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“Th-they are both delicious, baked from my grandmére’s recipes.” My mouth feels parched, but I forge onward, hiding behind my sales pitch.“And today we offer a new flavor of macaron: lime.” I stiffly indicate theglass-fronted casefilled withdelicatebaked sweets.

He gives it a glance. “An impressive assortment. Who bakes the pastries?”

Icasually slip behind the caseas if to study its contents. Really, I want to hide. He’s being perfectly polite; I just don’t know how to react to male attention. “I bake the éclairs fresh every morning.”

“So, all these are your creations?” He sets Miette on the floor, brushes off his shirt, and approaches the case.

“Only the éclairs and chouquettes today.” And every day.

To my relief, he doesn’t press for information. “I’ll have two éclairs, one of each flavor, and a chouquette.”

“And black coffee?”

He hands me a silver coin.“If you please.”

Nodding, I fumblewiththe purse clipped at my waist, thencount thechange into his palepalm, which is callused yet clean.I carefully avoid touching him, buthe closes his hand abruptly. The brush of his fingers sends a shiver down my spine.

“Keep the rest,” he says.

I back away without looking up, nerves jangling.“Thank you, monsieur.”

My delivery boy can have the extra coins if he ever shows up. My shop assistant is late too. And where is my normal crowd of morning customers?

The man settles at his usual table with his back to me. Morning light falls through the front window’s small blurry panes to gleam on hisblue-black hair. He plays with a coin, making it appear and vanish between his long fingers.

I carefully arrange his selections on aporcelain plate, choose the best fork, and add a crisply starched serviettewith a crochet-lace border.My heart drums behind my apron as if I just ran a race.

He leans back in his chair while I serve him. Despite my trembling hands, I manage to pour his coffee from a fresh pot brewednot long before he entered. He wears his leather vest and white shirt above worn breeches and boots, surprisingly clean. He even smells good, like a pine forest and horses. “Do you need anything else, monsieur?”

He looks up. His black-lashed eyes pin me to the spot; my knees feel like jelly. “I have a voracious sweet tooth, but three pastries should satisfy it for a time.”

Is he teasing me? Before I can decide, he nods to where his battered coat and hat hang beside my shawl near the door. “May I ask why you didn’t wear your scarlet cloak today?”

How does he . . .? I can’t tell him that I left the cloak behind this morning because my mother always reminds me to wear it—a childish rebellion. I’m scouring my brain for a sensible response when he adds, “You don’t have to answer. It’s just . . . I’ve seen you wear it around town.”

I blurt, “My shawl is plenty warm enough. If I get cold on my way home, I’ll walk faster.” Could anything be more awkward than . . . than me?

“I admit, I’m curious about the warding spell on it.”

“The . . . what?” A spell on my red cloak? “My mother might have weatherproofed it without telling me.” A logical guess.

He quirks a brow. “The spell wards off men, not weather.”

Did I hear that correctly? “A spell that wards off . . . men?”

“I thought perhaps you placed the ward because you walk to and from work in the dark each day. A beautiful womanshoulduse a protective spell any time she walks alone in the city.”

Flattery? Irked, I mutter, “Like I said, if my cloak has any spell on it, my mother put it there.”

His brows nearly meet above the bridge of his nose. “But the magic is yours,” he says quietly. “There can be no doubt of that.”

I must get away. My hands are shaking, and my voice sounds almost shrill when I speak. “You seem like a good sort of man.” Actually, he looks intriguingly disreputable . . . “I don’t mean to be rude, but you must believe me: I do not have magic. I bake, and I run this shop. That is all. Enjoy your pastries, monsieur.”

I hurry behind my counter just as several customers enter, and for the next hour I’m too busy serving a steady stream of patrons to give the stranger more than an occasional glance. But each time I look his way, he lifts his cup to me, and once he smiles. I should go refill his cup, but there isn’t time. That is, I don’t wish to take the time. I don’t want him here anymore. He confuses me with his penetrating glances and his odd questions. A man like him is dangerous.

But why would a stranger—even one with wicked motives—invent something as random as a man-warding spell on my cloak? Has Mama placed other spells on my possessions without my knowledge or consent?

Even more troubling: Why would the stranger insist the magic is mine?