“I’ll get my coat,” Devney said, rising from her chair. As she passed Ronan, his fingers tightened around hers in a reassuring way.
“How was Tokyo?” she asked.
“Impatient,” he replied with a slight shrug. “But manageable. Gabriel’s handling the call follow-up.”
“You delegated?” Devney asked, feigning shock. “Who are you, and what have you done with Ronan Wilder?”
That look surfaced again—the one that made her pulse skip and her thoughts scatter. “I’m learning to prioritize,” he said, his low voice firm and unwavering. “Some things matter more than quarterly projections.”
“I’m honored to rank above spreadsheets,” she teased.
“You aren’t on the same chart, Devney,” he said, his voice dropping. “Spreadsheets are a tool to build a business. You are the reason the business is worth building.”
“If you two can tear yourselves away from whatever intense thing you’ve got going on,” Lucy interrupted from the door, coat and purse already in hand, “we have twelve minutes to make it across the street before they give away our table.”
Dinner at the small Italian restaurant was a revelation. Devney had expected awkwardness, stilted conversation, perhaps even some minor disaster. Instead, she watched in amazement as Ronan and Lucy fell into an unexpected rhythm—her friend’s blunt questions met with his progressively more open and candid answers.
“So,” Lucy said, twirling pasta around her fork, “when did you realize you were in love with her and not playing a role?”
Devney choked on her wine. “Lucy!”
“When she made soup in my kitchen,” Ronan answered. The simple admission silenced both women. He looked at Devney, vulnerability in his gaze. “I had a fever. You were in my kitchen making your grandmother’s soup. It felt like home.”
The restaurant around them seemed to fade away.
“That’s—” Lucy began, then cleared her throat. “That’s romantic.”
“It wasn’t meant to be,” Ronan said, his eyes still on Devney. “It was the truth.”
The rest of dinner passed in a blur of shared stories and unexpected laughter. Ronan revealed glimpses of himself that Devney was still discovering—his dry humor emerging more frequently, his observations genuine rather than calculating. By the time they finished dessert, Lucy was looking at him with grudging approval.
“Well,” she said as they stepped outside the restaurant into the cool evening air, “I have to admit, you’re not what I expected, Ronan Wilder.”
“Is that a compliment?” he asked.
“Let’s call it an observation,” Lucy said, her voice all mischief and zero apology. She turned to Devney and wrapped her in a quick hug. “Call me tomorrow,” she whispered. “He’ll do.”
Devney laughed, hugging her back. “I’ll take that as your official blessing.”
As Lucy headed back toward the bakery, Ronan guided Devney to his car, his hand at her back offering firm, reassuring support.
They drove in easy silence for a few minutes, the city lights streaking past. The air outside had cooled, but the heat between them held.
“Your friend is formidable,” Ronan said, as he turned onto her street.
“She likes you,” Devney said, glancing over at him. “That’s high praise from Lucy. She doesn’t approve of anyone.”
“I’m honored,” he said, and she knew he meant it.
When they pulled up to her building, he turned off the engine but made no move to get out.
“Coming up?” she asked, her heart racing despite how natural the question felt.
“I was hoping you’d ask,” he said. “Though I should mention, we’ve been making excellent use of my bed. Yours deserves some attention too.”
She laughed, the sound bright in the quiet car. “Equal opportunity sleeping arrangements?”
“Something like that,” he said, getting out and circling to open her door.
