“Heading to meet Lucy?” he asked, his tone quieter now, the sharp edge of command gone.
“Yes,” she replied, still a little thrown by how he could switch between corporate shark and attentive boyfriend. “Did you put Tokyo on hold?”
“Tokyo can wait,” he said, and while her mind raced to catch up, he leaned down and kissed her—right there in the doorway of his glass-walled office. It was brief but undeniably deliberate. His hand cupped her cheek with affection from him that she hadn’t anticipated.
When he pulled back, his eyes held hers with intensity. “I’ll see you at the bakery at seven.”
“Okay,” she managed, momentarily speechless at this public display of affection from a man who meticulously managed every aspect of his professional image.
Knox appeared beside them, his expression clearly surprised. “Well,” he drawled, looking between them with a grin that said he’d seen what he needed to. “Guess that answers whether you two are keeping things professional at work.”
Ronan leveled him with a glare that would have withered most employees on the spot, but Knox only grinned wider.
“Go,” Ronan murmured, his thumb brushing her cheek once more before stepping back. “I’ll finish this call and meet you there.”
“Don’t be late,” she said, finding her voice at last.
Knox’s laughter followed her to the elevator, a reminder that she wasn’t the only one enjoying this new version of Ronan—the one who kissed her goodbye in full view of the office and put Tokyo on hold because she mattered more.
The bell above Flour& Honey’s door chimed as Devney stepped inside. At the end of the day, a few stragglers lingered over their drinks near the window, the final notes of music playing beneath the hum of closing-time routines.
Lucy looked up from behind the counter, flour dusting her dark hair and a streak of what might have been chocolate smeared across one cheek. Her eyes widened at the sight of Devney, and she set down the tray she’d been wrapping.
“Finally!” she said, rounding the counter. “I was starting to think you’d gotten caught in Ronan’s gravitational pull and would never escape.”
“Very funny,” Devney replied, accepting Lucy’s floury hug. “Sorry I’m late. Things are still…adjusting at the office.”
Lucy pulled back, her eyes narrowing as she studied Devney’s face. “You’re glowing,” she accused, tilting her head with theatrical revulsion. “Like, actually glowing. It’s disgusting.”
Devney felt the heat rise to her cheeks. “Am not.”
“Are too,” Lucy said, steering them toward their usual table in the corner. “And you’re blushing, which only confirms my theory that Ronan Wilder has thoroughly corrupted my pragmatic best friend into a romantic sap.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Devney said, but the way her mouth twitched at the corners gave her away.
Lucy disappeared into the kitchen, returning with two steaming mugs of tea and a plate of madeleines. “So,” she said, sliding into the chair across from Devney. “How’s the office handling the news? Is HR having a collective aneurysm? Has Julia from Accounting started a gossip newsletter yet?”
Devney laughed. “The office is adjusting. Some people are still in shock. Others are weirdly supportive. Knox and Gabriel keep making these cryptic comments about winning bets.”
“And Ronan?” Lucy pressed, leaning forward with unabashed interest. “How’s Mr. Ice King handling public displays of affection in his buttoned-up corporate kingdom?”
The memory of his goodbye kiss in the doorway lingered, steady and sweet, like a secret she wasn’t ready to let go. “Betterthan I expected, actually. He kissed me goodbye today. In his office doorway. In full view of everyone still there.”
Lucy’s jaw dropped. “No. Way.”
“Yes way,” Devney said, unable to keep the happiness from her voice. “And he sent my desk into floristry overload this morning. Sunflowers. Dozens of them.”
“Okay, I’m officially swooning,” Lucy said. “But I’m still reserving the right to interrogate him when he gets here.”
“About that,” Devney began, “he’s joining us as soon as he finishes a call with Tokyo.”
“Perfect,” Lucy said, glancing at her watch. “That gives us about forty-five minutes for you to tell me everything that happened on Martha’s Vineyard. I want details, Sinclair. Not the sanitized version you texted me.”
“It wasn’t sanitized,” Devney protested.
“’Things worked out. Coming home tomorrow.’That was your entire text,” Lucy deadpanned. “Now, start talking.”
Devney took a deep breath and, between sips of tea and bites of madeleine, told her everything—the desperate journey to the island, her conversation with Eleanor, the shock of learning he was there too, and finally, their honest confessions on the veranda.
