My assistant appears within ten seconds. "Sir?"
"I'm hosting a last-minute dinner for the Morrison Group tonight. Eight people. I need pastries from Sweet Haven. The full dessert menu, plus..." I pause, recalling the report. "Their signature bourbon vanilla cupcakes. Everything must be delivered personally by the owner. Today. By 5 PM."
Jennifer doesn't question why I'm ordering dessert from a bakery across town when I have an executive chef on staff who trained in Paris. She doesn't ask why the owner must deliver it personally when we have drivers on call. She merely nods.
"Will you be taking the meeting at the penthouse or here, sir?"
"Penthouse." The thought of Clara in my private space sends a dark thrill through me. "And I'll need the afternoon cleared."
"You have the call with Tokyo at 4:30."
"Reschedule it."
Her eyebrows rise fractionally before she schools her features. In five years, I've never rescheduled the Tokyo call.
"Yes, sir."
Alone, I try to focus on the acquisition reports, but the words blur into meaningless patterns. Instead, I find myself thinking about what to wear. I, Alexander Devereux, who hasn't considered my clothing beyond its function as power armor in a decade, am contemplating wardrobe choices like a teenager before prom.
Pathetic.
I leave the office at 3, earlier than I have in years. My driver's carefully blank expression says he's cataloging this anomaly alongside my other recent behavior changes. I make a mental note to switch to the backup driver tomorrow. I can't afford to appear unstable to my staff.
At the penthouse, I shower and change into dark jeans and a charcoal cashmere sweater—casual by my standards, but still putting me firmly in control. I pace the expansive living room, oddly restless in my own space.
At 4:52, the concierge calls up. "Miss Benson is here with your delivery, Mr. Devereux."
"Send her up." I position myself by the windows, deliberately casual, as if I'm not counting the seconds.
The elevator doors open directly into the penthouse. Clara steps out, arms full of white bakery boxes tied with blue ribbon. She wears jeans and a soft blue sweater under her coat, hair escaping its knot, cheeks flushed from the cold or nervousness or both. She looks impossibly out of place against the stark minimalism of my home. Too vibrant. Too real.
"Mr. Devereux," she says, voice impressively steady despite the wariness in her eyes. "Your order."
"Alex," I correct her, moving closer. "Since you're in my home."
She swallows. I watch the movement of her throat, fascinated. "Where would you like these?" she asks.
"Kitchen." I gesture toward the open-concept space with its gleaming surfaces and professional-grade appliances that have never been used. "Through there."
I follow her, noting how she takes everything in with quick, observant glances. The kitchen island is massive, black marble veined with gold. She sets the boxes down with careful movements, then begins opening them, explaining each dessert with professional detachment.
"The bourbon vanilla cupcakes, as requested. Chocolate eclairs with Madagascar vanilla. Lemon tartlets with torched meringue. Pistachio macarons with rosewater filling. Opera cake with espresso buttercream. And these," she gestures to a small box, "are an experimental flavor I've been working on. Sea salt caramel with dark chocolate ganache."
I step closer. "You included something I didn't order?"
A flicker of panic crosses her face. "I—I thought—since it was such a large order—as a thank you for the business?—"
"I'll try it," I say, cutting off her stammering. I open the small box, revealing six perfect miniature tarts, the chocolate ganache glossy as polished stone. I take one, aware of her watching me with barely concealed anxiety.
The first bite explodes on my tongue—bittersweet chocolate, buttery caramel, the sharp note of sea salt cutting through the richness. It's perfect. Of course it is.
"Well?" she asks, unable to hide her investment in my answer.
I hold her gaze as I take another bite, deliberately slow. "Extraordinary," I say truthfully. "You should feature these prominently."
Relief softens her features. "Thank you. I wasn't sure if the salt balance was right."
"It's perfect," I say. "You understand balance. Sweet and bitter. Soft and sharp."Like you, I think but don't say.
