My heart is suddenly trying to escape through my throat. I've never met Alexander Devereux, but everyone knows him—his face plastered across business magazines, his name attached to half the skyscrapers downtown. I grip the tray so hard my knuckles turn white, mentally rehearsing what to say.
I step through the doorway, a prayer on my lips that I won't trip, spill, or say something that gets me blacklisted from catering in this city forever.
Whatever I was expecting, it wasn't this.
And that's when I see him.
I've seen pictures of Alexander Devereux, of course. He's the city's most eligible bachelor, as the headlines never stop reminding anyone with a pulse. But the photos don't do him justice. He's taller than I expected—maybe because he's wearing nothing but a pair of black joggers, sweat-damp and clinging in ways that make my face combust. He's shirtless, which isobjectively illegal for anyone who isn't a Greek statue. And he's sitting on the floor in front of a fireplace big enough to roast a reindeer, his hair sticking up in post-workout chaos.
The man himself looks up. His eyes are a metallic, inhuman gray. I get the sense he could freeze a lake just by staring at it. Or melt it, depending on his mood.
I make a strangled noise and thrust the dessert tray toward him.
"Uh…your order, sir."
He grins, slow and dangerous. "Set it down, Clara."
He says my name like he already owns it. Maybe he does.
I set the tray on the nearest table, hands shaking. He pushes himself up, all six feet of brooding muscle, and closes the distance between us in three strides. He smells like cold salt and something expensive. His attention drags over me, head to toe and back again.
He lifts the domed lid on the croquembouche, studies the handiwork. "You make this?"
"Yes," I croak, and want to die.
He takes a caramel-dipped profiterole from the base, pops it into his mouth, and chews with the slow deliberation of a man tasting victory. He doesn't take his eyes off me, even as he licks sugar off his thumb.
He looks like he could devour the rest of the tray—or maybe me—without blinking.
He says, "Stay."
I blink. "Sorry?"
"Stay," he repeats, and this time it's not a suggestion.
He tears off another pastry and sits, gesturing for me to join him in front of the fire. I hesitate, then lower myself to the rug, acutely aware of every awkward limb and the fact that I am covered in flour. He eats a third profiterole, still sizing me up.
"Why pastry?" he asks. "You could do anything with hands like that."
I sputter, unsure what he means, unsure how to answer. "I don't—I mean, it's just what I'm good at."
He smiles, but there's something about it that says the answer isn't good enough.
I should say something smart, something that will make him remember me as more than just the girl who brought the dessert. Instead, I stare at my knees and say, "I like making people happy, I guess. Baking is…safe. You know how it's going to turn out, if you follow the recipe."
He nods, but I can't tell if he actually understands or just finds it amusing. "I never follow recipes," he says. "They're for people who can't improvise."
He leans closer. I get the sense he's sizing me up for something, but I have no idea what.
Suddenly, there's a clatter in the kitchen and the sound of raised voices. I glance over my shoulder, startled.
He says, "You'll come back tomorrow, Clara."
I blink again. "I'm sorry?"
"You'll come back," he says, as if it's inevitable. "I'll have another order ready. And I'll want it personally delivered. By you."
His voice is low, thick with authority. My heart does a gymnastic routine in my chest.
