"My wife doesn't need friends." Devyn's voice is calm, pleasant even, but there's an edge beneath it. "She has me."
Amos releases my hand and steps back smoothly. "Of course. I meant no offense. Congratulations on your marriage. She's lovely."
"I know."
The two men look at each other. Something passes between them, something I can't read.
Then Amos melts back into the crowd.
I wait until he's out of earshot.
"Friend or foe?"
"Neither." Devyn's hand is still on my waist. "But my instincts are never off. So make sure to keep your distance from him.”
NIGHT FALLS.
The reception winds down. My mother hugs me one last time, promises to call tomorrow, and is escorted to a guest suite.
And I follow Devyn to his chambers.
Ourchambers now, I suppose.
The room is large, elegantly furnished, dominated by a massive four-poster bed that I'm trying very hard not to look at. Devyn closes the door behind us, and the silence feels deafening.
I don't know what to do with my hands. I don't know where to look.
He removes his jacket. Drapes it over a chair with methodical precision. Then his cufflinks, set carefully on the dresser.
"I owe you an apology."
I blink. That's not what I expected.
He turns to face me. "The dress. It occurred to me as I watched you walk toward me. The fit was wrong. It was made for someone else, and I put you in it without thought."
I'm still processing the fact that he noticed. That he was watching closely enough to see what I felt.
"I was not raised to be sensitive to such things." The words come out stiff. Formal. "But on this, I could have done better. For that failure, I ask your forgiveness."
The apology hangs in the air.
I shake my head.
"I think," I say slowly, "I'd rather you stay exactly as you are."
His brow furrows. Confused.
"You don't care about the material things." I take a step toward him without quite meaning to. "The dress, the decorations, the flowers. None of that matters to you. But you care about whatmatters most." My voice softens. "Like flying my mother all the way from Oregon so I wouldn't have to be alone today."
Something happens to his face.
It's subtle. If I weren't trained to read micro-expressions, I might have missed it.
A flush stains his high cheekbones.
My eyes widen.
"Are you—"
