Chapter 2 #2
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."
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.
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.