Chapter 4 #2
For a moment I think she might refuse, might tell me to leave. Instead, she shakes her head in apparent surrender and moves to the coffee station. "How do you take it?"
"Black."
She returns with a mug—ceramic, not paper, in a deep blue that matches the bakery's color scheme—and a plate holding what appears to be a croissant stuffed with something savory.
"Ham and gruyère," she explains at my questioning look. "With caramelized onions and thyme. It's new. You can be my guinea pig."
I take a bite and have to stifle a groan of appreciation. The pastry shatters perfectly, the cheese stretches in silky strands, and the balance of flavors is impeccable. It's the kind of food that reminds you eating should be a pleasure, not just a necessity.
"You'll need at least fifty more of these," I say after swallowing. "They'll sell out by noon."
A tiny smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. "That good?"
"You know exactly how good it is," I counter, taking another bite. "False modesty doesn't suit you, Clara."
She flushes slightly, but the smile widens a fraction. "Fifty is optimistic. But thanks for the vote of confidence."
The bell chimes again as her first regular customers arrive—two women in scrubs from the hospital three blocks over, a businessman in a rumpled suit, a college student with purple hair.
Clara transforms before my eyes, her professional persona slipping into place like a well-worn glove.
She remembers names, preferences, asks about a child's soccer game, commiserates over an upcoming exam.
I sip my coffee and pretend to work while actually watching her operate in her natural habitat.
Every movement is efficient, every interaction genuine.
When she smiles at the elderly man who apparently comes in every Tuesday for a single almond cookie, something hot and possessive flares in my chest.
I want that smile. I want it directed at me, without wariness or suspicion.
The morning rush ebbs and flows. I field three urgent calls, review two contracts, and approve a press release, all while tracking Clara's movements with peripheral awareness. She keeps glancing at me, clearly unsettled by my continued presence but too professional to say anything.
At 9:45, when there's a brief lull, she approaches my table. "Refill?" she offers, gesturing to my empty mug.
"Please." I close the laptop, giving her my full attention. "Business looks steady."
She shrugs, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. "Tuesday mornings are decent. Nothing like the weekend rush, though."
"You do this alone most days?"
"Mia helps on weekends and some afternoons," she says, referring to the high school student. "Otherwise, it's just me."
"Impressive," I say, meaning it. "Most people couldn't handle this volume solo."
She narrows her eyes, looking for the catch. "It's just baking. Not rocket science."
"It's running a business," I correct. "Inventory, staffing, accounting, marketing, production, customer service. That's six different jobs by my count."
She refills my mug from a fresh pot, the rich aroma curling between us. "Sounds like someone's been doing his homework."
"I always do my homework, Clara." I hold her gaze until she looks away first, a flush creeping up her neck.
"I need to check my ovens," she mutters, retreating to the kitchen.
The next day, I arrive at the same time.
Her expression when she sees me is less surprised, more resigned.
I take the same table, order the same coffee, but try a different pastry—this time a savory tart with roasted vegetables and goat cheese that makes me reconsider every five-star restaurant meal I've ever had.
By the third day, she has my coffee waiting when I arrive.
By the fourth, she's setting aside new creations for me to sample, watching with poorly concealed anticipation as I take the first bite.
By the fifth, she's started talking to me between customers—small, impersonal things at first, then gradually more substantive conversations about ingredients and techniques.
By the end of the week, I know her supplier for European butter is overcharging her.
I know the health inspector is due next Tuesday.
I know her mixer makes a concerning noise when kneading heavy doughs.
I know the landlord "forgot" to fix the heating vent in the back corner, forcing her to run a space heater that drives up her electric bill.
I also know that Clara Benson is even more extraordinary than I initially thought.
Her talent is undeniable, but it's her resilience that fascinates me.
She operates on minimal sleep, handles entitled customers with grace, and creates art from flour and butter with the same dedication others bring to medicine or law.
She's still wary of me. Still keeps a careful distance, both physical and emotional. But the walls are lowering, brick by cautious brick.
Today marks day eight of my morning occupation. When I enter, something is different. Clara looks up from the espresso machine and does something unprecedented.
She smiles at me—a real smile, not the professional mask or the reluctant half-version I've earned so far. Just a genuine, unguarded moment of what might almost be pleasure at seeing me.
"Morning, Alex," she says, my name still new on her lips. "Trying the cardamom buns today. They're still warm."
I feel the impact of that smile like a physical blow. Something shifts inside my chest—a reorganizing of priorities, a realignment of purpose.
This was supposed to be a strategy. A campaign to win over a woman who said no.
I'm no longer certain who's conquering whom.
Two weeks into my morning ritual at Sweet Haven, and I've established something resembling a truce with Clara.
She no longer tenses when I walk in. Sometimes she even laughs at things I say—a sound I find myself working to elicit with increasing frequency.
Today, I'm reviewing acquisition proposals for a tech startup when the door opens, bringing in a gust of December air and a man I instantly dislike.
He's tall, conventionally handsome in that forgettable way of local news anchors, wearing an expensive but poorly fitted suit that speaks of money without taste. His eyes land on Clara and linger, the appreciation in them too familiar, too hungry. Something cold and primitive shifts in my chest.
"Good morning," Clara calls from behind the counter, her customer smile in place. "What can I get you?"
He approaches the counter slowly, taking his time looking at both the pastries and Clara herself. "Everything looks delicious," he says, the double meaning obvious in his tone.
I pretend to focus on my laptop while tracking their interaction with peripheral vision. Years of boardroom negotiations have taught me to observe without appearing to do so.
"First time here?" Clara asks, professional but warm.
"Just moved to the neighborhood," he says, leaning against the counter in a carefully casual pose. "I'm Peter. Opened a law practice two blocks over."
