"Maybe," Zoe concedes, though her expression says otherwise. "But ask yourself this: if he weren't Alexander Devereux—if he were just a regular guy with no money or influence—would you still be drawn to him?"
The question catches me off guard. I think about Alex's steel-gray eyes that see too much. The way his entire focus shifts to whatever he's discussing with complete, unnerving attention. How his rare, genuine smiles transform his face from intimidating to almost boyish.
"Yes," I say finally, surprising myself with the certainty in my voice. "It's not about the money or the power. If anything, those make it scarier."
Mia perks up at this admission. "So you are attracted to him!"
I feel my cheeks heating. "I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to," Zoe says, sighing. "It's written all over your face. Just…be careful, okay? Protect your heart. And maybe your bakery too."
"Nothing is going to happen," I insist, though the words ring hollow even to my own ears. "He'll get bored eventually. Find some supermodel who doesn't have flour permanently embedded under her fingernails."
"If you say so," Mia says, clearly unconvinced. "But if you do end up sleeping with him, I expect full details. For research purposes."
"You're incorrigible," I tell her, grateful for the break in tension.
"I'm realistic," she counters. "If a guy who looks like that, with a net worth higher than some countries, was staring at me like I was his last meal? I'd climb him like a tree."
"And this is why you're not allowed to date until you're thirty," I say, finally smiling.
The conversation shifts to safer topics—Mia's classes, Zoe's latest catering disaster—but my mind keeps circling back to Alex. To the warnings about his past, the patterns Zoe described that sound nothing like the man who sits quietly in my bakery each morning, occasionally offering business insights so subtle I almost miss them.
I try to reconcile the cold, calculating playboy of gossip with the man who noticed the mixer making strange noises before I did, who asked questions about my mother when he saw her photo behind the counter, who left a hundred-dollar tip for Mia when she worked the register last Saturday.
By the time we say our goodbyes, I've made no decisions, reached no conclusions. But Zoe hugs me extra tight, whispering, "Just remember you deserve someone who sees you as the main course, not the appetizer."
Walking home through the December chill, I wrap my scarf tighter and wonder which version of Alexander Devereux is real—the ruthless billionaire who discards women like yesterday's newspaper, or the man who watches me with hunger but also something that looks dangerously like admiration.
And I wonder, with a shiver that has nothing to do with the cold, which version I'll be facing tomorrow morning when the bell above my door chimes at precisely 7:30.
The bakery feels ten degrees too hot the next morning, or maybe that's just me. I've been checking the clock every three minutes since 7:00, simultaneously dreading and anticipating the moment when Alex walks through the door. Zoe's warnings circle my thoughts like vultures, picking at my resolve. I've dropped two trays, under-baked a batch of scones, and snapped at poor Mrs. Abernathy when she asked for her usual tea with lemon instead of her "normal" milk. I'm a disaster, and I know exactly why.
At 7:29—one minute earlier than usual—the bell chimes. I nearly drop the pitcher of milk I'm frothing.
It's him, but…different. Instead of his usual impeccable suit, Alex wears dark jeans and a gray cashmere sweater that makes his eyes look like storm clouds. His hair is slightly tousled, as if he ran his fingers through it. He looks less like a CEO and more like the kind of man who brings you coffee in bed on Sunday mornings, right before he pulls you back under the covers.
That thought should not be in my head at 7:30 AM. Or ever.
"Morning," he says, his voice that low rumble that seems to vibrate through my bones.
"You're early," I blurt, immediately wanting to slap myself. Smooth, Clara. Real smooth.
A small smile touches his lips. "Technically, I'm right on time. You're just used to me being precisely one minute late."
The fact that he knows this—that he's been tracking the timing of our interactions as carefully as I have—sends a warm flutter through my stomach that I refuse to acknowledge.
"Your usual?" I ask, already reaching for a mug.
"Actually," he says, moving toward the counter, "I thought I might help this morning. You seem…flustered."
I pause, the mug suspended midair. "Help? You want to help? In my bakery?"
"Unless that's against some health code," he says, shrugging out of his jacket to reveal shoulders that fill out the sweater in ways that should be illegal before 9 AM.
"No, it's just—you don't seem like the type who..." I gesture vaguely at his entirety, "...does manual labor."
His eyes darken slightly. "I do all kinds of labor, Clara. Some more manual than others."
