Chapter 5 #2
"Unless that's against some health code," he says, shrugging out of his jacket to reveal shoulders that fill out the sweater in ways that should be illegal before 9 AM.
"No, it's just—you don't seem like the type who..." I gesture vaguely at his entirety, "...does manual labor."
His eyes darken slightly. "I do all kinds of labor, Clara. Some more manual than others."
The suggestive undertone makes heat rush to my face. "Right. Well. Um. You could restock the display case while I finish these coffees?" I point to the trays of fresh pastries waiting to be arranged.
Alex washes his hands thoroughly at the sink—the sight of him performing such a mundane task in my space feels weirdly intimate—then begins carefully transferring pastries to the display case.
I try to focus on the coffees, but my eyes keep straying to his hands, the way they handle each delicate pastry with surprising care.
"You're staring," he says without looking up.
"You're doing it wrong," I lie, moving around the counter to join him. "Here, like this."
I position myself beside him, reaching for a cranberry orange scone to demonstrate the proper arrangement. Our shoulders brush, and a jolt of awareness races through me like I've touched a live wire. He smells incredible—that subtle cologne mixed with something that's just him, clean and masculine.
"Show me," he says, his voice lower, close to my ear.
I swallow hard. "You want the most attractive side facing the customer," I explain, positioning the scone. My voice sounds breathless even to my own ears. "And you need to group them by type, but in a way that looks natural, not too structured."
He reaches for another pastry, deliberately brushing his fingers against mine. The contact sends a shiver up my arm that has nothing to do with the December chill outside.
"Like this?" he asks.
I nod, not trusting my voice. We continue working side by side, the small space forcing us to brush against each other with movements that should be innocent but feel charged with electricity.
Every accidental touch—his arm against mine, his hip briefly meeting my side as we shift positions—sends my heart rate spiking.
Zoe's warnings echo in my head: He becomes intensely fixated, makes himself the center of a woman's universe, then vanishes when he gets bored.
But this doesn't feel like calculated seduction. The way his breath catches when our hands touch, the slight flush along his cheekbones, the tension in his shoulders—these seem like genuine reactions, not practiced moves.
"You're thinking too loudly," he murmurs, placing the last pastry.
"Just wondering why Alexander Devereux is arranging scones in my display case at 7:45 in the morning," I say, aiming for lighthearted and missing by miles.
He turns to face me fully, and in the narrow space between counter and display, we're suddenly much too close. I can see the faint stubble on his jaw, the tiny flecks of darker gray in his irises.
"Maybe I like seeing how things work," he says. "How they're built from the ground up."
"Pastry arrangements aren't that complicated," I counter.
"I wasn't talking about the pastries." His gaze is steady, too perceptive. "Your friend doesn't think much of me."
The abrupt change of subject throws me. "What?"
"The curly-haired woman who picked you up last night. She looks at me like I'm something she found on the bottom of her shoe."
I freeze. "You were watching me last night?"
"I was driving past," he clarifies. "Saw you leaving with her. The look she gave me was…illuminating."
Embarrassment and something like anger flickers through me. "Are you having me followed?"
"No." He seems genuinely offended by the suggestion. "But I do notice things, Clara. Like how you've been different this morning. Nervous. Wary."
"I'm not—"
"She told you about my reputation," he interrupts, his voice matter-of-fact. "About the women I've supposedly chewed up and spit out."
I don't deny it. "Your dating history isn't exactly a state secret."
"Dating history," he repeats, a sardonic twist to his mouth. "Is that what we're calling tabloid fiction now?"
"So none of it is true?" I challenge. "Anna Wells? The model with the restraining order?"
Something flickers in his eyes—not guilt, exactly, but recognition. "Some has elements of truth. Most is exaggerated. And none of it is relevant to what's happening between us."
"Nothing is happening between us," I insist, taking a step back and colliding with the counter behind me.
