By 11, the morning rush has finally ebbed. I slump against the counter, blowing a strand of hair out of my eyes and calculating how many more batches of Christmas cookies I need to bake before closing. The bell over the door chimes, and I straighten, plastering that smile back in place.
It slides right off my face when I see who it is.
Alexander Devereux steps into my bakery like he's entering a board room he intends to conquer. The door swings shut behind him, sealing us in together. He wears a suit so perfectly tailored it might have been painted onto his body, charcoal gray against a white shirt open at the collar, no tie. His hair is slightly windblown. He looks like sin with a platinum credit card.
"Clara," he says, my name a low rumble that seems to vibrate through the small space.
My brain short-circuits. What is he doing here? He ordered delivery for 1 PM. To his office. I've been stress-baking all morning to make sure everything would be perfect, obsessively checking the clock, planning to change into a clean shirt before heading over.
"Mr. Devereux," I manage, acutely aware that I'm covered in flour, hair escaping its messy bun, cheeks flushed from the ovens. "Your order isn't ready yet. I wasn't expecting to deliver until?—"
"I decided to come to you instead." He moves toward the counter with predatory grace, eyes never leaving mine. "I had a meeting cancel."
Alexander Devereux doesn't have meetings cancel on him. He cancels on them. I swallow hard.
"Oh. Well. I can pack everything up now if you'd like to wait." I gesture vaguely to the kitchen. "It'll just take a few minutes."
He doesn't respond. Instead, he studies the display case with focused intensity, like he's memorizing the contents. "What's your favorite?" he asks suddenly.
"My favorite?"
"Yes, Clara." There's a hint of amusement in his voice. "The thing you make that you love most. Not what sells best or what customers request. What would you eat if calories didn't count and arteries didn't clog?"
I blink, thrown by the unexpected question. "The blackberry mascarpone tart," I answer honestly. "With the brown butter crust."
His lips curve into a smile. "I'll have that. And coffee. Black."
I move to the display case, hyperaware of him watching every movement. My hands tremble slightly as I lift the delicate tart onto a plate. When I reach for a fork, I fumble it, sending it clattering to the floor.
"Sorry," I mutter, mortified, grabbing a new one.
"Don't apologize," he says. "I like that I make you nervous."
The blunt admission makes my cheeks flame. "I'm not nervous. I just—it's been a busy morning."
His knowing smirk says he doesn't believe me for a second. I slide the tart and coffee across the counter, our fingers brushing in the exchange. An electric jolt zips up my arm, and I yank my hand back too quickly, nearly upending the coffee.
"On the house," I say when he reaches for his wallet.
One eyebrow raises. "I insist on paying for what I take, Clara."
Something in his tone makes me think we're not just talking about pastry. I shake my head. "Consider it quality control. Before the big delivery."
He studies me for a long moment, then nods. Instead of taking his order to go, he moves to one of the small tables by the window, unbuttoning his suit jacket as he sits.
The morning sun slants through the glass, highlighting the sharp angles of his face, the steel in his eyes softening as he takes the first bite of tart. He doesn't rush, doesn't check his phone or his watch like every other customer I've had today. Instead, he watches me watching him, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth as if my undivided attention is exactly what he came for.
I force myself to look away, wiping down the already-clean counter. "Is it…okay?" I ask, hating the tremor in my voice.
"Come here," he says instead of answering.
My head snaps up. "What?"
"Come here," he repeats, the command gentle but unmistakable. "I want you to taste it too."
I hesitate, then step out from behind my protective counter barrier, moving toward his table like a moth drawn to a flame that's already singed its wings once. He gestures to the chair across from him, but I remain standing.
"I've tasted it before," I say. "I made it."
