He doesn't answer, just holds my gaze with that unnerving steadiness, and the realization hits me like a splash of ice water. "You looked into me. Into my business."
"Yes." No apology, no justification. Just that one simple word, delivered with complete confidence in his right to investigate my life.
"That's—that's invasive," I sputter, taking a step back. "And creepy. And completely inappropriate."
"I wanted to understand you," he says, as if that explains everything. "I never enter any situation without complete information."
"I'm not a situation," I say, heat rising in my cheeks. "I'm a person. With privacy. And boundaries."
"Boundaries are just negotiations waiting to happen," he says, closing the distance I created. He's so close now I can smellhis cologne, something expensive and subtle that makes my brain fuzzy around the edges.
"Not mine," I insist, but my voice lacks conviction.
His smile is slow and dangerous. "We'll see," he says softly.
The bell chimes again, saving me from whatever madness might have happened next. He steps back, that knowing smile still playing on his lips.
"I should get back to work," I say, desperate for some semblance of normal.
"Of course." He straightens his already-perfect jacket. "I'll expect my delivery at one. The full order we discussed."
"Right. One o'clock." I nod too quickly, relief and something dangerously close to disappointment warring in my chest.
He pauses at the door, turning back with that intensity that makes it hard to breathe. "This isn't over, Clara. It's barely begun."
The door closes behind him, and I slump against the counter, heart pounding like I've run a marathon.
"I am so screwed," I whisper to the empty bakery.
At precisely 12:55, I step through the revolving doors of Devereux Tower with a stack of bakery boxes and a nervous sweat that has nothing to do with the weight I'm carrying. The lobby is a cathedral to modern wealth—all soaring ceilings, marble floors, and hushed voices that make my sensible shoes squeak with embarrassing volume. The security guard eyes me like I might be smuggling grenades instead of ganache.
"Clara Benson," I tell him, shifting the boxes higher. "I have a delivery for Mr. Devereux."
His eyebrows rise fractionally. "You're personally expected," he says, making it sound like I've claimed to be the Queen of England. He makes a call, speaks in hushed tones, then points to a private elevator tucked discreetly behind a living wall of exotic plants. "That one goes directly to the executive floor. Someone will meet you."
The elevator is lined with mirrors and some kind of wood that probably cost more per square foot than my monthly rent. I catch my reflection—cheeks flushed, hair already escaping its careful bun, blue button-down with tiny flour handprints I'd tried desperately to lint-roll away. I look exactly like what I am: a baker pretending she belongs in the stratosphere of Alexander Devereux's world.
When the doors open, a woman in a razor-sharp suit is waiting, her smile professional but eyes curious as they sweep over me. "Miss Benson? This way, please."
I follow her through a hushed landscape of glass offices and sleek workstations where everyone is dressed in muted colors that probably have fancy names like "charcoal" and "slate" instead of plain old "gray." Heads turn as I pass, taking in my bakery boxes and casual clothes. I feel like I'm starring in my own private walk of shame, except instead of last night's party dress, I'm wearing flour-dusted jeans and carrying carbs.
The assistant stops at a set of double doors that look like they might lead to another dimension. "Mr. Devereux is expecting you," she says, opening one door and stepping aside.
Alex's office is larger than my entire apartment. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the city like a personal backdrop, the furniture all clean lines and materials that whisper "don't even think about touching me unless your net worth has eight digits." He sits behind a desk the size of a small country, attention fixed on a computer screen, jacket off and sleeves rolled to expose forearms corded with muscle.
He looks up when I enter, and the full force of those steel-gray eyes hits me like a physical blow. "Clara," he says, my name somehow sounding different in his mouth than it ever has before.
"Your order," I say, lifting the boxes slightly. "Where would you like them?"
He stands and gestures to a conference table to the side. "There is fine."
I place the boxes down and begin opening them, arranging everything with nervous precision. "I've included the items we discussed, plus a few seasonal specialties. The cranberry orange scones are fresh from this morning, and the chocolate espresso tarts should be served at room temperature for best flavor."
He hasn't moved from behind his desk, just watches me with that unnervingly focused attention. When I finish my little presentation, he presses a button on his phone.
"Hold all calls and visitors for the next hour," he says to his assistant. "And have the Tokyo call rescheduled for tomorrow."
My stomach drops. An hour? I'd planned to drop these off and escape within five minutes.
