Chapter 6
She yankedanother dress off the rack, its sequins catching the harsh fluorescent lighting of the boutique. “This one’s shiny?” she said weakly, holding it up for Lucy’s inspection.
Lucy recoiled like the dress had insulted her. “Unless you’re planning to blind everyone at the gala, no. Hard pass.”
Devney shoved it back onto the overcrowded rack with a groan.
“Why are we doing this today?” Lucy asked. “The gala is literally tonight.”
“I’ve been busy. With work. With fake-fiancée-ing. With managing the slow unraveling of my mental stability. Take your pick.”
Lucy plopped onto a nearby velvet pouf, crossing her legs and propping her chin on her hand like she was watching a live rom-com train wreck. “This is your karma for agreeing to get fake-engaged to your boss. Seriously, Dev, what were you thinking? ‘Oh sure, Ronan Wilder, my emotionally constipated billionaire boss, needs a fiancée—sounds fun!’”
“First,” she said, rifling through another rack without looking at her friend, “he’s not emotionally constipated. He’s selectively expressive.”
“Selective is right,” Lucy said with a snort. “He expresses himself to spreadsheets and quarterly reports, not humans.”
“Second,” she said, ignoring the jab, “this is a strategic partnership, okay? I help him close this deal with the Beauchamps, and he doesn’t fire me for accidentally CC’ing his mother on the email about her cat. Everybody wins.”
“Strategic partnership. You realize how bananas that sounds, right?”
“Yes, but it’s well-dressed bananas. Or at least it will be if we find me a dress,” she said, pulling a slinky black gown from the rack. Before Lucy could protest, she disappeared into the fitting room.
A minute later, she emerged, the black gown turning her reflection in the mirror into an image out of a red-carpet event. The fabric hugged her figure, the neckline plunging enough to be daring without straying into scandalous territory.
“Wow,” Lucy said, sitting up straighter. “Okay, I take it back. That’s not bananas. That’s an entire gourmet banana sundae, top shelf.”
“Right?” She twirled, the hem swishing. “Who knew I had this in me?”
“Everyone except you,” Lucy said, deadpan. Then her eyes narrowed, and she pointed at Devney’s bare left hand. “Wait. What are you doing for a ring? Please don’t tell me Ronan sprung for a monstrosity shaped like a stock portfolio.”
“Funny you should mention that,” she said, digging into her purse. After a few seconds of rummaging, she pulled out a garish sunflower-shaped ring.
“Ta-da!” she said, sliding it onto her finger with a showy little wave. “Problem solved.”
Yellow stones surrounded a cluster of white ones in the center, with brown gems forming the petals. It was loud. It was clunky. It was hideous. It was her.
Lucy stared, then doubled over laughing so hard she nearly rolled off the pouf. “You cannot be serious. That thing looks like you mugged a kindergartener at craft time.”
“Hey, desperate times call for desperate accessories,” she said, admiring the ring. “Besides, it’s got character. And until Mr. Billionaire decides otherwise, this is as good as it gets.”
“Good luck explaining that to the Beauchamps,” Lucy said.
Two hours later, Devney ran a hand over the front of her gown in her tiny apartment’s entryway. She glanced at the clock, wondering if Ronan had gotten lost between his penthouse and her decidedly less glamorous building. As she debated texting him, a sharp knock echoed at the door.
“It’s time,” she said softly, taking a deep breath and opening the door.
He exuded his usual unruffled elegance, the crisp lines of his flawlessly tailored black tuxedo emphasizing his composed presence. Yet for a man who prided himself on restraint, his composure wavered as his eyes swept over her. His focus lingered on her face before drifting downward, tracing the graceful silhouette of her gown. His expression gentled for an instant—unguarded, rising and fading in a breath.
“Well?” she asked, fidgeting as the silence dragged on.
“Acceptable,” he said at last, though the faint roughness in his voice betrayed him.
“Wow, calm down with the compliments,” she said, stepping aside to let him in. His attention dipped to her left hand.
“Is that…” His eyes narrowed, gears visibly turning as he pointed at the sunflower ring like it might sprout legs and run. “Is that all you have?”
“You don’t pay me enough to purchase priceless baubles,” she said breezily, holding up her hand to admire the ring like it belonged in a museum. “This is the best I’ve got—fifteen ninety-nine at the corner drugstore.”
