Chapter 5
Chapter
Five
CLARA
"You're sleeping with him, aren't you?" Mia asks, dropping the bomb with all the subtlety of a teenager who thinks sex was invented last Tuesday.
My hot chocolate sloshes dangerously close to the rim of my mug, and Zoe chokes on her latte, drawing annoyed glances from the hipsters at the next table.
We're at Groundwork Coffee, three blocks from my bakery, supposedly enjoying our bi-weekly girls' night that usually consists of caffeine, sugar, and unfiltered conversation.
Apparently, tonight's unfiltered topic is my non-existent sex life with Alexander Devereux.
"Jesus, Mia," I hiss, dabbing at the spilled chocolate with a napkin. "Keep your voice down. And no, I am not sleeping with him."
Mia looks disappointed. At nineteen, my part-time helper views my life as a potential romantic comedy where she has front-row seats. "But he comes in every morning. And he looks at you like you're one of your own pastries he wants to devour."
Zoe, my best friend since culinary school and the proud owner of exactly zero romantic delusions, sets her mug down with precision. "That's exactly why Clara needs to be careful. Men like Alexander Devereux don't 'date' women like us. They consume them and move on."
"Women like us?" I repeat, bristling slightly. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Normal women," Zoe clarifies, tucking her curly hair behind her ear. "Women with student loans and rent checks that sometimes bounce. Women who can't jet off to Paris for the weekend or recover from having their hearts obliterated by buying a small island."
I fiddle with my napkin, tearing it into progressively smaller pieces. "It's not like that. He just likes my baking."
The synchronization with which both my friends roll their eyes would impress an Olympic judge.
"He likes something, alright," Mia snickers. "The way he watches you when you're not looking? That man is starving, and it's not for croissants."
"You don't know him," I protest, then immediately wonder why I'm defending a man who still makes me nervous on a good day and terrified on others.
"Actually," Zoe says carefully, "I do know his type. My sister worked as an events coordinator at The Ritz last year. She handled three of his corporate parties."
Something in her tone makes my stomach tighten. "And?"
"And he has a reputation, Clara. He dates women briefly and intensely.
When he loses interest, they're dismissed from his life completely.
No explanation, no closure. One woman—a model he dated for about two months—showed up at his office after he ghosted her.
Security escorted her out, and she was served with a restraining order the next day. "
I stare into my hot chocolate, watching the mini marshmallows melt into uneven white patches. "That's just gossip."
"Remember Anna Wells?" Zoe continues, undeterred.
"That jewelry designer who was getting big press about three years ago?
She dated Devereux for a few months. He invested in her company, got her into all the right social circles.
When they broke up, he pulled his investment.
Her business collapsed six months later. "
A cold feeling spreads through my chest. "That could've been coincidence."
"Could've been," Zoe agrees. "But there are at least four similar stories. The details change, but the pattern is the same. He becomes intensely fixated, makes himself the center of a woman's universe, then vanishes when he gets bored."
Mia frowns, some of her romantic enthusiasm dimming. "That's seriously messed up."
"Look," I say, pushing my mug away, suddenly not in the mood for chocolate, "I appreciate the concern, but you're both acting like I'm about to elope with the guy. He sits in my bakery, drinks coffee, and occasionally says things that make me question my sanity. That's it."
"For now," Zoe says, her voice gentler. "But Clara, I've seen how you look at him too. And I get it—he's objectively gorgeous, rich as God, and apparently interested in you. It would turn anyone's head."
I want to deny it, but I've never been able to lie to Zoe.
She sees right through me. "He's…different than I expected," I admit.
"Not as cold. He asks questions about baking techniques and actually listens to the answers.
Yesterday he spent twenty minutes debating the merits of cultured versus regular butter for laminated doughs. "
"Sexy," Mia deadpans, but her eyes are thoughtful.
"The point is," Zoe presses, "even if he's genuine—and that's a big if—there's a fundamental imbalance here.
He could buy your entire building without checking his account balance first. He has power and connections you can't even imagine.
What happens when things go south? Because they always do, eventually. "
Her words hit home in a way the gossip didn't. I think about my struggling bakery, the notices from the landlord, the slim margins I operate on. One bad review from someone with influence could tank me. One missed loan payment could end everything I've built.