He doesn't advance, but somehow seems closer anyway. "Your pulse is racing," he observes, his gaze dropping to my throat where I know my heartbeat is visible. "Your pupils are dilated. When I touch you—even accidentally—you hold your breath. Nothing, Clara?"
The bell over the door chimes, saving me from having to respond. Alex steps back smoothly as an elderly couple enters, his expression shifting from intense to pleasantly neutral so quickly it's like watching a mask slide into place.
I serve the new customers on autopilot, hyperaware of Alex returning to his usual table, setting up his laptop as if the last ten minutes never happened.
By the time the morning rush hits, we've settled into our normal routine—me behind the counter, him working at his table, occasional glances connecting us across the space.
But something has shifted. The air between us feels charged, as if we're both waiting for the next spark to ignite something we can't control. My body has apparently decided to ignore all the rational warnings from my brain, responding to his presence like a compass finding north.
During a lull, he approaches the counter to order a second coffee. When I hand him the mug, our fingers brush—deliberately, on both our parts—and the contact sends heat spiraling through my core.
"Still nothing?" he asks quietly, his eyes holding mine.
I withdraw my hand, curling my tingling fingers into my palm. "I can't afford to be another notch on your bedpost, Alex."
His expression softens unexpectedly. "That's not what I want from you."
"Then what do you want?" I ask, the question barely above a whisper.
His answer comes without hesitation. "Everything."
He returns to his table, leaving me clutching the edge of the counter, my skin too tight, my mind in chaos.
I'm in trouble. Deep, devastating trouble. Because despite everything my friends said, despite all the warnings and red flags, my body recognizes something in Alexander Devereux that my mind is still fighting.
And I'm terrified that when the battle ends, my mind won't be the winner.
"Last customer," I announce, flipping the sign to CLOSED as the final afternoon straggler exits with their peppermint mocha and gingerbread cookie.
Only Alex remains, still at his usual table despite having been here since opening.
He's become a fixture in the bakery over the past three weeks—so familiar that customers now greet him by name, and Mrs. Abernathy asks after him when he steps out for business calls.
It should be unnerving how quickly he's integrated himself into my daily routine.
Instead, it feels like he's always been here, watching me with those storm-cloud eyes.
"Need help cleaning up?" he offers, closing his laptop.
It's become part of our routine. He asks; I deflect. "I've got it. Don't you have a company to run? Economies to influence? Small countries to purchase?"
His smile is quick and unexpectedly warm. "The small countries can wait."
I snort, starting my closing routine—wiping down counters, tallying the register, sweeping floors that somehow accumulate enough flour to recreate the Sahara Desert daily. Alex moves his chair to allow me to sweep beneath his table, but makes no move to leave.
"The Children's Hospital Foundation is holding their annual Christmas gala this weekend," he says casually, as if commenting on the weather.
I pause mid-sweep. "Good for them?"
He leans back in his chair, studying me with that intense focus that still makes my skin prickle with awareness. "I'm on the board. It's a five-thousand-dollar-a-plate fundraiser. Black tie. Usually raises about two million for pediatric cancer research."
"That's…really great," I say, uncertain where this is heading. "I hope it goes well."
"It would go better if you came with me," he says, dropping the invitation so matter-of-factly I almost miss it.
The broom freezes in my hands. "What?"
"The gala," he repeats patiently. "This Saturday. I'd like you to be my date."
A nervous laugh escapes me. "Right. Because I totally belong at a black-tie charity gala with billionaires and socialites."
"Yes, you do," he says with such conviction that I almost believe him. "Besides, your presence would be professional too. They need a new dessert sponsor. The previous bakery closed last month."
Ah. There it is. The business angle that makes more sense than Alex simply wanting my company. "So this is about Sweet Haven providing desserts? You should have said so."
Something flickers across his expression. "The catering opportunity is real. But that's not why I'm asking you to come as my date, Clara."
My heart does a complicated gymnastics routine against my ribs. "I don't have anything to wear to something like that," I say, defaulting to the most practical objection.
