefer 'unconventional,'" Zayyan corrected, his voice dropping an octave as the adrenaline began to fade, replaced by the heavy, electric tension of being alone with her. "But hey, the job's done. Marcus is gone, your shoulders are free of yacht-club germs, and I still have time to get that drive to the docks."

Keisha looked at her shoulder, where Marcus had touched her, and then back to Zayyan’s bruised knuckles. She reached out, her fingers hovering just an inch from his hand before she pulled back, as if afraid of the spark.

"No one has ever done that for me," she said quietly.

"What? Given you bread?"

"Defended me," she clarified, her gaze locking onto his. "People usually defend my 'interests.' Or my 'reputation.' Or my 'shares.' No one has ever just... told a man to take his hand off me because I said so."

Zayyan felt a strange tightness in his chest. He was used to being the guy who delivered the food and disappeared. He was the ghost, the blur, the fast kid on the bike. He wasn't the guy who stayed.

"Well," Zayyan said, his voice unusually soft. "Maybe you’ve been hiring the wrong people. Most guys see a CEO. I just saw a woman who was being bothered while trying to eat her soup."

Keisha stepped closer, the scent of her perfume—that sandalwood and secret-rich-person smell—wrapping around him. For a moment, the world outside the 52nd floor didn't exist. There was no board of directors, no rival companies, no stolen drives. There was just the heat between them and the sound of the wind whistling against the glass.

"I think," Keisha whispered, her eyes searching his, "that I made the right choice today."

Zayyan grinned, though it was less cocky than usual. "Does this mean I get a bonus for 'Creative Use of Bakery Goods'?"

Keisha smiled—a real, tiny, beautiful smile that reached her eyes. "Don't push your luck, Delivery Boy. You have a job to do."

"On it, Boss," Zayyan said, giving her a mock salute. He turned toward the window, then paused. "Hey, Keisha?"

"Yes?"

"Keep the laksa. It’s better when it’s cold than Marcus is when he’s charming."

"I’ll keep that in mind," she replied.

As Zayyan vaulted over the balcony railing and disappeared into the twilight, Keisha stood by the window, watching the tiny neon-yellow speck weave through the traffic fifty stories below. She touched her shoulder, the place where he’d stood between her and the world.

For the first time in years, the "Ice Queen" didn't feel cold. She felt, for the very first time, absolutely safe.

She looked at the empty plastic bowl on her desk and picked up the spoon.

"Special Operations," she whispered to the empty room, a small smirk playing on her lips. "I think I’m going to like this 'traditional' upgrade."