The suggestive undertone makes heat rush to my face. "Right. Well. Um. You could restock the display case while I finish these coffees?" I point to the trays of fresh pastries waiting to be arranged.
Alex washes his hands thoroughly at the sink—the sight of him performing such a mundane task in my space feels weirdly intimate—then begins carefully transferring pastries to the display case. I try to focus on the coffees, but my eyes keep straying to his hands, the way they handle each delicate pastry with surprising care.
"You're staring," he says without looking up.
"You're doing it wrong," I lie, moving around the counter to join him. "Here, like this."
I position myself beside him, reaching for a cranberry orange scone to demonstrate the proper arrangement. Our shoulders brush, and a jolt of awareness races through me like I've touched a live wire. He smells incredible—that subtle cologne mixed with something that's just him, clean and masculine.
"Show me," he says, his voice lower, close to my ear.
I swallow hard. "You want the most attractive side facing the customer," I explain, positioning the scone. My voice soundsbreathless even to my own ears. "And you need to group them by type, but in a way that looks natural, not too structured."
He reaches for another pastry, deliberately brushing his fingers against mine. The contact sends a shiver up my arm that has nothing to do with the December chill outside.
"Like this?" he asks.
I nod, not trusting my voice. We continue working side by side, the small space forcing us to brush against each other with movements that should be innocent but feel charged with electricity. Every accidental touch—his arm against mine, his hip briefly meeting my side as we shift positions—sends my heart rate spiking.
Zoe's warnings echo in my head: He becomes intensely fixated, makes himself the center of a woman's universe, then vanishes when he gets bored.
But this doesn't feel like calculated seduction. The way his breath catches when our hands touch, the slight flush along his cheekbones, the tension in his shoulders—these seem like genuine reactions, not practiced moves.
"You're thinking too loudly," he murmurs, placing the last pastry.
"Just wondering why Alexander Devereux is arranging scones in my display case at 7:45 in the morning," I say, aiming for lighthearted and missing by miles.
He turns to face me fully, and in the narrow space between counter and display, we're suddenly much too close. I can see the faint stubble on his jaw, the tiny flecks of darker gray in his irises.
"Maybe I like seeing how things work," he says. "How they're built from the ground up."
"Pastry arrangements aren't that complicated," I counter.
"I wasn't talking about the pastries." His gaze is steady, too perceptive. "Your friend doesn't think much of me."
The abrupt change of subject throws me. "What?"
"The curly-haired woman who picked you up last night. She looks at me like I'm something she found on the bottom of her shoe."
I freeze. "You were watching me last night?"
"I was driving past," he clarifies. "Saw you leaving with her. The look she gave me was…illuminating."
Embarrassment and something like anger flickers through me. "Are you having me followed?"
"No." He seems genuinely offended by the suggestion. "But I do notice things, Clara. Like how you've been different this morning. Nervous. Wary."
"I'm not?—"
"She told you about my reputation," he interrupts, his voice matter-of-fact. "About the women I've supposedly chewed up and spit out."
I don't deny it. "Your dating history isn't exactly a state secret."
"Dating history," he repeats, a sardonic twist to his mouth. "Is that what we're calling tabloid fiction now?"
"So none of it is true?" I challenge. "Anna Wells? The model with the restraining order?"
Something flickers in his eyes—not guilt, exactly, but recognition. "Some has elements of truth. Most is exaggerated. And none of it is relevant to what's happening between us."
