“I am so sorry,” Eleanor said, her tone fussy, wrapping a fluffy towel around Devney’s shoulders. “That wave came out of nowhere.”
“Entirely my fault,” Devney said, reassuring her, teeth chattering despite the warm air. “I was showing off with that pose.”
“We should head back so you both can change,” Eleanor said. “We have lunch reservations at the yacht club at one.”
Back at the house, they were ushered upstairs with instructions to shower and change. The moment their bedroom door closed, the tension that had been building since their water rescue intensified.
“You should shower first,” he said, already moving toward his suitcase. “You were in the water longer.”
“Are we not going to talk about what happened?” she asked, surprising herself with her directness.
He paused, his back to her. “You fell. I jumped in after you. There’s nothing to discuss.”
“Right,” she said, ignoring the sharp ache of disappointment. “Nothing at all.”
She retreated to the bathroom, letting the hot water wash away the salt and the uncomfortable feeling that she was reading far too much into every interaction between them.
The Vineyard HavenYacht Club was as exclusive as she’d imagined, with weathered shingle siding, gleaming wood floors, and walls covered in nautical memorabilia. They were seated ata prime table overlooking the harbor, where sailboats bobbed in the midday sun.
Lunch proceeded pleasantly, with conversation flowing between business topics and more personal matters. She was in the middle of describing her grandmother’s blueberry pie recipe to Eleanor when a recognizable piano melody drifted from the far corner of the dining room.
“They’ve started the afternoon music,” Eleanor said with pleasure. “The club has a small ensemble on weekends.”
“They’re quite good,” Devney said, recognizing the piece. “Though I bet Ronan could give their cellist a run for his money.”
The words slipped out before she had the chance to stop them. His head snapped up, his eyes meeting hers with a mixture of shock and something that might have been betrayal.
“You play the cello?” Eleanor asked, clearly delighted by this revelation. “What a wonderful discovery!”
His jaw tightened. “I used to,” he said, his tone dismissive. “A long time ago.”
“He’s being modest,” she said, unable to stop herself. “He still plays. And he’s incredible.”
“How wonderful,” Eleanor said. “We have a beautiful cello at the house—it was my father’s. No one’s played it in years, but it’s kept in perfect condition.”
“I don’t play publicly,” he said firmly, giving Devney a look that clearly communicated she should drop the subject.
“He played for me on our third date,” she said, the lie coming easily. “Bach’s ‘Cello Suite No. 1.’ I cried, it was so beautiful.”
“You simply must play for us this evening,” Eleanor said. “Before the cocktail reception.”
His expression remained neutral, but she could feel his tension from across the table. “I’m afraid I’m out of practice,” he said.
Eleanor’s attention sharpened. Retreat would look like weakness.
Devney stepped in before the silence could be used against him.
“I’ve heard you practice at home,” she said, smiling, her hand finding his. “You played last week.”
His fingers tensed beneath hers, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he turned his hand to capture hers, his grip tight enough to convey his irritation.
“Perhaps a brief piece,” he said, though the lightness in his tone didn’t quite match the tension in his eyes.
When they returned to the house after lunch, he disappeared to make work calls while she spent the afternoon with Eleanor, touring her impressive art collection. Soon it was time to prepare for the evening’s cocktail reception.
Back in their room, she found him halfway dressed in tailored navy pants and a crisp white shirt.
“I laid out your ‘casual elegance’ option,” he said, nodding toward the bed where a simple but elegant cocktail dress in deep emerald hung waiting.