"Maybe he just really likes pastries," I offer weakly.
"Maybe," Zoe concedes, though her expression says otherwise. "But ask yourself this: if he weren't Alexander Devereux—if he were just a regular guy with no money or influence—would you still be drawn to him?"
The question catches me off guard. I think about Alex's steel-gray eyes that see too much. The way his entire focus shifts to whatever he's discussing with complete, unnerving attention. How his rare, genuine smiles transform his face from intimidating to almost boyish.
"Yes," I say finally, surprising myself with the certainty in my voice. "It's not about the money or the power. If anything, those make it scarier."
Mia perks up at this admission. "So you are attracted to him!"
I feel my cheeks heating. "I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to," Zoe says, sighing. "It's written all over your face. Just…be careful, okay? Protect your heart. And maybe your bakery too."
"Nothing is going to happen," I insist, though the words ring hollow even to my own ears. "He'll get bored eventually. Find some supermodel who doesn't have flour permanently embedded under her fingernails."
"If you say so," Mia says, clearly unconvinced. "But if you do end up sleeping with him, I expect full details. For research purposes."
"You're incorrigible," I tell her, grateful for the break in tension.
"I'm realistic," she counters. "If a guy who looks like that, with a net worth higher than some countries, was staring at me like I was his last meal? I'd climb him like a tree."
"And this is why you're not allowed to date until you're thirty," I say, finally smiling.
The conversation shifts to safer topics—Mia's classes, Zoe's latest catering disaster—but my mind keeps circling back to Alex.
To the warnings about his past, the patterns Zoe described that sound nothing like the man who sits quietly in my bakery each morning, occasionally offering business insights so subtle I almost miss them.
I try to reconcile the cold, calculating playboy of gossip with the man who noticed the mixer making strange noises before I did, who asked questions about my mother when he saw her photo behind the counter, who left a hundred-dollar tip for Mia when she worked the register last Saturday.
By the time we say our goodbyes, I've made no decisions, reached no conclusions. But Zoe hugs me extra tight, whispering, "Just remember you deserve someone who sees you as the main course, not the appetizer."
Walking home through the December chill, I wrap my scarf tighter and wonder which version of Alexander Devereux is real—the ruthless billionaire who discards women like yesterday's newspaper, or the man who watches me with hunger but also something that looks dangerously like admiration.
And I wonder, with a shiver that has nothing to do with the cold, which version I'll be facing tomorrow morning when the bell above my door chimes at precisely 7:30.
The bakery feels ten degrees too hot the next morning, or maybe that's just me.
I've been checking the clock every three minutes since 7:00, simultaneously dreading and anticipating the moment when Alex walks through the door.
Zoe's warnings circle my thoughts like vultures, picking at my resolve.
I've dropped two trays, under-baked a batch of scones, and snapped at poor Mrs. Abernathy when she asked for her usual tea with lemon instead of her "normal" milk. I'm a disaster, and I know exactly why.
At 7:29—one minute earlier than usual—the bell chimes. I nearly drop the pitcher of milk I'm frothing.
It's him, but…different. Instead of his usual impeccable suit, Alex wears dark jeans and a gray cashmere sweater that makes his eyes look like storm clouds.
His hair is slightly tousled, as if he ran his fingers through it.
He looks less like a CEO and more like the kind of man who brings you coffee in bed on Sunday mornings, right before he pulls you back under the covers.
That thought should not be in my head at 7:30 AM. Or ever.
"Morning," he says, his voice that low rumble that seems to vibrate through my bones.
"You're early," I blurt, immediately wanting to slap myself. Smooth, Clara. Real smooth.
A small smile touches his lips. "Technically, I'm right on time. You're just used to me being precisely one minute late."
The fact that he knows this—that he's been tracking the timing of our interactions as carefully as I have—sends a warm flutter through my stomach that I refuse to acknowledge.
"Your usual?" I ask, already reaching for a mug.
"Actually," he says, moving toward the counter, "I thought I might help this morning. You seem…flustered."
I pause, the mug suspended midair. "Help? You want to help? In my bakery?"