I am playing with fire. And the most terrifying part is how much I want to get burned.
I drop a tray of madeleines for the third time today, the small seashell cakes skittering across the floor like yellow hockey pucks. "Dammit," I mutter, crouching to collect the casualties. My hands haven't been this unsteady since culinary school finals. I know exactly why: six-foot-something of tailored suit and predatory focus who's hijacked my thoughts ever since I left his office four hours ago.
The afternoon rush came and went in a blur of transactions and small talk that required exactly zero of my brain cells, leaving the rest free to replay every second of that surreal tasting session. His eyes never leaving mine. The way he savored each bite like he was memorizing it. How his lips felt against my fingertip—warm and firm and dangerous.
"Stop it," I scold myself, tossing the ruined madeleines into the trash. "You're not a teenager, and he's not prom king."
No, Alexander Devereux is something far more lethal—a man who's never heard the word "no" and means to keep his perfect record intact. A man who researched my dying mother and bakery finances like they were companies to acquire. A man who could crush my little business with a phone call if the whim struck.
The logical part of my brain is screaming warning signals like a five-alarm fire. The illogical part—the part that notices how his hands could probably span my entire waist, how his voice drops an octave when he says my name—that part needs to be locked in a closet and denied sugar until it behaves.
The bakery is empty now, the CLOSED sign flipped, just me and my thoughts and the mindless routine of cleanup. I wipe down counters with extra vigor, as if I could scrub away the memory of gray eyes that see too much. The mop slaps against the floor with satisfying force as I mentally list all the reasons Alexander Devereux is bad news:
1. He's a billionaire. Billionaires don't date bakery owners; they consume them and move on.
2. He's clearly used to controlling everything and everyone in his orbit.
3. He investigated me without permission, which is stalker behavior in designer clothing.
4. He makes me feel like I'm standing on the edge of a very high cliff, exhilarated and terrified.
That last one might not be a reason, but it belongs on the list anyway.
The bell over the door chimes despite the CLOSED sign, and I turn, ready to politely but firmly redirect whoever ignored basic retail etiquette.
The words die in my throat.
Alexander Devereux stands in my bakery for the second time today, but now we're alone. He's changed from the business suit to dark jeans and a charcoal sweater that does illegal things for his shoulders. His hair is slightly damp, like he just showered, and something primal in my brain short-circuits at the thought.
"We're closed," I say, proud that my voice emerges steady.
"I know." He moves farther in, letting the door swing shut behind him. "I wanted to see you without an audience."
My heart pounds against my ribs like it's trying to escape. "How did you know I'd still be here?"
A small smile touches his lips. "Your routine. You close at six, but you stay until at least seven cleaning up. Sometimes later if you're prepping dough for tomorrow."
A chill runs through me that has nothing to do with the December air seeping through the old windows. "That's…unsettling."
"It's observation," he corrects, moving closer. "I pay attention to what matters."
"Mr. Devereux?—"
"Alex," he interrupts. "My name is Alex."
I take a deep breath, squaring my shoulders. "Alex. I think we need to be clear about something."
"I agree." He's close enough now that I can smell his cologne, something woodsy and clean that makes my knees embarrassingly weak. "Clarity is important."
I grip the mop handle tighter, needing something solid to anchor me. "I'm not interested in whatever game this is."
"Game?" One eyebrow raises slightly.
"The daily orders. The personal deliveries. The intense staring." I wave a hand between us, gesturing at the charged air. "This. I'm not interested."
He studies me for a long, uncomfortable moment. "You're lying."
The blunt assessment knocks the wind from my lungs. "Excuse me?"
