I swallow, hard. "If you don't let go, I'm going to drop this pastry."
He doesn't. Instead, he lifts the chocolate bread to my mouth. "Bite."
I could refuse. I could. But I don't.
I bite.
He watches the whole time, eyes locked on my lips like he wants to devour the pastry, then me, in that order.
He lets go of my wrist, but I don't move. I don't think I can.
"Do you always do what you're told?" he asks.
"No," I say, instantly.
He grins, not at all surprised. "I hope not."
He takes a bite of his half, chews, then wipes a smear of chocolate from the corner of my mouth with his thumb. His finger lingers, just a second too long.
The moment stretches—so loaded, I feel like the whole world is holding its breath.
I need to break it, or I'll shatter.
"I have to get back," I blurt, stepping away so fast I nearly trip over my own feet. "Christmas rush. People need their…pastries."
He lets me run, but his smirk follows me all the way to the door.
"See you soon, Clara."
I'm in my van, hands shaking, before I realize I never gave him the bill. It doesn't matter. I know exactly how I'll be paid.
With every cell in my body, I know this isn't over.
I just hope I survive whatever comes next.
The entire drive back to Sweet Haven, my skin feels too tight. I crank up the Christmas music but can still hear the echo of his voice saying my name, that smoky rasp lingering like a fingerprint on glass.
My small apartment above the bakery is freezing, but I'm sweating. I strip off my flour-dusted clothes and stand under the shower until the hot water runs out, scrubbing as if I could wash away the memory of his eyes on my skin. It doesn't work. If anything, being naked makes it worse—more vivid, more intrusive.
I wrap myself in my oldest, baggiest sweater and make tea with shaking hands.
"This is ridiculous," I tell the empty kitchen. "He's just a man."
A man who looks at me like I'm something he wants to consume slowly. A man who makes commands, not requests. A man who probably has supermodels on speed dial, which makes his interest in me feel like some cruel joke I'm not in on.
I throw myself into work, prepping dough for tomorrow's early bake. The familiar motions should calm me, but every time I close my eyes, I see his face. Feel his thumb against my lips.
Even my dreams aren't safe. I wake up tangled in sheets, breath ragged, with the ghost-sensation of hands that aren't mine skimming over my skin.
At 3 AM, I give up and go downstairs to bake. If I'm going to be haunted, I might as well be productive.
The next morning brings a blissful rush of holiday customers. No calls from Devereux Manor. I tell myself I'm relieved.
The lie tastes bitter, even to me.
By closing time, I've convinced myself it was a bizarre two-day fixation that's now over. Billionaires get bored easily. Probably already moved on to some new fascination.
I'm wiping down the display case when the bell over the door chimes.
