Page 34 of Tempting Mr. Knightly

He had remembered, even the temperature.

Over the weeks of meetings he had learned the bakery’s entire crew and regulars by name and order.

She stepped forward. “What is this?”

“Coffee.”

“I can see it’s coffee. Why is it here?”

“I have a proposal for Gabriel and Tessa’s wedding. I wanted to discuss it with you. The drinks are a gesture of professional goodwill.”

“Professional goodwill doesn’t come with personalized labels.”

Knox adjusted his glasses. “I’m thorough.”

Marco was already drinking his latte. He caught Lucy’s eye over the rim and mouthed, he remembered the extra shot.

Lucy took her cortado and tested the temperature with a fingertip against the cup. She knew without a thermometer that it was perfect. Her hands had been calibrating heat since she was twelve years old, standing next to her mother at the wok.

She didn’t comment. She sipped. It was perfect.

He was wearing a navy suit, lighter than his usual charcoal, and his tie was a shade of blue that Lucy refused to identify because identifying it would require looking at his throat, and looking at his throat would require remembering the night in the kitchen when she’d stood close enough to see his pulse, and that was a series of recollections she was maintaining strict control over.

“The proposal,” she said. “Talk.”

Knox pulled a folder from his bag. Lucy led him to the two-top by the window, which had become, without either of them naming it, their table. He sat across from her and opened the folder.

“I’d like to invest in the wedding dessert table as a personal gift to Gabriel and Tessa. Not through Oath Capital. Not through the foundation. From me.” He laid out the terms. “I’ll cover all premium ingredients, specialty tools, and any additional labor costs associated with the dessert program. You maintain full creative control. No input from me on flavors, presentation, or menu. The only condition is that the desserts reflect your best work, which, based on what I’ve tasted so far, requires no additional effort.”

Lucy read the document. It was clean, organized with the same tabbed attention he brought to everything, and the dollar figure at the bottom was generous without being ostentatious.

“You’re trying to pay me more without calling it a raise,” she said.

“I’m trying to ensure that the best baker I’ve ever met doesn’t have to compromise her product because of a budget I set too low the first time.”

“You already fixed the budget.”

“The budget covers standard catering rates. This covers your actual value. They’re different numbers.”

Lucy set the document down. She picked up her cortado and drank, buying time, because Knox kept saying things that disarmed her, and she needed a moment to rebuild between volleys.

“Why?” she asked.

“Why what?”

“Why the investment? You could write a check to the caterer and be done with it. You could buy them a honeymoon. Why this? Why my bakery?”

Knox considered the question. She could see him processing it, weighing responses. She’d come to recognize this pause as his version of honesty, not spontaneous but deliberate, a man who chose his words like she chose her ingredients, with care and the understanding that details mattered.

“Because the dessert table will be the best part of the wedding,” he said. “And I want to make sure you have everything you need to prove it.”

“That’s a nice answer.”

“It’s a true answer.”

“Those aren’t always the same thing.”

“No. But in this case, they are.”