He takes one more look at the croquembouche, then at me. "I like a woman who doesn't make a mess of her hands. See you tomorrow, Clara."
I scramble up, nearly trip over the rug, and flee the room with my face flaming and his eyes burning holes in my back.
By the time I reach the van, my hands are trembling so badly I can barely get the key in the ignition.
I think I made an impression. I just hope it's the kind that doesn't get me blacklisted.
But I have a feeling that when Alexander Devereux wants something, he gets it. No matter how hard it tries to run.
I yank open the van door and hurl myself behind the wheel. My heart is beating so loud I think I might have an aneurysm. Sweat glues my shirt to my back, despite the subzero air. I check the rearview—nothing but the blank face of the manor, staring back like an open casket.
He wanted me to stay. He said it like there was no universe where I could say no. I didn't technically agree, but when a billionaire makes a request, it's really more of a commandment. The whole drive back to the bakery I'm replaying every second: the way he watched my hands, the curl of his smile, how his attention settled over me like frost, cold and sharp and impossible to shake.
I get home, change into pajamas, and try to pretend it was just a weird fever dream, the kind you have after eating too many late-night eclairs. But when I collapse in bed, all I can see are those mercury eyes pinning me in place, the lazy, predatory way he said my name.
I don't sleep. Not really. And when the bakery alarm screeches me awake at 4:30, I'm already up, icing cookies on autopilot, the dough under my fingernails like an unholy brand.
Around eight, a call comes in.
"Sweet Haven, this is Clara—" I say, already knowing.
It's the same butler-voiced guy as before. "Mr. Devereux will require the same order, plus a selection of your pain au chocolat. Delivered to the manor. Ten a.m. sharp."
I glance at the clock. "That's less than two hours."
"Mr. Devereux does not tolerate tardiness," the man says, and hangs up.
I want to scream. Instead, I throw myself into a sugar-fueled overdrive, baking like my life depends on it. Which, given the death glare of Devereux's house manager, might be true.
I arrive five minutes early, teeth chattering, arms full of pastry boxes. The butler opens the door before I even knock. "Follow me," he says, and I obey, the scent of lemon cleaner already erasing all traces of bakery warmth.
He leads me past the kitchen to a side room—more a small museum than a sitting area, with designer chairs no human could actually sit on. He gestures at a table. "Set it here."
I arrange the pastries, fingers trembling. Before I can turn around, the air in the room shifts. I don't know how he does it, but I know he's entered before I even see him.
This time, he's fully dressed. Sort of. Alexander Devereux in a suit is like a tiger in a tuxedo—just dangerous in a more expensive way. The jacket is thrown over his shoulder, shirt collar open, tie in his hand like he's halfway through strangling someone with it.
He stops two feet from me, gaze locked and loaded. "You returned."
"I, um. You ordered." I gesture at the food, like maybe I can deflect him with carbs.
He's not looking at the food.
He leans in. "Did you think about me last night, Clara?"
There's nowhere to hide. "That's—that's not really?—"
"I thought about you." He says it so simply it sounds like reciting the weather. "You know what I liked most?"
I shake my head. If I speak, I'll choke.
He reaches for a pain au chocolat, but instead of eating it, he breaks it in half and offers me the bigger piece. "You have flour on your nose."
My face flames. I wipe at it, mortified.
He steps closer, takes my wrist, and uses the pad of his thumb to brush away the flour. His grip is gentle but inescapable. I am aware of every nerve ending I own.
"I like a woman who isn't afraid to get her hands dirty," he says, voice gone low.
