A moment of silence hung between them. “Right,” she said. “The performance.” She straightened, resuming her professional posture. “Nine it is. I’ll be ready.”
As she walked away, her words left a sharp ache inside him.
Friday morning was sharp and clear, the September sky an almost offensively perfect blue. He sat in his car outside Devney’s apartment, checking his watch (9:01) and wondering why today of all days punctuality seemed to be a mystery to her. As he reached for his phone, her door flew open, and his breath caught.
She emerged in a cream-colored dress that floated around her knees, a light cardigan draped over her arm, her hair loose around her shoulders instead of pinned back in one of her usual work styles. She looked relaxed, radiant, and something in him stilled at the sight.
He stepped out of the car as she approached, taking her weekend bag from her without giving her a chance to object.
“You’re late,” he said, though she wasn’t, not really.
“By one minute.” She slid into the passenger seat as he held the door. “And you’re uptight.”
“I’m punctual,” he said, closing her door with perhaps more force than necessary.
The drive to the heliport was subdued, their conversation limited to practical matters—the weather forecast, the anticipated arrival time, whether Andrew Beauchamp would grill him about financial projections over dinner. It felt safer this way, keeping to safe territory when everything else between them seemed suddenly charged.
The helicopter ride to Martha’s Vineyard should have been quick and unremarkable. Instead, it became an exercise in self-control, the confined space shrinking around him with every breath she took beside him. When turbulence struck halfway through the journey, her hand found his arm, fingers curling around his wrist in an instinctive gesture. He felt the contact burn through the fabric of his shirt.
“Sorry,” she said, removing her hand as quickly as she’d placed it. “Not a huge fan of flying.”
He glanced at her, noting the slight pallor beneath her usual healthy glow. “You should have said something.”
She shrugged. “And give you ammunition to tease me about? No thanks.”
“I wouldn’t have teased you.”.
Her eyes met his, something unreadable in their amber depths. Neither of them spoke.
Then she smiled—a small, genuine curve of her lips that unsettled him. “Good to know.”
The helicopter touched down on a private landing pad that overlooked the Atlantic. As the rotors slowed, a uniformed attendant opened the door and helped her step out onto the helipad. He followed, ducking his head beneath the still-spinning blades. Another staff member in crisp khakis and a navy polo with the Beauchamp crest approached to collect their bags.
“Welcome to Vineyard Haven,” he said. “I’ll take these to the main house for you.”
Ronan nodded his thanks, surveying their surroundings as the helicopter powered down behind them. The Atlantic stretched out before them, vast and blue. The Beauchamp estate commanded prime real estate—an enormous white colonial mansion with black shutters, extensive gardens, and a path that led down to a private beach. An old-money establishment, built on generations of power, privilege, and strategic social moves.
“Holy mother of—” she said softly beside him, eyes wide. “This place is straight out of a movie.”
He placed his hand on the small of her back, guiding her along the stone path toward the main house where Eleanor Beauchamp waited on the expansive porch, looking every inch the elegant hostess in white linen pants and a coral blouse. The light pressure of his palm against her back felt surprisingly right.
“Welcome, welcome!” Eleanor said, arms opening wide as they approached. “You made it in time for lunch.”
“Eleanor,” he said with a polite nod. “Thank you for having us.”
“The pleasure is ours,” she said, her gaze sliding to Deveney with obvious interest. “We rarely get to entertain young couples. Everyone our age is so dreadfully serious about everything.”
Devney stepped forward. “Your home is stunning,” she said, gesturing to the gardens. “Those hydrangeas are magnificent.”
Eleanor’s face lit up. “Ah, you know your flowers.”
“My grandmother was an avid gardener,” she said. “She taught me everything about planting seasons, soil types, root systems—I was her little apprentice.”
Eleanor hooked her arm through Devney’s, leading her inside while launching into a detailed explanation of her gardening strategies. Ronan followed a step behind, feeling strangely like an afterthought as they disappeared into the foyer, their conversation about optimal soil pH already in full swing.
“Ronan,” Andrew Beauchamp’s deep voice came from the foyer as they entered. He stood at the foot of a sweeping staircase, looking both relaxed and imposing in tailored weekend attire.
“Good to see you.”