"That can be arranged."
"I'm not letting you buy me clothes," I counter immediately.
He sighs, a hint of impatience showing through his usual controlled exterior. "I wasn't suggesting that. I know several designers who would be happy to loan you a gown for the evening. It's common practice for events like this."
"I wouldn't know how to act," I continue, grasping for excuses. "Which fork to use. What to say to people who probably spend more on a lunch than I make in a month."
"You'd be with me," he says simply, as if that resolves everything. "And you speak more eloquently through your baking than most socialites manage in a lifetime of cocktail parties."
I resume sweeping, needing the familiar motion to ground me.
The invitation terrifies me for reasons I can't fully articulate.
It's not just entering Alex's world—it's what it might mean, how it might change things between us.
Right now, we exist in the safe confines of my bakery.
Neutral territory. Stepping into his world feels like crossing a line I'm not sure I can step back from.
"People will talk," I say finally. "They'll assume things."
"Let them." His voice drops lower. "What they assume will probably be true eventually anyway."
Heat floods my face at the implication. "That's…presumptuous."
"It's confident," he corrects, rising from his chair to approach the counter that separates us. "Clara, I want you there. Not as a caterer. Not as a business connection. As my guest."
I clutch the broom like a lifeline. "Why?"
He considers me for a long moment. "Because every other woman I've taken to these events has been there for what they could get from me—connections, publicity, financial gain. You'd be there despite your better judgment, not because of what I can offer you."
His honesty catches me off guard. "That's a pretty low bar."
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Perhaps. But it's refreshing nonetheless."
I think about what Zoe would say if she knew I was even considering this. How she'd remind me of all the women who came before, all the relationships that ended badly. I think about Mia, who would probably shove me out the door with instructions to "climb him like a tree" at the first opportunity.
Mostly, I think about myself, standing in a room full of people who belong to a world I've never even glimpsed, with a man who makes my heart race and my common sense disappear.
"The dessert sponsorship," I say slowly. "Would it be a regular contract? For all their events?"
He nods. "Four major fundraisers annually, plus smaller events throughout the year. They pay well and on time. It would be significant income for Sweet Haven."
The practical, business-owner part of my brain perks up at this. Steady institutional clients are the holy grail of small food businesses—reliable income that helps smooth out the seasonal ups and downs.
"I'm not agreeing because of the contract," I say carefully. "But it does make it easier to justify saying yes."
His eyes sharpen. "So that's a yes?"
I set the broom aside, suddenly tired of fighting what feels increasingly inevitable. "It's a 'God help me, I must be crazy, but yes.'"
The smile that transforms his face is like watching the sun break through storm clouds—unexpected and briefly dazzling before his usual control reasserts itself. "I'll pick you up at seven on Saturday."
"I still don't have anything to wear," I remind him.
"Give me your address. Someone will bring options tomorrow." He raises a hand when I start to protest. "Loans only, I promise. You can choose whatever makes you comfortable."
I write my address on a bakery receipt, feeling like I'm handing over more than just information. "Just so we're clear—this is one evening. As your guest. It doesn't mean..."
"It means whatever we want it to mean, Clara," he says, pocketing the address. "Nothing more, nothing less."
After he leaves, I stand in my empty bakery, wondering what I've just agreed to. Not just a gala, not just a potential catering contract. Something else—something that feels like stepping off a cliff without knowing how far I'll fall or what waits at the bottom.
I'm saying yes to entering Alexander Devereux's world, where I don't belong and don't know the rules. The sensible part of me is screaming that this is exactly how all those other women started—with one invitation, one evening, one step into his orbit before being consumed by it.
But another part—the part that watches him when he's absorbed in work, that notices how he remembers my regular customers' names, that felt his fingers tremble slightly when they brushed mine—that part whispers that maybe, just maybe, there's more to this story than my friends know.
I just hope I'm not writing myself into a tragedy while thinking it's a fairytale.