Lucy snorted. “The same Ronan who once told you that ‘office humor undermines productivity?’ That Ronan?”
“I know!” She threw her hands up, nearly knocking over her untouched coffee. “But he was different. We were talking to the Beauchamps, and everything was going well, and then—I don’t know. It felt easy. Like we weren’t faking it.”
His arm around her waist seemed to belong there. Like the way he’d said “She’s worth it” wasn’t only for show. Like the silent drive home afterward, the way he’d actually opened up to her about his parents, meant more than their elaborate charade.
“That’s because you weren’t faking it.”
“Don’t start,” Devney said, pointing at her with a butter knife, a weak attempt to ward off a truth she didn’t want to admit. “It was good acting.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Lucy leaned forward, her eyes bright with interest and a hint of worry. “Tell me, did he dance with you? Did he stand a little too close? Did his eyes linger a little too long when he thought no one was watching?”
Her stomach flipped at how accurately Lucy had guessed. Different moments flooded her memory—his fingertips pressed against her dress, his breath brushing against her neck, feather-light and close, the moment when his eyes had met hers after she’d told the Beauchamps about her grandmother’s sunflowers. Something had shifted between them in that instant, something that made her heart race even now, sitting safely in Lucy’s bakery with the morning light streaming through the windows.
“You’re imagining things,” she said quietly, breaking off a piece of scone without eating it. “And enjoying it way too much.”
“Am I?” Lucy said, her voice quieter now, more concerned than teasing. “Because, Dev, you’re sitting here in my bakery, looking like a woman who got twirled around a ballroom by a billionaire and actually enjoyed it.”
She fumbled for words, opening her mouth, then snapping it shut when nothing coherent came out. Lucy had a way of digging into things she wasn’t ready to examine, of forcing her to look at feelings she had tried to keep hidden, even from herself. The truth was, she had enjoyed last night—more than she should have, more than was safe.
She’d liked the feel of his hand on her back, the surprising softness in his eyes when he’d looked at her, the way his voice had softened when it was only the two of them. She’d liked feeling like they were a team, navigating the crowded ballroom together. She’d liked it, and that terrified her.
“Oh, look, croissants! Let’s focus on those.”
Lucy rolled her eyes but let it go—for now. “Fine. Be in denial. But just so you know, the longer you pretend this is all business, the harder it’ll be when reality catches up.”
The words landed with a heavy weight. She tried to brush them aside, but they settled deep, impossible to ignore. What if she was in denial? What if this charade was becoming more than business, at least for her? What would happen when it inevitably ended?
The bakery door swung open, and a rush of morning customers spared her from answering. She grabbed her coffee, muttered a quick goodbye, and slipped out before Lucy could dismantle her defenses any further.
Outside, the morning air was crisp with the bite of autumn. She walked briskly, her thoughts jumbled with each hurried step. Lucy’s words echoed in her mind, a warning she couldn’t quite silence.The longer you pretend, the harder it gets.
Was she pretending? Or was there real emotion growing beneath the surface of their arrangement? She thought of his rare moment of vulnerability in the car after the gala, the way he’d opened up about his parents, about never having seen a good marriage. It had felt genuine, like a glimpse of the real person he kept guarded. Like he was letting her see parts he kept hidden from everyone else.
As she approached the gleaming glass entrance of Oath Capital, she paused, catching her reflection in the polished surface—her cheeks flushed from the walk.
Get it together, Sinclair. This is business, not a romance novel.
With a deep breath, she steeled herself and pushed through the door, the hum of the office surrounding her. Normalcy, she thought. This is my normal life. The gala was an anomaly, a performance, nothing more.
But as she moved through the office, the world felt different—as if everything was slightly off-kilter.
He stood outside his office, arms crossed, waiting for her. He looked like himself again, all business, no trace of the vulnerability he’d shown when he drove her home that night, sharing pieces of his past in the quiet of his car.
“We have a problem,” he said, his voice clipped.
“Good morning to you too.” She set her things on her desk. “What kind of problem?”
“Eleanor Beauchamp invited us to spend the weekend at their estate. The entire weekend. On Martha’s Vineyard.”
“She didwhat?”
“Apparently, she was so charmed by us at the gala that she’s eager to spend more time together.” He rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Which means we have to continue this charade for an entire weekend, under the watchful eyes of the Beauchamps.”
A weekend. With him. Pretending to be engaged. Panic and anticipation rose inside her. An entire weekend of more moments like when the line between real and pretend blurred beyond recognition.
She let out a low whistle. “Wow. The upper crust is buying it.”
“This is serious, Devney. If we screw this up, Beauchamp could pull his interest.”
