"Sorry, we're closed—" The words die on my lips.
Because Alexander Devereux is standing in my bakery.
And he's staring at me like he's just found exactly what he's been hunting for.
Chapter
Two
ALEX
I can't focus.
The quarterly reports blur in front of me, numbers swimming like fish scattering from a predator. I've read the same paragraph six times. I push away from my desk with a curse, stalking to the floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the city like a painting I bought but no longer see. Fifty-two stories below, people move like ants, oblivious to being watched. None of them are her.
Clara Benson. The name circles my thoughts like a shark that's scented blood.
Two days. It's been two days since she stood in my home with flour on her nose and fear in her eyes, and I still taste sugar when I close my mouth. I've had supermodels in my bed who left less of an impression than this baker with her trembling hands and stubborn chin.
She looked at me differently. That's what I can't shake. Not with the glossy-eyed worship of someone seeing dollar signs, not with the calculated seduction I've grown immune to. She looked at me like I was simply a man. A dangerous one, perhaps, but just flesh and blood.
When she first walked in—this small woman with flour dusting her clothes and determination in her spine—I nearly dismissed her. Another delivery person. Another forgettable transaction. I remember the flicker of shock on her face when she saw me half-dressed by the fire. The way she tried not to stare and failed spectacularly. Most women hide their reactions better. Clara wears hers like neon signs.
I hadn't slept in thirty hours. The Tokyo deal had dragged through the night, and I'd finally closed it at dawn, stripping off my suit and falling into a workout to burn off the residual tension. I wasn't expecting visitors. Wasn't expecting to be interrupted. Wasn't expecting her.
I remember the way she thrust that tray toward me, like offering meat to a lion she hoped wouldn't bite. I remember thinking I'd taste one pastry to be polite, then send her away.
But then I tasted what she'd made.
I've eaten at restaurants with three-month waiting lists and personal chefs who demand six-figure salaries. Nothing prepared me for the way her simple dessert dissolved on my tongue. Perfect balance of sweet and bitter, the pastry yielding like silk, the filling rich but not cloying. It was honest. Unpretentious. Transcendent.
Just like her.
I've summoned memories of thousands of business details on command, but I couldn't tell you what we discussed after that first bite. All I remember is watching her hands as she spoke—capable hands, with short, practical nails and a small burn scar on the left index finger. Honest hands that create rather than take.
When I told her to come back, I didn't plan it. The words just emerged, a command my brain issued before consulting the rest of me.
And she came back. Skittish as a deer but with steel underneath. When she bit into that pastry I held for her, something cracked inside my chest. Something I thought had calcified years ago.
"Mr. Devereux?"
My assistant stands in the doorway, uncertainty softening her usually clipped tones. I wonder how long she's been there, how many times she's said my name.
"The Hong Kong investors are waiting in the conference room." She hesitates. "Should I tell them you need a few more minutes?"
"No." I straighten my tie, locking away thoughts of flour-dusted fingers and warm brown eyes. "I'm coming."
For three hours, I perform the role expected of me. The ruthless negotiator. The visionary. The man who never blinks first. I secure terms that will add millions to the company's bottom line.
And I taste nothing but sugar the entire time.
By evening, I've had enough. I dismiss my driver and take the Aston Martin, needing the physical control of something powerful beneath my hands. I tell myself I'm just going for a drive to clear my head.
I end up in front of her bakery.
Sweet Haven glows from within, warm yellow light spilling onto the darkening sidewalk. Through the window, I can see her—hair escaping its knot, sleeves pushed up, wiping down counters with the same focus she'd give a delicate sugar sculpture. She moves with quiet efficiency, unaware of being watched.
I stay in the car for ten minutes, telling myself to drive away. This is beneath me. This fascination with a woman I barely know, who probably fears me, who lives in a world so removed from mine we might as well speak different languages.
