"Everything," he says simply. "But only when you're ready to give it freely, not because I've bought it."
My carefully constructed speech lies in ruins, my righteous indignation undermined by his unexpected agreement. I was prepared for argument, for persuasion, for the typical tactics of a man accustomed to getting his way. His respect formy boundaries, his apparent appreciation of my refusal—it's disarming in ways I wasn't prepared to defend against.
"The piping tips," I say, grasping for the remnants of my resolve. "They're going back too."
"As you wish." He doesn't argue, doesn't try to change my mind. "Though it seems a waste of exceptional tools that would create exceptional art."
I stand abruptly, needing distance from the gravitational pull he exerts. "I should go."
"We haven't eaten," he points out, remaining seated.
"I'm not hungry." It's a lie. I'm starving, but not for food. "Thank you for understanding about the gifts."
He rises in one fluid motion, stepping close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "I understand you, Clara. Perhaps better than you think."
The implication—that he sees my attraction despite my protests, that he recognizes the conflict between my pride and my desire—sends heat blooming across my skin.
"I'll have my driver take you home," he says, not touching me but standing close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from him.
"I can call a rideshare."
"Indulge me in this small courtesy," he requests, his voice dropping to that register that seems to bypass my ears and resonate directly in my core. "It has nothing to do with control and everything to do with ensuring your safety."
I nod, not trusting my voice. As we walk out, his hand hovers near but doesn't touch the small of my back. The restraint in the gesture—honoring the boundaries I've just established while still conveying his desire to touch me—is more seductive than any physical contact could be.
At the curb, his driver holds the door open for me. Alex stands closer than strictly necessary, his eyes dark with promise.
"Just so we're clear," he says quietly, "your refusal only makes me want you more."
Before I can formulate a response, he steps back, allowing me to enter the car alone. As we pull away, I catch his reflection in the side mirror, watching my departure with an intensity that follows me all the way home.
Chapter
Nine
CLARA
Something iswrong with my bakery. I realize this halfway down the block, coffee clutched in one hand, hair still wet from my rushed shower. There's a line—not the usual morning trickle of regulars, but a proper queue stretching past the neighboring shops. People with phones out, taking photos of my peeling mint-green storefront like it's suddenly a tourist attraction. For one wild moment I wonder if there's been a gas leak, a fire, or some disaster I've slept through.
I break into a jog, heart hammering against my ribs. The crowd parts when they see me, a few people actually pointing. "That's her!" someone stage-whispers, and my anxiety ratchets up another notch.
Mia stands at the door, looking simultaneously thrilled and overwhelmed. Her eyes widen with relief when she spots me.
"Thank God," she says, grabbing my arm and pulling me inside. "I got here early to prep and they were already waiting. I've been selling out as fast as I can put things in the case."
The bakery is packed—every table filled, the line to the counter snaking toward the door. Faces turn toward me when Ienter, and there's a bizarre smattering of applause that makes my stomach drop to my shoes.
"What the hell is happening?" I whisper to Mia, shrugging off my coat.
She thrusts a glossy magazine into my hands, folded open to a full-color spread. "We're famous!"
The headline hits me like a physical blow: "SWEET SECRETS: The Hidden Bakery Redefining Pastry in the City." Below it, a professional photo of one of my blackberry mascarpone tarts, shot with the kind of lighting and styling that makes it look like edible art rather than the humble pastry I sell for $6.50. Smaller photos frame the article: my hands shaping croissant dough, the interior of Sweet Haven at dawn, a close-up of the cinnamon sugar on my morning buns.
I don't remember anyone taking these photos. I certainly don't remember giving an interview to Taste & Style, the city's most influential food publication—a magazine that typically covers Michelin-starred restaurants and trendy hotspots, not hole-in-the-wall bakeries with second-hand equipment and peeling paint.
"I don't understand," I murmur, flipping through the glossy pages with flour-dusted fingers. "I never?—"
"Can I get a chocolate croissant and whatever you recommend?" a woman interrupts, phone already positioned for an Instagram-worthy shot of her purchase.
