Her eyes widen slightly, confusion evident. We haven't discussed any order for tonight. "Tonight's...?"
"The fundraiser," I continue smoothly, moving to stand beside the lawyer, deliberately invading his space. "I want to add those chocolate espresso things. The ones you made last week."
Understanding dawns in her eyes, followed quickly by something else—amusement, perhaps, at seeing through mytransparent maneuver. "The chocolate espresso tartlets," she clarifies. "For the children's hospital fundraiser."
"Exactly." I turn finally to acknowledge the lawyer, extending my hand. "Alexander Devereux."
The recognition is immediate and satisfying. His face pales slightly. "Peter Michaels," he says, his handshake weaker than I anticipated. "Devereux as in Devereux Tower?"
"Among others," I confirm, not bothering to hide my dismissal.
He straightens his already-straight tie. "I didn't realize you two were..."
"Clara supplies all my events," I say, letting him fill in blanks I haven't explicitly drawn. "Her work is exceptional."
Clara watches this exchange with an expression I can't fully read—part exasperation, part something else. She jumps in before I can continue. "Mr. Michaels was just leaving for his new law office. Weren't you?"
Michaels glances between us, recalculating. Whatever he sees makes him back down immediately. "Right. Yes. Thanks for the pastries. I'll…be in touch about that catering."
No, he won't. The unspoken message in my stare ensures that.
After he leaves, Clara turns to me with arms crossed. "There is no fundraiser tonight."
"There could be," I offer. "I donate to several children's hospitals."
"That was subtle," she says dryly. "Why not just pee in a circle around the counter to mark your territory?"
The blunt assessment startles a laugh out of me. "Would that have worked better?"
"Neither was necessary," she points out. "I wasn't interested in him."
"He was interested in you," I counter. "Very interested."
"And that bothers you." It's not a question.
I meet her gaze directly. "Yes."
Something shifts in her expression—wariness, but also a flicker of something warmer, perhaps even flattered. She picks up the lawyer's card from the counter, looks at it for a moment, then deliberately drops it into the trash.
"I don't need a white knight, Alex," she says, but there's no real heat in it. "I've been handling unwanted attention since I grew these." She gestures vaguely to her chest.
My eyes follow the gesture before I can stop them, and her cheeks pink slightly when she catches me looking.
"Besides," she adds, turning to wipe down the already-clean espresso machine, "aren't you just another version of unwanted attention?"
"Am I unwanted?" I ask, moving closer, close enough to smell the vanilla and cinnamon that cling to her skin.
She doesn't answer immediately, doesn't back away. "You're…complicated," she finally says.
"I'm very simple," I correct her. "I see something exceptional, I want it. I want something, I acquire it."
"I'm not a company to acquire," she says, eyes flashing.
"No," I agree. "You're much more valuable."
Her expression softens almost imperceptibly. "I need to check my ovens," she says, her standard retreat when conversations get too intense.
I let her go, returning to my table and cold coffee. My reaction to the lawyer disturbs me. I've never considered myself a jealous man—jealousy implies insecurity, and I've never had reason to feel insecure. Yet the sight of another man looking at Clara, entertaining even the possibility of touching her, brought out something primitive I barely recognized.
