"Black."
She returns with a mug—ceramic, not paper, in a deep blue that matches the bakery's color scheme—and a plate holding what appears to be a croissant stuffed with something savory.
"Ham and gruyère," she explains at my questioning look. "With caramelized onions and thyme. It's new. You can be my guinea pig."
I take a bite and have to stifle a groan of appreciation. The pastry shatters perfectly, the cheese stretches in silky strands, and the balance of flavors is impeccable. It's the kind of food that reminds you eating should be a pleasure, not just a necessity.
"You'll need at least fifty more of these," I say after swallowing. "They'll sell out by noon."
A tiny smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. "That good?"
"You know exactly how good it is," I counter, taking another bite. "False modesty doesn't suit you, Clara."
She flushes slightly, but the smile widens a fraction. "Fifty is optimistic. But thanks for the vote of confidence."
The bell chimes again as her first regular customers arrive—two women in scrubs from the hospital three blocks over, a businessman in a rumpled suit, a college student with purple hair. Clara transforms before my eyes, her professional persona slipping into place like a well-worn glove. She remembers names, preferences, asks about a child's soccer game, commiserates over an upcoming exam.
I sip my coffee and pretend to work while actually watching her operate in her natural habitat. Every movement is efficient, every interaction genuine. When she smiles at the elderly man who apparently comes in every Tuesday for a single almond cookie, something hot and possessive flares in my chest.
I want that smile. I want it directed at me, without wariness or suspicion.
The morning rush ebbs and flows. I field three urgent calls, review two contracts, and approve a press release, all while tracking Clara's movements with peripheral awareness. She keeps glancing at me, clearly unsettled by my continued presence but too professional to say anything.
At 9:45, when there's a brief lull, she approaches my table. "Refill?" she offers, gesturing to my empty mug.
"Please." I close the laptop, giving her my full attention. "Business looks steady."
She shrugs, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. "Tuesday mornings are decent. Nothing like the weekend rush, though."
"You do this alone most days?"
"Mia helps on weekends and some afternoons," she says, referring to the high school student. "Otherwise, it's just me."
"Impressive," I say, meaning it. "Most people couldn't handle this volume solo."
She narrows her eyes, looking for the catch. "It's just baking. Not rocket science."
"It's running a business," I correct. "Inventory, staffing, accounting, marketing, production, customer service. That's six different jobs by my count."
She refills my mug from a fresh pot, the rich aroma curling between us. "Sounds like someone's been doing his homework."
"I always do my homework, Clara." I hold her gaze until she looks away first, a flush creeping up her neck.
"I need to check my ovens," she mutters, retreating to the kitchen.
The next day, I arrive at the same time. Her expression when she sees me is less surprised, more resigned. I take the same table, order the same coffee, but try a different pastry—this time a savory tart with roasted vegetables and goat cheese that makes me reconsider every five-star restaurant meal I've ever had.
By the third day, she has my coffee waiting when I arrive. By the fourth, she's setting aside new creations for me to sample, watching with poorly concealed anticipation as I take the first bite. By the fifth, she's started talking to me between customers—small, impersonal things at first, then gradually more substantive conversations about ingredients and techniques.
By the end of the week, I know her supplier for European butter is overcharging her. I know the health inspector is due next Tuesday. I know her mixer makes a concerning noise when kneading heavy doughs. I know the landlord "forgot" to fix the heating vent in the back corner, forcing her to run a space heater that drives up her electric bill.
I also know that Clara Benson is even more extraordinary than I initially thought. Her talent is undeniable, but it's her resilience that fascinates me. She operates on minimal sleep, handles entitled customers with grace, and creates art from flour and butter with the same dedication others bring to medicine or law.
She's still wary of me. Still keeps a careful distance, both physical and emotional. But the walls are lowering, brick by cautious brick.
Today marks day eight of my morning occupation. When I enter, something is different. Clara looks up from the espresso machine and does something unprecedented.
She smiles at me—a real smile, not the professional mask or the reluctant half-version I've earned so far. Just a genuine,unguarded moment of what might almost be pleasure at seeing me.
