"Morning, Alex," she says, my name still new on her lips. "Trying the cardamom buns today. They're still warm."
I feel the impact of that smile like a physical blow. Something shifts inside my chest—a reorganizing of priorities, a realignment of purpose.
This was supposed to be a strategy. A campaign to win over a woman who said no.
I'm no longer certain who's conquering whom.
Two weeks into my morning ritual at Sweet Haven, and I've established something resembling a truce with Clara. She no longer tenses when I walk in. Sometimes she even laughs at things I say—a sound I find myself working to elicit with increasing frequency. Today, I'm reviewing acquisition proposals for a tech startup when the door opens, bringing in a gust of December air and a man I instantly dislike.
He's tall, conventionally handsome in that forgettable way of local news anchors, wearing an expensive but poorly fitted suit that speaks of money without taste. His eyes land on Clara and linger, the appreciation in them too familiar, too hungry. Something cold and primitive shifts in my chest.
"Good morning," Clara calls from behind the counter, her customer smile in place. "What can I get you?"
He approaches the counter slowly, taking his time looking at both the pastries and Clara herself. "Everything looks delicious," he says, the double meaning obvious in his tone.
I pretend to focus on my laptop while tracking their interaction with peripheral vision. Years of boardroomnegotiations have taught me to observe without appearing to do so.
"First time here?" Clara asks, professional but warm.
"Just moved to the neighborhood," he says, leaning against the counter in a carefully casual pose. "I'm Peter. Opened a law practice two blocks over."
A lawyer. Of course. Probably personal injury, judging by the cheap signet ring and too-white teeth.
"Welcome to the area," Clara says. "Any recommendations for your first visit? Coffee? Pastry?"
"What's your favorite?" he asks, the question dripping with suggestion.
I've asked her the same thing, but coming from him, it makes my jaw tighten. I force my fingers to relax their death grip on my coffee mug.
"The almond croissants are our bestseller," she says, gesturing to the display. "Or the blackberry mascarpone tart for something more unique."
"I'll take both," he decides. "And whatever coffee pairs best. I trust your expertise."
She prepares his order with efficient movements, explaining the coffee options. I watch his eyes track her hands, drop to the curve of her hip when she turns, linger on her mouth when she speaks. He's not even being subtle about it.
"You make everything yourself?" he asks as she boxes the pastries. "That's impressive."
"Everything from scratch," she confirms with justified pride. "It's a one-woman show, for the most part."
"I should hire you to cater my office opening next month," he says, clearly fabricating a reason for future contact. "Give me your card?"
Clara reaches under the counter for one of her simple business cards. Her movements are polite but not flirtatious,professional rather than encouraging. It doesn't matter. The lawyer's intentions are written all over his mediocre face.
I find myself calculating exactly how many different ways I could destroy this man's fledgling practice before he even properly opens his doors. Fifteen, at a conservative estimate. Three phone calls would be all it takes.
"I'll definitely call," he says, sliding the card into his wallet. Then he pulls out his own card and writes something on the back. "My cell's on here. You know, in case you have questions about the catering. Or if you'd like to grab dinner sometime."
He slides it across the counter with a smile that probably works on lesser women. Clara takes it with a noncommittal "Thanks" that's neither acceptance nor rejection.
Not good enough. She should have shut him down immediately. My coffee grows cold as I watch this pathetic display continue.
"Maybe I'll stop by tomorrow, try something else from your…collection." The pause is deliberate, loaded.
Something in me snaps.
I close my laptop with more force than necessary, the sound sharp in the small space. Both Clara and the lawyer turn toward me. I stand, straightening to my full height—a good three inches taller than him, I note with primitive satisfaction.
"Clara," I say, ignoring the other man completely as I approach the counter. "I need to speak with you about tonight's order."
