She looked up at him then, her expression open and vulnerable, and the look made him stop, unable to move for a moment. Across the garden, Eleanor called her name, beckoning her
forward to continue their earlier conversation about hydrangeas.
He watched her go, wondering when the difference between the lie and the truth had
gotten so hard to see.
The afternoon passed in a succession of polite activities—the beach walk, a tour of Andrew’s wine cellar, and finally retreating to their room to dress for dinner. She disappeared into the bathroom with her garment bag, leaving him to change in the bedroom. He was adjusting his cufflinks when she emerged, and the sight of her made his fingers still.
She wore the blue dress they’d purchased at Neiman’s. The fabric draped well over her curves, and the color intensified theunique shade of her eyes. Her hair was swept up into an elegant knot, revealing the graceful line of her neck and shoulders.
“Will I do?” she asked, like she wasn’t sure of the answer.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, the words emerging rougher than intended.
A flush spread across her cheeks, delicate and genuine. “Thank you,” she said. “You clean up nicely yourself.”
Dinner was a formal affair, with several other couples from the Beauchamps’ social circle joining them in the grand dining room. Devney navigated the complex social dynamics with surprising grace, charming the venture capitalist seated to her left while holding her own in a debate about sustainable investment with a retired professor across the table.
Despite all the conversations going on around him, he found himself watching her, struck by how she fit into this world she’d had no reason to belong in—but somehow did. She spoke with confidence but without pretension, laughed without restraint, and somehow made everyone around her feel valued.
Eleanor noticed his attention, leaning closer as the dessert course was being served. “She’s remarkable,” she said. “Quite charming. And clearly very much in love with you.”
“Yes,” he said simply, because denying it seemed impossible. “She is remarkable.”
By the time they retreated to their room after dinner, exhaustion had settled deep in his bones—not from the activities of the day, but from the constant vigilance required to maintain their charade while fighting his own increasingly conflicted feelings.
“I’ll change in the bathroom,” she said, gathering her things. “Give you a chance to get comfortable on your miniature couch.”
He nodded, already removing his tie and unbuttoning his collar. The moment the bathroom door closed behind her, he sank onto the edge of the sofa, running a hand over his face. Thisweekend promised more challenges than he’d anticipated—and none of them were the ones he’d prepared for.
After the contract was signed, this charade would end. They could go back to their normal roles, their comfortable professional distance. A few more days of pretending. The thought should have brought relief. Instead, it left an emptiness inside him. The problem has changed. It wasn’t convincing the Beauchamps that they were engaged. The problem was remembering that they weren’t.
He changed quickly into sleep pants and a T-shirt, then surveyed the sofa with grim determination. It was, as she had pointed out, at least a foot too short for his frame. Still, he’d endured worse discomfort for business purposes.
He was arranging a spare blanket and pillow when the bathroom door opened. He turned,
expecting to see her in sensible pajamas and felt his heart stop.
She stood in the doorway, hair loose around her shoulders, wearing what could only be described as a sleep shirt—thoughshirtwas generous, given how little of her it covered. The material barely reached mid-thigh, revealing the unexpected length of her tanned legs.
Tiny, embroidered sunflowers dotted the pale-yellow fabric, a whimsical touch that somehow made the entire vision more devastating.
“Sorry,” she said, noticing his stare. “I didn’t pack anything else. I wasn’t planning to
share a room.”
“It’s fine,” he said, the words emerging strangled.
She crossed to the bed, tugging the hem of her sleep shirt enough to make his mouth go dry. “Are you sure you don’t want to share?” she asked, gesturing to the king-sized expanse.“There’s plenty of room. We could put pillows between us or something.”
“I’m sure,” he said, more forcefully than necessary. The thought of lying next to her all night, separated only by decorative pillows, was a form of torture he wasn’t prepared to endure.
She shrugged, moving with a grace that pulled tension tight inside him. “Your funeral,” she said, settling against the pillows. “Or at least your spine’s.”
He turned away, focusing on making the sofa as tolerable as possible. When he glanced back, she’d turned off her bedside lamp, her form a gentle curve beneath the luxurious bedding.
“Goodnight, Ronan,” she said into the darkness.
