The Macallan burns a perfect path down my throat, thirty years of craftsmanship reduced to a momentary sensation. I pour another, carrying it to the wall of windows that frames the city like a living painting. Lights blink below, cars movingin orderly streams, lives unfolding in neat patterns. Controlled. Predictable.
Unlike the way my thoughts keep circling back to wide brown eyes and flour-dusted hands.
Clara Benson. She's nothing like the women who usually catch my attention. Not tall, not polished, not calculating. She has no agenda, no angle. Just a small bakery and determination so fierce it practically radiates from her skin. She looks at me like she sees past the suits and the money and the power, straight through to something I'm not sure exists anymore.
And she said no, told me she wasn’t interested.
I drain the second scotch, feeling it hit my bloodstream with comfortable familiarity. The alcohol should dull the edge of this…whatever this is. It doesn't.
My phone buzzes. An email from Tokyo about the rescheduled call. Work. Yes. Work always centers me.
I move to my home office, power up the laptop, and stare at the screen. The words blur into meaningless patterns. All I can see is Clara's face when she told me she wasn't interested—the slight tremor in her voice betraying the lie, the pulse fluttering visibly at her throat, the way her pupils dilated when I moved closer.
Her body recognized what her mind refused to admit.
I push away from the desk, too restless to sit. This is absurd. I run a global corporation. I close nine-figure deals over breakfast. I don't obsess over women who smell like vanilla and cinnamon and look at me with equal parts want and wariness.
Except, apparently, I do.
Because Clara Benson has crawled under my skin in a way no one else ever has. She makes me feel something I haven't felt since I was building my first company from nothing: hunger. Not just sexual—though God knows that's part of it—but a deeper craving. For her smile. Her honesty. The way she facesdown a man worth billions with nothing but a mop and stubborn determination.
I find myself in the kitchen, staring at the bakery box from yesterday. One of her experimental tarts remains, the chocolate ganache now dull rather than glossy. I touch it with one finger, feeling the texture that was once perfect, now compromised by time. Something about the gesture feels too revealing, too symbolic of all I've become—a man who takes and consumes without savoring.
Without warning, I sweep the box from the counter, sending it crashing to the floor, pastry and cardboard exploding across imported tile. The sudden violence shocks even me. I never lose control. Never.
"Pull yourself together," I growl to the empty penthouse.
My phone rings—Garrett, my head of security. I answer with more relief than I'd admit, grateful for the distraction.
"Sir," he says, his tone clipped as always. "The additional information you requested on Sweet Haven Bakery."
I straighten, instantly alert. "Go on."
"The building owner is Crestview Properties. They've been pressuring all the small businesses on that block to break their leases early. Redevelopment planned for next summer."
My fingers tighten around the phone. "What kind of pressure?"
"The usual. 'Maintenance issues' that never get fixed. Rent 'errors' that take weeks to resolve. Nothing technically illegal, but enough to make life difficult."
A cold, familiar anger settles in my chest. This, at least, I understand. This, I can channel. "Who runs Crestview?"
"Martin Shelby. Mid-level developer, trying to move up to the big leagues. Word is he's overextended on three other properties and needs this one to work."
"Find out who he owes," I say, mind already calculating angles of attack. "I want leverage points. And I want to know exactly when Miss Benson's lease expires."
"Already have that. May 30th. No renewal option in the current contract."
Six months. Less than ideal, but workable. "Get me everything on Shelby by morning."
"Already compiled," Garrett says, efficiency personified. "And sir? The bakery had another visitor tonight. After you left."
My blood chills. "Who?"
"Man in a suit. Didn't go inside, just looked through the windows. When Miss Benson noticed him, he left. We got partial plates—registered to Crestview Properties."
The protective surge that rushes through me is primal, unexpected in its intensity. "I want someone watching her place. Discreetly."
"Already arranged."
