"Nothing is happening between us," I insist, taking a step back and colliding with the counter behind me.
He doesn't advance, but somehow seems closer anyway. "Your pulse is racing," he observes, his gaze dropping to my throat where I know my heartbeat is visible. "Your pupils are dilated. When I touch you—even accidentally—you hold your breath. Nothing, Clara?"
The bell over the door chimes, saving me from having to respond. Alex steps back smoothly as an elderly couple enters, his expression shifting from intense to pleasantly neutral so quickly it's like watching a mask slide into place.
I serve the new customers on autopilot, hyperaware of Alex returning to his usual table, setting up his laptop as if the last ten minutes never happened. By the time the morning rush hits, we've settled into our normal routine—me behind the counter, him working at his table, occasional glances connecting us across the space.
But something has shifted. The air between us feels charged, as if we're both waiting for the next spark to ignite something we can't control. My body has apparently decided to ignore all the rational warnings from my brain, responding to his presence like a compass finding north.
During a lull, he approaches the counter to order a second coffee. When I hand him the mug, our fingers brush—deliberately, on both our parts—and the contact sends heat spiraling through my core.
"Still nothing?" he asks quietly, his eyes holding mine.
I withdraw my hand, curling my tingling fingers into my palm. "I can't afford to be another notch on your bedpost, Alex."
His expression softens unexpectedly. "That's not what I want from you."
"Then what do you want?" I ask, the question barely above a whisper.
His answer comes without hesitation. "Everything."
He returns to his table, leaving me clutching the edge of the counter, my skin too tight, my mind in chaos.
I'm in trouble. Deep, devastating trouble. Because despite everything my friends said, despite all the warnings and red flags, my body recognizes something in Alexander Devereux that my mind is still fighting.
And I'm terrified that when the battle ends, my mind won't be the winner.
"Last customer," I announce, flipping the sign to CLOSED as the final afternoon straggler exits with their peppermint mocha and gingerbread cookie. Only Alex remains, still at his usual table despite having been here since opening. He's become a fixture in the bakery over the past three weeks—so familiar that customers now greet him by name, and Mrs. Abernathy asks after him when he steps out for business calls. It should be unnerving how quickly he's integrated himself into my daily routine. Instead, it feels like he's always been here, watching me with those storm-cloud eyes.
"Need help cleaning up?" he offers, closing his laptop.
It's become part of our routine. He asks; I deflect. "I've got it. Don't you have a company to run? Economies to influence? Small countries to purchase?"
His smile is quick and unexpectedly warm. "The small countries can wait."
I snort, starting my closing routine—wiping down counters, tallying the register, sweeping floors that somehow accumulate enough flour to recreate the Sahara Desert daily. Alex moves his chair to allow me to sweep beneath his table, but makes no move to leave.
"The Children's Hospital Foundation is holding their annual Christmas gala this weekend," he says casually, as if commenting on the weather.
I pause mid-sweep. "Good for them?"
He leans back in his chair, studying me with that intense focus that still makes my skin prickle with awareness. "I'mon the board. It's a five-thousand-dollar-a-plate fundraiser. Black tie. Usually raises about two million for pediatric cancer research."
"That's…really great," I say, uncertain where this is heading. "I hope it goes well."
"It would go better if you came with me," he says, dropping the invitation so matter-of-factly I almost miss it.
The broom freezes in my hands. "What?"
"The gala," he repeats patiently. "This Saturday. I'd like you to be my date."
A nervous laugh escapes me. "Right. Because I totally belong at a black-tie charity gala with billionaires and socialites."
"Yes, you do," he says with such conviction that I almost believe him. "Besides, your presence would be professional too. They need a new dessert sponsor. The previous bakery closed last month."
Ah. There it is. The business angle that makes more sense than Alex simply wanting my company. "So this is about Sweet Haven providing desserts? You should have said so."
Something flickers across his expression. "The catering opportunity is real. But that's not why I'm asking you to come as my date, Clara."
