"Clara Benson?" the courier asks, though we're clearly the only two people awake in the entire city.
"That's me." I wipe my hands on my apron, leaving flour handprints like evidence at a crime scene. "Just set it on the counter, please."
He places the box down with the careful precision of someone handling explosives, then extends a digital signature pad. I scrawl something that might be my name or might be a seismograph reading, and he disappears into the pre-dawn darkness.
I eye the package warily, like it might contain a ticking bomb rather than a gift. Two days since the gala. Two days since Alex's mouth claimed mine on that twinkling terrace. Two days of trying to convince myself it was a momentary lapse in judgment rather than the beginning of something terrifying and exhilarating.
I finish the batch of dough before approaching the package. Procrastination through productivity—my specialty. Finally, with the first trays safely in the oven, I untie the ribbon and carefully unwrap the paper.
The box inside is sleek and black, embossed with a logo that makes my heart stutter. Patisserie Elite—the most exclusive manufacturer of professional baking tools in the world. I've drooled over their catalog for years, knowing I couldn't justify the expense until the bakery was more established.
Inside, nestled in black velvet, lies a set of custom piping tips made from surgical-grade steel—the exact set I've hadbookmarked on my laptop for months. The kind that can create sugar structures so delicate they look like they'd shatter if you breathed too hard.
A small card rests beneath them, heavy cream cardstock with a single line in precise, slanted handwriting: "For hands that create magic. —A"
My stomach performs a complex gymnastics routine. How did he know? I never mentioned wanting these. The answer comes immediately: of course he knew. This is Alexander Devereux, who investigated my dying mother and bakery finances before our second meeting. Finding out what equipment I covet would be child's play for him.
The tips gleam in the early morning light filtering through the bakery windows. They're beautiful. Perfect. Exactly what I wanted.
And that's what makes them dangerous.
I'm still staring at them when my phone rings, startling me so badly I almost drop the box.
"Sweet Haven Bakery, this is Clara," I answer automatically, still distracted by the gift.
"Ms. Benson? This is Margaret Holloway from Zenith Industries." The woman's voice is crisp, efficient. "We're hosting our annual corporate retreat next month—three days, two hundred attendees. We need a dedicated dessert caterer, and your name came highly recommended."
I blink, trying to process this. Zenith Industries is one of the largest tech firms in the city. Their annual retreat is legendary—lavish and exclusive. The kind of contract that could keep Sweet Haven comfortably in the black for months.
"I'd be happy to discuss options," I say, trying to sound professional rather than shocked. "May I ask who recommended us?"
A small pause. "Alexander Devereux, actually. He said your work was exceptional, and his endorsement carries significant weight with our CEO."
Of course it does. Because what Alex wants, Alex gets—including catering contracts for small bakeries run by women he's kissed senseless on moonlit terraces.
I schedule a meeting with Margaret for later that week, my mind racing. Before I can fully process one surprise, the bell over the door chimes again. Another courier, another package—smaller this time, but wrapped with the same meticulous attention to detail.
Inside this box is a delicate gold bracelet with tiny charms: a whisk, a rolling pin, a mixer, all rendered in exquisite miniature. The card reads: "To remember the night you wore red. —A"
I slip it on before I can talk myself out of it. The gold catches the light, warm against my skin. It's tasteful, not ostentatious—something I might have chosen for myself if I had the means. Which is exactly what makes Alex so dangerous. He doesn't just give gifts; he gives the perfect gifts, items that resonate on a personal level, that show he's paying attention in ways no one else ever has.
My phone rings again, and this time the caller ID displays his name. I stare at it for two rings, three, before answering.
"You're being subtle," I say instead of hello.
His low chuckle rolls through me like warm honey. "Good morning to you too, Clara."
"The piping tips are too much," I tell him, aiming for firm but landing somewhere closer to breathless. "And the bracelet?—"
"Do you like them?" He cuts through my protest with the question that matters most.
I glance down at the bracelet, the tiny charms catching the light. "Yes," I admit. "They're perfect. That's the problem."
"I fail to see how perfection constitutes a problem." His voice carries that hint of amusement that both irritates and attracts me.
"You can't just…buy me, Alex." I twist the bracelet around my wrist, feeling its delicate weight. "That's not how this works."
"I'm not trying to buy you," he says, his tone shifting to something more serious. "I'm trying to make your life easier. To give you things that bring you joy. Is that so terrible?"
