But another part—the part that watches him when he's absorbed in work, that notices how he remembers my regular customers' names, that felt his fingers tremble slightly when they brushed mine—that part whispers that maybe, just maybe, there's more to this story than my friends know.
I just hope I'm not writing myself into a tragedy while thinking it's a fairytale.
Chapter
Six
ALEX
I arriveat Clara's address at precisely seven, a fact that would surprise my assistant, who has spent years scheduling buffer time to accommodate my habitual lateness to events I'd rather avoid. Tonight is different. I've been ready since six, pacing my penthouse like a teenager before prom, checking my watch with embarrassing frequency. The Bentley idles at the curb outside a modest apartment building above a row of small businesses—her bakery below, her home above. Practical. Efficient. Utterly Clara.
I straighten my bow tie, a needless adjustment to perfection, and press the buzzer for apartment 2B.
"Coming!" Her voice sounds different through the intercom—higher, perhaps nervous. It occurs to me suddenly that I've never heard Clara nervous before. Flustered, yes. Irritated, certainly. But never this particular note of anxiety that makes something protective stir in my chest.
I hear footsteps approach the door, a pause—likely a final check in a mirror—and then it opens.
I forget to breathe.
Clara stands in the doorway in a deep red dress that falls to the floor in a waterfall of silk, the color so rich it reminds me of wine held to candlelight. The neckline dips in a modest V, revealing the elegant line of her collarbones and a hint of cleavage that manages to be both tasteful and maddening. Her hair, usually confined in a practical bun, cascades over one shoulder in glossy waves. She's applied makeup—subtle, emphasizing eyes that suddenly seem impossibly large and dark.
She looks nothing like the flour-dusted baker who haunts my dreams. She looks like she belongs on my arm at events exactly like tonight's. Yet the nervous way she bites her lower lip is purely, perfectly Clara.
"Is it too much?" she asks, misinterpreting my silence. "The stylist you sent brought several options, and this one seemed the least…ostentatious."
"It's perfect," I say, my voice rougher than intended. "You're perfect."
Color rises in her cheeks, and I realize I've never given her a direct compliment before. An oversight I intend to correct immediately.
"The dress was made for you," I continue, taking in details I missed in my initial shock—the way the fabric hugs her waist before flaring gently at her hips, the delicate gold bracelet at her wrist, the small ruby earrings that catch the light when she moves her head.
"It's on loan," she reminds me, but her hand smooths the silk self-consciously.
"Not anymore," I decide. "Consider it payment for tonight."
Her eyes narrow. "I told you I wasn't going to accept?—"
"Clara," I interrupt gently, "you're doing me a favor by attending. The dress is compensation, not charity. Excellent business arrangement, perfectly balanced."
She looks skeptical but reaches for a small clutch purse that matches the dress. "I'll consider it. No promises."
I offer my arm, and after a brief hesitation, she places her hand in the crook of my elbow. The simple contact—her fingers against my jacket sleeve—sends a current of awareness up my arm. She smells different tonight too—something floral but subtle, a significant departure from her usual vanilla and cinnamon scent that I've come to associate with comfort and home.
The thought stops me cold. When did I start associating Clara Benson with home?
"Everything okay?" she asks, picking up on my momentary pause.
"Fine," I say, guiding her toward the waiting car. "Just calculating how many men I'll need to glare into submission tonight when they inevitably stare at you."
She laughs, a nervous, breathless sound. "Right. Because I'm usually fighting off admirers with my rolling pin."
I open the car door for her, taking the opportunity to properly see her from behind as she slides into the backseat. The dress hugs her curves perfectly, the silk catching the streetlight in a way that makes my mouth dry. I've escorted supermodels and actresses to events without a second thought, but the sight of Clara in that red dress makes my heart pound against my ribs like I'm twenty again.
"This is intimidating," she admits when I join her in the backseat. "I've never been to anything like this."
"You've served thousands of customers," I remind her as the car pulls away from the curb. "Made small talk. Remembered preferences. This is the same, just with better champagne and worse conversation."
She smiles, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. "When you put it that way, it sounds almost manageable."
