No pets. No parking tickets. No debt beyond the bakery's startup loan, which she's paying ahead of schedule despite the tight margins.
"She's clean," Garrett concludes. "Works hard. Keeps to herself. Couple close friends, but no entanglements."
I flip through the surveillance photos. Clara opening the shop at 4:30 AM, flour already on her cheek. Clara delivering to a birthday party, children swarming her like bees to nectar. Clara alone at closing time, exhaustion evident in the slope of her shoulders but satisfaction in her smile as she surveys the nearly empty display cases.
Something aches in my chest, sharp and unfamiliar.
"The bakery won't last another six months," Garrett adds, tapping a spreadsheet. "Not without capital infusion or increased volume. Property management company is eyeing the space for a chain tenant who can pay triple the rent."
My jaw tightens. The thought of her bakery closing, of those hands no longer creating, of that small satisfied smile disappearing—it ignites something dangerous in me.
"Who are her major clients?" I ask.
Garrett pulls up another document. "Four local cafes. Two small boutique hotels. Birthday parties. Office functions." He hesitates. "She's good, Mr. Devereux. Word of mouth is strong. She just needs exposure."
I'm already formulating plans. A dozen high-profile orders. Strategic introductions. Perhaps a mention to the food editor at the Tribune, who owes me a favor after I kept his cocaine habit out of the papers. The purchase of her building wouldn't even register on my quarterly expenditures.
"Anything else I should know?" I ask.
Garrett hesitates. This time, the hesitation is noticeable—which means it's deliberate, a warning.
"She refused culinary scholarships to care for her mother during her illness. Worked three jobs to pay medical bills. When her mother died, she used the life insurance to open the bakery." He meets my eyes directly. "She's not the type who can be bought, sir."
Something like respect tinges his voice. From Garrett, that's unprecedented.
I stare at the photo of Clara wiping down her counters, fatigue evident in every line of her body, determination in the set of her jaw.
"No," I say, "she can't be bought. But she can be earned."
Back in my office, I call my assistant. "Order everything on the Sweet Haven menu. Daily deliveries to the office, beginning today."
"The entire menu, sir?" The surprise in her voice would be comical if I were in the mood to be amused.
"Everything. And make sure all deliveries are made personally by the owner."
I hang up, staring at the dossier in my hands. What I'm doing is borderline obsessive. I know this. I've built an empire by recognizing my own motivations, however unpalatable.
I want Clara Benson. Not just her body, though that thought alone makes my pulse quicken. I want her sunshine smile and flour-dusted hands. I want her determination and quiet strength.
I have never wanted anything I couldn't eventually acquire. People, properties, companies—they all have a price or a pressure point.
But Garrett's right. Clara Benson can't be bought.
This will require a different approach entirely.
And I find I'm looking forward to the challenge.
"And that's why the Shanghai acquisition should be finalized by quarter's end," my CFO concludes.
Seven people around the conference table stare at me, waiting for a response. I realize I haven't heard a word for the past ten minutes. My mind is three miles away, in a small bakery with peeling mint-green paint.
"The numbers look good," I say, because they always do when Patterson presents them. "Move forward with the due diligence. I want daily updates."
He nods, visibly relieved. The others begin gathering their materials, sensing dismissal in my tone. I don't correct them.
As they file out, I check my watch. 1:15 PM. Clara's bakery closes at 6. According to Garrett's report, she handles all deliveries between 2 and 4, leaving the high school kid to watch the counter.
I press the intercom. "Jennifer."
