My heart does a complicated gymnastics routine against my ribs. "I don't have anything to wear to something like that," I say, defaulting to the most practical objection.
"That can be arranged."
"I'm not letting you buy me clothes," I counter immediately.
He sighs, a hint of impatience showing through his usual controlled exterior. "I wasn't suggesting that. I know several designers who would be happy to loan you a gown for the evening. It's common practice for events like this."
"I wouldn't know how to act," I continue, grasping for excuses. "Which fork to use. What to say to people who probably spend more on a lunch than I make in a month."
"You'd be with me," he says simply, as if that resolves everything. "And you speak more eloquently through your baking than most socialites manage in a lifetime of cocktail parties."
I resume sweeping, needing the familiar motion to ground me. The invitation terrifies me for reasons I can't fully articulate. It's not just entering Alex's world—it's what it might mean, how it might change things between us. Right now, we exist in the safe confines of my bakery. Neutral territory. Stepping into his world feels like crossing a line I'm not sure I can step back from.
"People will talk," I say finally. "They'll assume things."
"Let them." His voice drops lower. "What they assume will probably be true eventually anyway."
Heat floods my face at the implication. "That's…presumptuous."
"It's confident," he corrects, rising from his chair to approach the counter that separates us. "Clara, I want you there. Not as a caterer. Not as a business connection. As my guest."
I clutch the broom like a lifeline. "Why?"
He considers me for a long moment. "Because every other woman I've taken to these events has been there for what they could get from me—connections, publicity, financial gain. You'd be there despite your better judgment, not because of what I can offer you."
His honesty catches me off guard. "That's a pretty low bar."
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Perhaps. But it's refreshing nonetheless."
I think about what Zoe would say if she knew I was even considering this. How she'd remind me of all the women who came before, all the relationships that ended badly. I thinkabout Mia, who would probably shove me out the door with instructions to "climb him like a tree" at the first opportunity.
Mostly, I think about myself, standing in a room full of people who belong to a world I've never even glimpsed, with a man who makes my heart race and my common sense disappear.
"The dessert sponsorship," I say slowly. "Would it be a regular contract? For all their events?"
He nods. "Four major fundraisers annually, plus smaller events throughout the year. They pay well and on time. It would be significant income for Sweet Haven."
The practical, business-owner part of my brain perks up at this. Steady institutional clients are the holy grail of small food businesses—reliable income that helps smooth out the seasonal ups and downs.
"I'm not agreeing because of the contract," I say carefully. "But it does make it easier to justify saying yes."
His eyes sharpen. "So that's a yes?"
I set the broom aside, suddenly tired of fighting what feels increasingly inevitable. "It's a 'God help me, I must be crazy, but yes.'"
The smile that transforms his face is like watching the sun break through storm clouds—unexpected and briefly dazzling before his usual control reasserts itself. "I'll pick you up at seven on Saturday."
"I still don't have anything to wear," I remind him.
"Give me your address. Someone will bring options tomorrow." He raises a hand when I start to protest. "Loans only, I promise. You can choose whatever makes you comfortable."
I write my address on a bakery receipt, feeling like I'm handing over more than just information. "Just so we're clear—this is one evening. As your guest. It doesn't mean..."
"It means whatever we want it to mean, Clara," he says, pocketing the address. "Nothing more, nothing less."
After he leaves, I stand in my empty bakery, wondering what I've just agreed to. Not just a gala, not just a potential catering contract. Something else—something that feels like stepping off a cliff without knowing how far I'll fall or what waits at the bottom.
I'm saying yes to entering Alexander Devereux's world, where I don't belong and don't know the rules. The sensible part of me is screaming that this is exactly how all those other women started—with one invitation, one evening, one step into his orbit before being consumed by it.
