Of course he has. Garrett knows me too well.
"Anything else?" I ask.
A slight pause. "She has talent, sir. Real talent. Not just with pastry. Her business model is solid—just undercapitalized."
Coming from Garrett, this is practically a sonnet of praise.
"I know," I say quietly.
After hanging up, I stand in my immaculate kitchen, surrounded by the evidence of my momentary loss of control—chocolate smeared across Italian tile, shattered pastry like broken promises.
Clara Benson thinks she doesn't want me. She's wrong. What she doesn't want is to be another acquisition, another notch, another temporary diversion. She wants to be valued for what she creates, not consumed and discarded.
I can work with that.
Because underneath her flour-dusted exterior and genuine talent is a woman fighting to survive in a world that wants to crush her small dream. And that—her determination, her refusal to yield—speaks to something buried deep in my own history, something I thought I'd left behind years ago.
I pick up my phone again, making another call.
"Jennifer, I need you to clear my calendar for 8 AM to 10 AM every day for the next two weeks." My assistant doesn't question the unprecedented request. "And find out which food blogs have the most influence with the city's elite. I want to know who makes or breaks new restaurants."
Clara won't accept direct help. Her pride wouldn't allow it. But there are other ways to ensure Sweet Haven survives—ways she'll never trace back to me.
As for her insistence that she's not interested in me personally?
I smile into the darkness of my penthouse. I've turned around failing companies worth billions. I've convinced hardened investors to back seemingly impossible ventures. I've built an empire from nothing but ambition and ruthless intelligence.
Winning over one stubborn baker should be simple by comparison.
Clara Benson doesn't know it yet, but she's already mine. Her mind just hasn't accepted what her body already knows.
I'll help it along.
The bakery lights flick on at 4:17 AM. I've been parked across the street for nine minutes, watching the dark windows of Sweet Haven, my breath fogging the Aston Martin's interior despitethe luxury heating system. At 4:19, Clara appears in the window, hair messily piled on top of her head, oversized sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder. She moves with the efficient grace of someone performing a well-rehearsed routine, unaware she has an audience. By 4:22, the first trays are going into the ovens. By 4:31, I've watched her dance to three songs I can't hear, using a rolling pin as an impromptu microphone.
I shouldn't find it charming. I don't do charming. Yet here I am, smiling into the dark like a teenager watching his crush.
Pathetic.
At precisely 7:30 AM, when the CLOSED sign flips to OPEN, I exit my car and cross the street, laptop bag over one shoulder. The morning is bitter cold, December asserting itself with icy determination. Through the window, I see Clara arranging pastries in the display case, still oblivious to my approach. The bell chimes as I enter, bringing a blast of cold air with me.
Her head snaps up, recognition widening her eyes. "You're…here. Early."
"I'm your first customer," I say, noting the flour dusting her cheek, the small burn on her wrist that wasn't there yesterday. "I need coffee and whatever you recommend for breakfast."
She blinks rapidly, clearly recalibrating. "Coffee I understand, but why are you here? Specifically. In my bakery. At 7:30 in the morning."
I set my laptop bag on the nearest table—the one with the best view of both her and the door—and begin unpacking. "I'm working remotely this morning. Your Wi-Fi password?"
"My…what?" She looks increasingly bewildered, which I find unreasonably appealing. "Why would you work from here? Don't you have an entire building with your name on it?"
"Sweet_Haven_Guest," I say, reading the small sign by the register. "One word or separate?"
She stares at me like I've grown a second head. "Separate. With underscores. But seriously?—"
"I need a change of scenery," I explain, settling into the chair and opening my laptop. "And your pastries are better than anything my chef makes. The coffee?"
For a moment I think she might refuse, might tell me to leave. Instead, she shakes her head in apparent surrender and moves to the coffee station. "How do you take it?"
