She smiles, and something clenches in my chest. It's the first genuine smile she's given me—not nervous, not professional, just pure pleasure at creating something beautiful and having it appreciated.
"Your guests will enjoy everything," she says, professional mask sliding back into place as she closes the boxes. "The opera cake should be served at room temperature."
"There are no guests," I say before I can stop myself.
She freezes, eyes widening. "What?"
"There's no dinner party," I admit, stepping closer. "I ordered these because I wanted to see you again."
I watch the emotions flash across her face—confusion, disbelief, something darker and more intriguing. Her lips part. "Why?"
"Because I can't stop thinking about you," I say, the truth spilling out with uncharacteristic rawness. "Because you make things that taste like memories I've never had. Because you look at me and see something no one else does."
Color floods her cheeks. She takes a step back. "Mr. Devereux?—"
"Alex," I correct again, moving into her space, not touching her but close enough to smell vanilla and cinnamon on her skin. "And I'll need another delivery tomorrow."
"Another delivery," she repeats faintly.
"For my office. Lunch meeting." It's a lie and we both know it. "Nothing elaborate. Just…whatever your hands make."
Her breath catches. "I'm very busy?—"
"I'll pay triple your standard rate."
"It's not about the money."
"I know," I say quietly. "That's why it has to be you."
She stares at me, confusion and something darker, hotter, swirling in her eyes. "I should go," she whispers.
I step back, giving her space though every instinct screams to keep her here. "Tomorrow, Clara. One o'clock."
She doesn't agree. But she doesn't refuse either. She gathers her coat and bag, backing toward the elevator like I'm a predator she doesn't dare turn her back on.
Smart girl.
The doors close on her flushed face, and I'm left alone with six boxes of desserts I ordered for a party that doesn't exist, telling myself this is still somehow about business.
I've never been a man who lies to himself.
Until now.
Chapter
Three
CLARA
Wednesday morning hitslike a freight train. The pre-Christmas rush has turned my quaint little bakery into something resembling a sugar-dusted war zone. I've been up since 3 AM, wrestling with pastry dough and cursing the industrial mixer that's making a sound like a washing machine giving birth. By 9:30, I've served fifty-seven customers, filled three office orders, and have flour in places that would make a doctor blush.
"Two dozen mini cinnamon rolls, one chocolate croissant, and a large coffee, please." The woman in front of me taps her credit card against the counter in a rhythm that matches my growing headache.
"For here or to go?" I ask, already knowing the answer. No one ever stays. Sweet Haven has exactly three cafe tables, all jammed into a corner like neglected stepchildren. The real estate is reserved for the display cases and the open kitchen where customers can watch pastry magic happen. Or, as is currently the case, watch me frantically pipe buttercream while simultaneously ringing up orders.
"To go, obviously," she says, eyes never leaving her phone. "I have a meeting in twenty."
I box everything with mechanical efficiency, sliding the order across the counter with my Customer Service Smile™, the one that's starting to make my cheeks ache. She takes it without looking up.
