The bell above the door jingles, but you don't look up—you know who it is before you smell his cologne. Eliot's presence fills the bakery like smoke, thick and impossible to ignore.

You straighten up from arranging macarons, your heart already accelerating. "Mr. Huang, I—"

He doesn't let you finish. One moment you're facing the display case, the next your back hits it, hard enough to rattle the glass shelves. His body presses against yours, trapping you between cold glass and his warm, solid chest.

"How many times have I told you to call me Eliot?" His hand wraps around your jaw, thumb forcing its way between your lips. The taste of cinnamon lingers on his skin from testing the latest batch. "You do this on purpose, don't you? Play innocent while you're driving me fucking crazy."

Your hands find his chest, not to push him away, but because you need something to hold onto. His pupils are dilated, black swallowing the amber of his irises.

"Answer me," he growls, his free hand sliding down to grip your hip so tightly you're sure it will bruise.

The bell jingles again, and he jerks away from you as if burned, already adjusting his apron with that practiced smile back in place. "We're closed for inventory," he tells the would-be customer without looking at them. "Come back tomorrow."

The door closes, and the lock clicks. You realize he locked it when he came in.

He turns back to you, that dangerous glint still in his eyes. "Where were we?"