A lawyer. Of course. Probably personal injury, judging by the cheap signet ring and too-white teeth.
"Welcome to the area," Clara says. "Any recommendations for your first visit? Coffee? Pastry?"
"What's your favorite?" he asks, the question dripping with suggestion.
I've asked her the same thing, but coming from him, it makes my jaw tighten. I force my fingers to relax their death grip on my coffee mug.
"The almond croissants are our bestseller," she says, gesturing to the display. "Or the blackberry mascarpone tart for something more unique."
"I'll take both," he decides. "And whatever coffee pairs best. I trust your expertise."
She prepares his order with efficient movements, explaining the coffee options. I watch his eyes track her hands, drop to the curve of her hip when she turns, linger on her mouth when she speaks. He's not even being subtle about it.
"You make everything yourself?" he asks as she boxes the pastries. "That's impressive."
"Everything from scratch," she confirms with justified pride. "It's a one-woman show, for the most part."
"I should hire you to cater my office opening next month," he says, clearly fabricating a reason for future contact. "Give me your card?"
Clara reaches under the counter for one of her simple business cards. Her movements are polite but not flirtatious, professional rather than encouraging. It doesn't matter. The lawyer's intentions are written all over his mediocre face.
I find myself calculating exactly how many different ways I could destroy this man's fledgling practice before he even properly opens his doors. Fifteen, at a conservative estimate. Three phone calls would be all it takes.
"I'll definitely call," he says, sliding the card into his wallet. Then he pulls out his own card and writes something on the back. "My cell's on here. You know, in case you have questions about the catering. Or if you'd like to grab dinner sometime."
He slides it across the counter with a smile that probably works on lesser women. Clara takes it with a noncommittal "Thanks" that's neither acceptance nor rejection.
Not good enough. She should have shut him down immediately. My coffee grows cold as I watch this pathetic display continue.
"Maybe I'll stop by tomorrow, try something else from your…collection." The pause is deliberate, loaded.
Something in me snaps.
I close my laptop with more force than necessary, the sound sharp in the small space. Both Clara and the lawyer turn toward me. I stand, straightening to my full height—a good three inches taller than him, I note with primitive satisfaction.
"Clara," I say, ignoring the other man completely as I approach the counter. "I need to speak with you about tonight's order."
Her eyes widen slightly, confusion evident. We haven't discussed any order for tonight. "Tonight's...?"
"The fundraiser," I continue smoothly, moving to stand beside the lawyer, deliberately invading his space. "I want to add those chocolate espresso things. The ones you made last week."
Understanding dawns in her eyes, followed quickly by something else—amusement, perhaps, at seeing through my transparent maneuver. "The chocolate espresso tartlets," she clarifies. "For the children's hospital fundraiser."
"Exactly." I turn finally to acknowledge the lawyer, extending my hand. "Alexander Devereux."
The recognition is immediate and satisfying. His face pales slightly. "Peter Michaels," he says, his handshake weaker than I anticipated. "Devereux as in Devereux Tower?"
"Among others," I confirm, not bothering to hide my dismissal.
He straightens his already-straight tie. "I didn't realize you two were..."
"Clara supplies all my events," I say, letting him fill in blanks I haven't explicitly drawn. "Her work is exceptional."
Clara watches this exchange with an expression I can't fully read—part exasperation, part something else. She jumps in before I can continue. "Mr. Michaels was just leaving for his new law office. Weren't you?"
Michaels glances between us, recalculating. Whatever he sees makes him back down immediately. "Right. Yes. Thanks for the pastries. I'll…be in touch about that catering."
No, he won't. The unspoken message in my stare ensures that.
After he leaves, Clara turns to me with arms crossed. "There is no fundraiser tonight."
"There could be," I offer. "I donate to several children's hospitals."
"That was subtle," she says dryly. "Why not just pee in a circle around the counter to mark your territory?"
The blunt assessment startles a laugh out of me. "Would that have worked better?"
"Neither was necessary," she points out. "I wasn't interested in him."
"He was interested in you," I counter. "Very interested."
"And that bothers you." It's not a question.
I meet her gaze directly. "Yes."
Something shifts in her expression—wariness, but also a flicker of something warmer, perhaps even flattered. She picks up the lawyer's card from the counter, looks at it for a moment, then deliberately drops it into the trash.
"I don't need a white knight, Alex," she says, but there's no real heat in it. "I've been handling unwanted attention since I grew these." She gestures vaguely to her chest.
My eyes follow the gesture before I can stop them, and her cheeks pink slightly when she catches me looking.
"Besides," she adds, turning to wipe down the already-clean espresso machine, "aren't you just another version of unwanted attention?"
"Am I unwanted?" I ask, moving closer, close enough to smell the vanilla and cinnamon that cling to her skin.
She doesn't answer immediately, doesn't back away. "You're…complicated," she finally says.
"I'm very simple," I correct her. "I see something exceptional, I want it. I want something, I acquire it."
"I'm not a company to acquire," she says, eyes flashing.
"No," I agree. "You're much more valuable."
Her expression softens almost imperceptibly. "I need to check my ovens," she says, her standard retreat when conversations get too intense.
I let her go, returning to my table and cold coffee.
My reaction to the lawyer disturbs me. I've never considered myself a jealous man—jealousy implies insecurity, and I've never had reason to feel insecure.
Yet the sight of another man looking at Clara, entertaining even the possibility of touching her, brought out something primitive I barely recognized.
I don't merely want Clara Benson in my bed, though God knows I do want that. I want her in my life. Under my protection. Mine in ways I've never wanted anyone before.
The realization is as unsettling as it is undeniable.