Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
CLARA
"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.
By 11, the morning rush has finally ebbed. I slump against the counter, blowing a strand of hair out of my eyes and calculating how many more batches of Christmas cookies I need to bake before closing. The bell over the door chimes, and I straighten, plastering that smile back in place.
It slides right off my face when I see who it is.
Alexander Devereux steps into my bakery like he's entering a board room he intends to conquer.
The door swings shut behind him, sealing us in together.
He wears a suit so perfectly tailored it might have been painted onto his body, charcoal gray against a white shirt open at the collar, no tie.
His hair is slightly windblown. He looks like sin with a platinum credit card.
"Clara," he says, my name a low rumble that seems to vibrate through the small space.
My brain short-circuits. What is he doing here? He ordered delivery for 1 PM. To his office. I've been stress-baking all morning to make sure everything would be perfect, obsessively checking the clock, planning to change into a clean shirt before heading over.
"Mr. Devereux," I manage, acutely aware that I'm covered in flour, hair escaping its messy bun, cheeks flushed from the ovens. "Your order isn't ready yet. I wasn't expecting to deliver until—"
"I decided to come to you instead." He moves toward the counter with predatory grace, eyes never leaving mine. "I had a meeting cancel."
Alexander Devereux doesn't have meetings cancel on him. He cancels on them. I swallow hard.
"Oh. Well. I can pack everything up now if you'd like to wait." I gesture vaguely to the kitchen. "It'll just take a few minutes."
He doesn't respond. Instead, he studies the display case with focused intensity, like he's memorizing the contents. "What's your favorite?" he asks suddenly.
"My favorite?"
"Yes, Clara." There's a hint of amusement in his voice. "The thing you make that you love most. Not what sells best or what customers request. What would you eat if calories didn't count and arteries didn't clog?"
I blink, thrown by the unexpected question. "The blackberry mascarpone tart," I answer honestly. "With the brown butter crust."
His lips curve into a smile. "I'll have that. And coffee. Black."
I move to the display case, hyperaware of him watching every movement. My hands tremble slightly as I lift the delicate tart onto a plate. When I reach for a fork, I fumble it, sending it clattering to the floor.
"Sorry," I mutter, mortified, grabbing a new one.
"Don't apologize," he says. "I like that I make you nervous."
The blunt admission makes my cheeks flame. "I'm not nervous. I just—it's been a busy morning."
His knowing smirk says he doesn't believe me for a second. I slide the tart and coffee across the counter, our fingers brushing in the exchange. An electric jolt zips up my arm, and I yank my hand back too quickly, nearly upending the coffee.
"On the house," I say when he reaches for his wallet.
One eyebrow raises. "I insist on paying for what I take, Clara."
Something in his tone makes me think we're not just talking about pastry. I shake my head. "Consider it quality control. Before the big delivery."
He studies me for a long moment, then nods. Instead of taking his order to go, he moves to one of the small tables by the window, unbuttoning his suit jacket as he sits.
The morning sun slants through the glass, highlighting the sharp angles of his face, the steel in his eyes softening as he takes the first bite of tart.
He doesn't rush, doesn't check his phone or his watch like every other customer I've had today.
Instead, he watches me watching him, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth as if my undivided attention is exactly what he came for.
I force myself to look away, wiping down the already-clean counter. "Is it…okay?" I ask, hating the tremor in my voice.
"Come here," he says instead of answering.
My head snaps up. "What?"
"Come here," he repeats, the command gentle but unmistakable. "I want you to taste it too."
I hesitate, then step out from behind my protective counter barrier, moving toward his table like a moth drawn to a flame that's already singed its wings once. He gestures to the chair across from him, but I remain standing.
"I've tasted it before," I say. "I made it."
"But not with me." He cuts another piece with his fork, holds it up. "Sit, Clara."
I sit, my body obeying before my brain can form a proper protest. He extends the fork, and I feel a bizarre sense of déjà vu. Like the pain au chocolat at his penthouse, but now we're on my territory, in full view of anyone who might walk past the windows.
I lean forward and take the bite, his eyes never leaving my mouth. The familiar flavors explode on my tongue—the tang of mascarpone, the sweet-tart burst of blackberry, the nutty richness of brown butter crust. But they taste different somehow. More intense. More everything.
"See?" he says, his voice dropping to a register that seems to vibrate through my bones. "Better shared."
I swallow hard, unable to form words. He takes another bite himself, and I find myself watching the movement of his throat, the way his lips close around the fork.
He doesn't rush, savoring each bite with the undivided attention most people reserve for rare art or high-stakes negotiations.
When he finishes, he places his fork precisely on the edge of the plate and stands.
"Show me," he says, moving toward the counter.
"Show you what?" I manage, following.
"Your kitchen. Where the magic happens." He's already rounding the counter, stepping into my sacred space without waiting for permission. I hurry after him, feeling strangely protective, like he's invading not just my kitchen but some part of me I keep carefully guarded.
"It's nothing special," I warn as he surveys the modest space. "Just the basics."
That's an understatement. My kitchen is a cobbled-together collection of secondhand equipment, makeshift storage solutions, and pure stubborn will.
The industrial mixer was a miracle find at a restaurant auction.
The ovens are commercial but ancient, temperamental beasts that require constant coaxing. Nothing matches. Everything shows wear.
"You're wrong," he says, running a finger along the scarred butcher block where I roll my dough. "This is something special."
He moves with the same fluid confidence here as he did in his marble-and-glass palace, but his eyes are different—curious, assessing, seeing things I don't think others notice. He pauses at my workstation, where the next batch of pastry dough rests under a damp cloth.
"This is yours," he says, not a question. "Not just the bakery. This specific spot."
I nod, surprised by his perception. "How did you know?"
"Everything's positioned for your height. The tools are arranged for a right-handed person who holds their knife like this." He demonstrates with one of my pastry cutters, mimicking my grip perfectly. "And there's more flour here than anywhere else."
The bell over the door chimes, and I jump, suddenly remembering I'm actually running a business. "Excuse me," I murmur, slipping past him to greet the elderly woman who's been coming in every Wednesday for a cherry almond scone since I opened.
"Good morning, dear," she says, already fishing exact change from her purse. She glances curiously at Alexander, who's leaning against my counter like he owns it, watching our interaction with unnerving intensity.
I pack her scone with hands that aren't quite steady, hyperaware of his gaze on my back, the weight of it almost a physical touch. When she leaves, the quiet settles over us again, heavier than before.
"How long have you had this place?" he asks, returning to the kitchen side of the counter.
"Eighteen months," I say. "But I've been planning it since culinary school."
"It's not in the best location."
I bristle at the critique. "It's what I could afford. And it's getting better. This neighborhood is coming up."
"Hmm." His noncommittal sound makes my hackles rise further.
"Look, not everyone starts with a trust fund and investors," I snap before I can stop myself. "Some of us build from nothing."
Instead of offense, his eyes light with something like approval. "Tell me how you did it."
The question catches me off guard. "Why do you care?"
"Because nothing worth having comes easy," he says, moving closer, forcing me to tilt my head up to maintain eye contact. "And you built this from nothing but flour and determination. That's more impressive than anything I've seen in boardrooms filled with inherited wealth and MBAs."
His words should feel patronizing, but they don't. They feel sincere, which is almost more unsettling. "My mom left me some insurance money," I admit. "After she died. It wasn't much, but it was enough for the deposit on this place and used equipment."
Something in his expression shifts. "I know," he says quietly.
A chill runs through me. "How could you possibly know that?"