He finally approaches, stopping close enough that I catch that subtle cologne again. "You look nervous, Clara."
"I'm not," I lie. "Just busy. Holiday rush."
"Hmm." He studies the pastries, then looks back at me. "Which should I try first?"
"The cranberry scone is most popular," I say automatically. "Or the chocolate tart if you prefer something richer."
He selects the scone, but instead of stepping back to his desk to eat, he stays right where he is, barely two feet away from me. He breaks it in half, the buttery layers separating with a delicate flake. The scent of orange zest and cranberry fills the small space between us.
"Tell me about this one," he says, holding my gaze as he takes a bite.
I swallow hard. "It's, um, made with European butter. Cold-grated, not cubed, for better lamination. The orange zest is mixed with the sugar first to release the oils, and the cranberries are macerated in Grand Marnier overnight."
He nods slowly, taking another bite, watching me the entire time. Not glancing at his phone, not shuffling papers, not multitasking like every other powerful person I've ever met. Just…present. Completely focused on the taste and on me. It's the most intimate thing I've ever experienced while fully clothed.
"The texture is perfect," he says. "Most scones are too dry. Yours are delicate but substantial." He holds out the other half. "Try it."
"I know how they taste," I say, voice embarrassingly breathless. "I make them every day."
"Humor me."
Against my better judgment, I take it from him, our fingers brushing. I bite into the scone, hyperaware of his eyes tracking the movement of my mouth. It's like being undressed by a glance.
"Now the chocolate," he says when I finish.
And so begins the most surreal tasting session of my life. Alex works through each pastry methodically, making me explain the techniques, the ingredients, the inspiration. He asks questions no client has ever asked—about fermentation times and butter fat percentages and whether I prefer Tahitian or Madagascar vanilla. His knowledge surprises me; this isn't someone who's googled baking terms to impress me. He actually understands what he's talking about.
"You studied pastry," I say suddenly, the realization hitting me. "Formally, I mean."
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Two summers in Paris during college. Not professionally, but enough to appreciate the craft."
"Why?"
He shrugs, selecting a macaron next. "I appreciate perfection in all forms. The precision of pastry appealed to me."
He bites into the macaron, and a small crumb clings to his lower lip. Without thinking, I reach up to brush it away, my finger connecting with his mouth before my brain catches up to what I'm doing. We both freeze.
His eyes darken to storm-cloud gray. "Clara," he says, my name barely more than a breath.
The phone on his desk buzzes, shattering the moment. I step back quickly, my hand falling to my side, fingertip burning where it touched his lip.
He ignores the phone, still watching me. "Same time tomorrow," he says. It's not a question.
"I can't keep doing personal deliveries," I try to protest. "I have a business to run. Employees who could?—"
"I don't want your employees," he cuts me off. "I want you. And I'm willing to pay whatever it costs to make that happen."
"It's not about the money," I say, flustered.
"No," he agrees, stepping closer again, "it's not. But the money will help your bakery stay afloat through the slow months ahead. Consider it an investment in your future success."
The calculating practicality blindsides me. He's right—January through March are brutal for bakeries. The post-holiday sugar guilt, the inevitable diet resolutions, the cold weather keeping people home. And he knows it, because he's researched my business with disturbing thoroughness.
"Fine," I concede. "But just until Christmas. Then we renegotiate."
His smile is the definition of satisfaction. "I look forward to the negotiation, Clara."
As I leave his office, I can still feel the press of his lips against my fingertip, the ghost of contact that felt more intimate than any kiss I've ever experienced.
