"But not with me." He cuts another piece with his fork, holds it up. "Sit, Clara."
I sit, my body obeying before my brain can form a proper protest. He extends the fork, and I feel a bizarre sense of déjà vu. Like the pain au chocolat at his penthouse, but now we're on my territory, in full view of anyone who might walk past the windows.
I lean forward and take the bite, his eyes never leaving my mouth. The familiar flavors explode on my tongue—thetang of mascarpone, the sweet-tart burst of blackberry, the nutty richness of brown butter crust. But they taste different somehow. More intense. More everything.
"See?" he says, his voice dropping to a register that seems to vibrate through my bones. "Better shared."
I swallow hard, unable to form words. He takes another bite himself, and I find myself watching the movement of his throat, the way his lips close around the fork. He doesn't rush, savoring each bite with the undivided attention most people reserve for rare art or high-stakes negotiations. When he finishes, he places his fork precisely on the edge of the plate and stands.
"Show me," he says, moving toward the counter.
"Show you what?" I manage, following.
"Your kitchen. Where the magic happens." He's already rounding the counter, stepping into my sacred space without waiting for permission. I hurry after him, feeling strangely protective, like he's invading not just my kitchen but some part of me I keep carefully guarded.
"It's nothing special," I warn as he surveys the modest space. "Just the basics."
That's an understatement. My kitchen is a cobbled-together collection of secondhand equipment, makeshift storage solutions, and pure stubborn will. The industrial mixer was a miracle find at a restaurant auction. The ovens are commercial but ancient, temperamental beasts that require constant coaxing. Nothing matches. Everything shows wear.
"You're wrong," he says, running a finger along the scarred butcher block where I roll my dough. "This is something special."
He moves with the same fluid confidence here as he did in his marble-and-glass palace, but his eyes are different—curious, assessing, seeing things I don't think others notice. He pausesat my workstation, where the next batch of pastry dough rests under a damp cloth.
"This is yours," he says, not a question. "Not just the bakery. This specific spot."
I nod, surprised by his perception. "How did you know?"
"Everything's positioned for your height. The tools are arranged for a right-handed person who holds their knife like this." He demonstrates with one of my pastry cutters, mimicking my grip perfectly. "And there's more flour here than anywhere else."
The bell over the door chimes, and I jump, suddenly remembering I'm actually running a business. "Excuse me," I murmur, slipping past him to greet the elderly woman who's been coming in every Wednesday for a cherry almond scone since I opened.
"Good morning, dear," she says, already fishing exact change from her purse. She glances curiously at Alexander, who's leaning against my counter like he owns it, watching our interaction with unnerving intensity.
I pack her scone with hands that aren't quite steady, hyperaware of his gaze on my back, the weight of it almost a physical touch. When she leaves, the quiet settles over us again, heavier than before.
"How long have you had this place?" he asks, returning to the kitchen side of the counter.
"Eighteen months," I say. "But I've been planning it since culinary school."
"It's not in the best location."
I bristle at the critique. "It's what I could afford. And it's getting better. This neighborhood is coming up."
"Hmm." His noncommittal sound makes my hackles rise further.
"Look, not everyone starts with a trust fund and investors," I snap before I can stop myself. "Some of us build from nothing."
Instead of offense, his eyes light with something like approval. "Tell me how you did it."
The question catches me off guard. "Why do you care?"
"Because nothing worth having comes easy," he says, moving closer, forcing me to tilt my head up to maintain eye contact. "And you built this from nothing but flour and determination. That's more impressive than anything I've seen in boardrooms filled with inherited wealth and MBAs."
His words should feel patronizing, but they don't. They feel sincere, which is almost more unsettling. "My mom left me some insurance money," I admit. "After she died. It wasn't much, but it was enough for the deposit on this place and used equipment."
Something in his expression shifts. "I know," he says quietly.
A chill runs through me. "How could you possibly know that?"
