Chapter 3 #3
I drop a tray of madeleines for the third time today, the small seashell cakes skittering across the floor like yellow hockey pucks.
"Dammit," I mutter, crouching to collect the casualties.
My hands haven't been this unsteady since culinary school finals.
I know exactly why: six-foot-something of tailored suit and predatory focus who's hijacked my thoughts ever since I left his office four hours ago.
The afternoon rush came and went in a blur of transactions and small talk that required exactly zero of my brain cells, leaving the rest free to replay every second of that surreal tasting session.
His eyes never leaving mine. The way he savored each bite like he was memorizing it.
How his lips felt against my fingertip—warm and firm and dangerous.
"Stop it," I scold myself, tossing the ruined madeleines into the trash. "You're not a teenager, and he's not prom king."
No, Alexander Devereux is something far more lethal—a man who's never heard the word "no" and means to keep his perfect record intact.
A man who researched my dying mother and bakery finances like they were companies to acquire.
A man who could crush my little business with a phone call if the whim struck.
The logical part of my brain is screaming warning signals like a five-alarm fire.
The illogical part—the part that notices how his hands could probably span my entire waist, how his voice drops an octave when he says my name—that part needs to be locked in a closet and denied sugar until it behaves.
The bakery is empty now, the CLOSED sign flipped, just me and my thoughts and the mindless routine of cleanup.
I wipe down counters with extra vigor, as if I could scrub away the memory of gray eyes that see too much.
The mop slaps against the floor with satisfying force as I mentally list all the reasons Alexander Devereux is bad news:
1. He's a billionaire. Billionaires don't date bakery owners; they consume them and move on.
2. He's clearly used to controlling everything and everyone in his orbit.
3. He investigated me without permission, which is stalker behavior in designer clothing.
4. He makes me feel like I'm standing on the edge of a very high cliff, exhilarated and terrified.
That last one might not be a reason, but it belongs on the list anyway.
The bell over the door chimes despite the CLOSED sign, and I turn, ready to politely but firmly redirect whoever ignored basic retail etiquette.
The words die in my throat.
Alexander Devereux stands in my bakery for the second time today, but now we're alone.
He's changed from the business suit to dark jeans and a charcoal sweater that does illegal things for his shoulders.
His hair is slightly damp, like he just showered, and something primal in my brain short-circuits at the thought.
"We're closed," I say, proud that my voice emerges steady.
"I know." He moves farther in, letting the door swing shut behind him. "I wanted to see you without an audience."
My heart pounds against my ribs like it's trying to escape. "How did you know I'd still be here?"
A small smile touches his lips. "Your routine. You close at six, but you stay until at least seven cleaning up. Sometimes later if you're prepping dough for tomorrow."
A chill runs through me that has nothing to do with the December air seeping through the old windows. "That's…unsettling."
"It's observation," he corrects, moving closer. "I pay attention to what matters."
"Mr. Devereux—"
"Alex," he interrupts. "My name is Alex."
I take a deep breath, squaring my shoulders. "Alex. I think we need to be clear about something."
"I agree." He's close enough now that I can smell his cologne, something woodsy and clean that makes my knees embarrassingly weak. "Clarity is important."
I grip the mop handle tighter, needing something solid to anchor me. "I'm not interested in whatever game this is."
"Game?" One eyebrow raises slightly.
"The daily orders. The personal deliveries. The intense staring." I wave a hand between us, gesturing at the charged air. "This. I'm not interested."
He studies me for a long, uncomfortable moment. "You're lying."
The blunt assessment knocks the wind from my lungs. "Excuse me?"
"Your pupils are dilated." He takes another step closer. "Your breathing changes when I move near you. Your skin flushes here—" his finger hovers over but doesn't touch the hollow of my throat, "—when I hold your gaze too long."
I swallow hard, unable to deny the physical evidence he's cataloged with disturbing accuracy. "That's just…biology. It doesn't mean anything."
"It means your body knows what your mind is fighting." His voice drops lower, wrapping around me like dark velvet. "And I'm patient enough to wait for your mind to catch up."
"Why me?" The question bursts out before I can stop it. "You could have anyone. Models. Actresses. People who make sense in your world."
Something shifts in his expression, a softening around the eyes that transforms his face from intimidating to almost vulnerable. Almost.
"Because you're real," he says simply. "Because you built something from nothing but talent and determination. Because you look at me and see a man, not a bank account or a business opportunity." He pauses. "And because I just know you taste like sunlight when you bite your lip like that."
I hadn't realized I was biting my lip until he mentioned it. I release it immediately, feeling caught out, exposed.
"I'm still not interested," I insist, the words hollow even to my own ears. "You're…you're too much. Too intense. Too controlling."
"I know exactly what I am," he acknowledges without a hint of apology. "And I know exactly what you need."
"You don't know me," I counter, backing up until I hit the counter behind me. "We've met, what, four times?"
He closes the distance I created, not touching me but near enough that I can feel the heat radiating from him.
"I know you work yourself to exhaustion because you're afraid of failing.
I know you haven't taken a day off in months.
I know you check your bank balance three times a week, always after midnight.
I know you sleep with two pillows and prefer the right side of the bed. "
I stare at him, blood draining from my face. "That's not knowing me. That's stalking me."
"Research," he corrects without a flicker of shame. "And I know something else, Clara. Something more important."
I shouldn't ask. I should tell him to leave, to never come back. Instead, I hear myself whisper, "What?"
"I know you want me as much as I want you." His gaze drops to my mouth. "Even if you're fighting it with everything you have."
The air between us thickens, charged with something that makes it hard to breathe. For one insane moment, I think he might kiss me. For an even more insane moment, I want him to.
Instead, he steps back, giving me space I don't actually want. "You're not interested," he says, echoing my earlier assertion. "That's fine. I'll change your mind."
He says it with such calm certainty that a shiver races down my spine. Not a threat. A promise.
"You're very confident," I manage.
"Always." He moves toward the door, then pauses with his hand on the knob. "One delivery a day, as agreed. Until Christmas. After that..." His smile is slow and devastating. "We'll see where your interest lies."
He slips out into the December night, leaving me clutching a mop like it's the only thing keeping me upright. Which, at this moment, it might be.
I'd told Alexander Devereux I wasn't interested.
My body, my racing heart, the heat pooling low in my belly—they're all screaming that I just told the biggest lie of my life.