“Outside of business,” he said, “it’s been efficient.”
She was silent for a long moment, the city lights sliding over her face as she processed his admission. “That explains so much,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.
His hands tightened on the wheel. “Explains what?”
“Why you keep everyone at such a careful distance,” she said. “You build walls so high you can’t see over them. You push away anyone who might try to climb them. Even people who care about you.”
The car rolled to a stop outside her brownstone. The engine hummed, her words hanging in the air between them.
He turned to look at her, really look at her, for the first time since they’d left the gala. The sunflower ring on her finger caught the glow from a streetlamp. A fake ring for a fake promise that had just unearthed the most real part of him.
“Is that what you do?” he asked, his voice rough with an emotion he couldn’t name. “Care about me?”
She held his gaze, her green eyes steady and deep, searching his face as if she could read the truth written there.
“Yes,” she said. “I do.”
A current, both alarming and exhilarating, shot through him. Without a word, he shut off the engine. He exited, circled to her side and opened her door, the movement stiff, unpracticed.
She looked up, startled, before accepting the gesture and stepping onto the curb. They walked up the short flight of stairs to her front door in silence, the city’s hum a distant roar. She fumbled for her keys, her fingers clumsy. When the lock clicked, she turned, her back pressed against the door, trapped between him and the entrance.
“Ronan.” she started, but his name trailed off as he took a step closer.
He was too close. He knew he was too close. He could see the faint pulse at the base of her throat, smell the lingering scent of her perfume. His hand lifted, driven by a need so sharp it stolehis breath. His fingers hovered inches from her cheek, the space between them crackling with unspoken words and untapped want. He could feel the warmth radiating from her skin. Touch her. The command was primal. Don’t. This crosses a line. What line? There are no lines anymore.
He dropped his hand, the small movement feeling like a defeat.
“Goodnight, Devney,” he said, the words tight.
He turned and walked away without looking back, the image of her standing in the doorway—stunned, beautiful, and achingly real—burned into his mind. He didn’t leave right away. He waited in his car at the curb, watching until the light in her window flickered on, a small beacon in the darkness.
Driving back to his empty penthouse, he realized with startling clarity that the carefully constructed architecture of his life had been compromised. She had found a crack in the foundation. And for the first time, he was terrified he didn’t have a blueprint to fix it.
Chapter 8
The bellabove Lucy’s bakery door chimed its usual sing-song greeting as Devney stepped inside, the scent of cinnamon and fresh bread wrapping around her like a comforting hug. It was early, and the shop was still waking up, much like she was. Her mind was foggy, stuck somewhere between the gala and the reality of this morning.
Behind the counter, Lucy was already in full baker mode, dusted in flour, sleeves pushed up, hands moving with a steady rhythm as she worked a ball of dough. Her dark hair was piled atop her head in a messy bun, wisps escaping to soften the sharp edges of her expression. She looked up, and a wide grin bloomed across her face.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in.” She flicked a glance at her friend over the ball of dough. “You’re glowing. Which either means you won the lottery this morning, or—” She paused, flour-covered fingers stopping mid-knead, “—you’re in love with your fake fiancé.”
Devney’s heart stuttered at the accusation, heat rising to her cheeks. She scoffed—maybe with a little too much force—as shedropped onto her usual stool at the counter. The wooden seat creaked beneath her, familiar and grounding.
“First, rude. Second, this is the glow of a woman who got seven hours of sleep and had an ordinary morning.” The lie felt awkward and unconvincing in her mouth. She’d deliberately not called Lucy on Sunday, and ignored her two calls, knowing a play-by-play of the gala would only cement how not-ordinary things had become. In reality, she’d spent the last two nights replaying every glance, every touch, every moment of tenderness in his voice at the gala.
Lucy didn’t even look up, her hands moving through the dough. “Right. And I’m the type of person who minds my own business.” She pressed her thumb into the dough like it had personally offended her.
Lucy folded the dough one last time before covering it with a cloth. She wiped her hands thoroughly on a towel, then reached into the display case for a scone. She slid it across to Devney on a small plate. “So, how was the party?”
Devney leaned her elbows on the counter, drawn to the heat still clinging to the pastry as its buttery aroma mingled with the cinnamon-sugar topping. She pretended to be interested in the scone. Anything to avoid her friend’s too-perceptive gaze.
“It was fine. You know, champagne, small talk, obscenely expensive dresses.” She shrugged, aiming for nonchalance and landing somewhere closer to suspicious evasion.
Lucy braced her hands on the counter, her stare so intense it made Devney want to squirm. “Try again. Because you bit your lip the way you do when you’re pretending a big deal wasn’t a big deal—when it absolutely was.”
Devney let out a deep sigh. “It was. Fun.” She winced at her own admission, as if the word itself was dangerous. “Okay, not fun, but better than I expected. He was different. More relaxed. He—he actually made jokes, Lucy. Jokes!”
The memory of his low laugh beside her ear made a shiver run through her. It had been a private sound, meant only for her, something she’d felt through the thin fabric of her dress where his hand had rested on the small of her back.
