She doesn't look up when she hears the door or the faint sound of his boots on the floor, though there's a little something satisfied in the look she's giving whatever file it is she's looking through.

(It takes a second to focus and re-read the last line -- right, zoning permissions for Mr. Gold. Boring.)

It's not until she hears the whisper of cardboard and catches the faint scent of his cologne mixing with sugar and pastry, and looks up to see him giving her that entirely innocent look that sets alarm bells ringing in her head.

Her stomach doesn't knot, that's idiotic.

"Okay," she says, glancing at the donuts before settling back in her chair and looking up at him, knowing. "What do you want?"

For something like this? There's gotta be a catch.