They clinked glasses of Chianti. “Tell me a truth,” she said. “A detail I can use this weekend if conversation lags.”
“I played cello. For years. I was quite good, actually.”
“Ronan Wilder, a classical musician?”
“Is it that hard to believe?”
“No, actually. You have the hands for it. Long fingers.” Heat crept up her neck as she realized she’d admitted to noticing his hands.
They traded small truths back and forth—his fondness for old black-and-white films, her quiet wish to matter to people who needed her. By the time they finished, she felt both relaxed and oddly energized. The night had turned more intimate than she’d imagined.
Outside, the evening air was cool against her flushed skin. “Thank you,” she said. “For not hating my pizza place.”
He looked down at her, his features softened by the streetlight. “It was nice.”
When they arrived at her apartment, he insisted on walking her to the door.
“I guess I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said. “At work. Where we’re boss and assistant again.”
“Yes,” he said evenly. “Tomorrow.”
He handed her the bags, their fingers brushing. The contact sparked—warmth racing up her arm. “Goodnight, Ronan.”
“Goodnight, Devney.”
She closed the door and leaned against it, wondering if he felt it too—this confusing connection, a bond formed over pizza, wine, and the kind of truths shared when guards are down.
Chapter 11
The week dragged.Each day was an exercise in restraint as he watched the clock, counting down the hours until Friday arrived. Not because he was looking forward to a weekend with the Beauchamps—God, no—but because the anticipation itself felt like torture.
His office felt like a minefield; every interaction with her held a new, unspoken risk. Devney would breeze in with her usual sunflower energy, place coffee on his desk, and he’d notice things he’d successfully ignored for months—the small dimple that appeared in her left cheek when she fought a smile, the way her hands moved with grace when she explained details she cared about. It was maddening.
“Your 10:30 rescheduled,” she said Thursday morning, leaning against his door frame with her tablet clutched to her chest. “And the quarterly projections are ready for review.”
“Forward them to me.”
“Already did,” she said, and he could hear the eye roll in her voice without seeing it. “Also, Eleanor sent the final itinerary for the weekend.”
That made him look up. “Anything we didn’t expect?”
She nodded, one shoulder lifting in a casual gesture that somehow made his stomach tighten. “Apparently there’s a sunset cocktail reception with some local politicians and business leaders tomorrow evening. The sailing outfit we bought should work for everything else, but Eleanor mentioned ‘casual elegance’ for the reception. Whatever that means.”
“It means expensive clothing that’s designed to look effortlessly thrown together,” he said. “Which I happen to execute without fuss.”
“Right,” she said. “You have three blue ties that are the same.”
“They’re different shades.”
“My point exactly.” Her laughter filled his office, bright and unrestrained.
The noise messed with his pulse—offbeat and annoying as hell. That stupid bet with Knox and Gabriel tried to push its way in. He shut it down before it got comfortable.
“What time is the helicopter tomorrow?” he asked, changing the subject.
“Ten sharp. I’ll meet you at the heliport at 9:30.”
“I’ll pick you up at 9,” he said. “It’ll be more convincing if we arrive together.”
