CHAPTER 11
Willow
Dev’s golden skin shimmers in the sunlight like the rays were made specifically to beam down on him.
I’m mortified by how much I’ve been staring at him. And by staring, I mean gawking. Practically freaking drooling. I’m reaching throw myself into the ocean and never come out levels of embarrassment over it, but at least I can blame my job for all the attention I’ve directed his way for the past two hours.
‘How about a couple of shots with your wetsuit around your hips?’ I request over the sound of the waves. God, I hope I’ve gotten enough sun today to disguise my undeniable blush.
Dev shakes his head, dark hair and water flying everywhere. ‘What did I tell you about trying to get me naked, Willow?’ he calls back, but he’s already pulling his arms free of the black neoprene as he wades closer to the shore.
I ignore the quip and lift my camera again, snapping shot after shot of him emerging from the waves, each one revealing a little more skin. I’m not the best photographer, but I took a couple of classes in college, so I know my way around a DSLR. Today, my goal is to capture images that are true to Dev.
People should know the real him – but only as much as he’s willing to show. There’s no point in invading his privacy; it won’t benefit him more than it’ll harm him, and that’ll just put us back at square one.
‘This good?’ he asks once the wetsuit is shoved down to his hips. The deep V of them is so defined that it’s like an arrow pointing to hidden treasure. Treasure that isn’t hidden all that well in the tight material. ‘Or do you want me in my birthday suit?’
‘This is fine!’ I shout, keeping the camera in front of my face to hide anything my expression may give away. ‘Could you turn around? Just look out into the water.’
He does as he’s asked, but the sight of his back does nothing to calm my hormones. The guy is just . . . ripped. Head to toe. And I feel like a creep for ogling him like this.
I’ve seen him shirtless hundreds of times, but I can’t deny the past few years have been incredibly kind to him. Maybe Chantal was right after all. Maybe there isn’t any harm in a secret hookup, because who in their right mind could resist a man that fine?
I shake away the thought as quickly as it appears because there’s a lot wrong with it. I’ve already made it clear to Dev that nothing can happen, but a couple of his comments in the car hinted that I’m not the only one with more-than-friendly feelings. It both boosts my ego and sets off warning bells in my head. But this is going to be a lot harder to resist if the attraction is mutual.
‘Okay, I’ve got what I need!’ I let the camera rest against my chest and wave him over to the edge of the water. ‘Want to see them?’
When he’s beside me, I scroll through the snaps on the camera’s small screen, snickering while he belly-laughs at some of the less flattering action shots. It feels natural to be shoulder to shoulder, and I can only hope this ease between us continues for the rest of the time we’re working together.
‘They’re great,’ Dev concludes, dropping down onto the sand next to his abandoned surfboard, arms stretched out behind him as he leans back. ‘Post whatever you want. I trust you to make me look my best.’
‘Daring words.’ I smooth my dress behind my thighs before sitting next to him and admiring the waves. I may have been apprehensive about coming home, but I can’t deny that I’ve missed the beach, even as a self-proclaimed city girl these days. ‘I’ll write up something about fresh starts and getting through tough times, to go along with the pictures. From there, we’ll start posting stuff from race weekends and brand deals, but we’ll keep doing these more down-to-earth shoots too.’
I glance over at him, unsure of how he’ll react to my next question. ‘Would you be comfortable showcasing your sister’s wedding? It doesn’t have to be anything about her. Just pictures of you and the setting. Something to show off how close you are to your family. Your sponsors would eat that up.’
Dev lets his head loll back and grins. ‘Admit it, you want shots of me slathered in haldi so you can use them as blackmail.’
‘Don’t put ideas in my head,’ I warn. ‘I can make that happen.’
‘I think I like it when you threaten me.’ His grin widens a fraction more. ‘And that wasn’t flirting. Just a fact.’
Shaking my head, I fight to keep from grinning along with him. The butterflies that once took up residence in my stomach make a triumphant return. ‘I can’t with you.’
‘You better manage, because you’re stuck with me for a while.’
I can certainly think of worse ways to spend my time.
‘Come on.’ He springs up and extends a hand, the top half of his wetsuit still swinging down by his hips. ‘Your turn to get in the water.’
‘Yeah, no.’ I brace myself, sinking my fingers into the warm sand. ‘I’m good here on land.’
‘I’ll let you paddle around on my board,’ he cajoles. ‘Remember how you used to beg Oak to let you?’
Oh, I remember. No matter what my brother was doing, I wanted to do it too, from soccer to karting to learning how to surf. Except, unlike Oakley, who could do it all without a worry, I’d usually end up hurt. Even low-level physical challenges were a risk to my health. As I got older, I drew in on myself, tried fewer new things, telling myself I was content to stay in my own bubble. Content to just stay safe.
But Dev has never treated me like a glass figurine. While Oakley banned me from joining them out of worry, Dev almost always convinced him to let me try. Of course, I knew my own limits, but witnessing the way he’d go to bat for me melted my heart time and again.
‘The water’s too cold,’ I decline once more, even if I do appreciate the offer – that he remembered a small but important detail about me. ‘And I didn’t bring a wetsuit.’
He points at me, staring hard. ‘I’m getting you in that water. Mark my words.’
‘Uh-huh, sure.’ I reach into my crossbody bag to check the time on my phone, but I forget my task when I spot my brother’s name multiple times on the screen.
Oakley:Hope you haven’t fucked up the new job!!!! (jk I know you haven’t, Chava would have ratted on you already if you had)
Oakley:But he did say you guys are back home for the week, tell Mom and Dad hi for me
Oakley:And tell Mom to stop sending me all those recipes, I swear that woman thinks I only survive on takeout
Oakley:Don’t you dare tell her that I do
Oakley:Things going okay with Dev though? You good?
Seeing his texts after exchanging undeniably flirty banter with Dev almost makes me feel like I’ve been caught doing something bad. Not to mention I’ve spent hours drooling over the guy, something I never would have gotten away with had Oakley been here. My chest may be tightening with anxiety now, but my brother’s messages are a much-needed reminder of why I need to keep my feelings locked down.
Willow:All good, haven’t gotten fired yet!! I should have some stuff for Dev to post soon, keep an eye out for it
I clear my throat after I send the text, trying to recentre myself as I look back up at Dev. ‘We should probably head home,’ I tell him, slipping my phone back into my bag. ‘I want to get started on editing these photos so we can get that first post up.’
There’s a beat of hesitation, like he’s sensed something has changed for me, before he nods and turns his hand over again, offering to help me up. This time I take it, and the sensation of his palm meeting mine sends heat shooting up my arm. He’s careful with how he pulls me up, closing his other hand around my elbow to keep from yanking too hard on my wrist. It’s a move I taught him a long time ago, and one that’s necessary in order to make sure the delicate joint doesn’t slide out of place.
It’s things like that, these details he’s remembered for all these years, that weaken the resolve I’ve put in place to keep things between us platonic. Honestly, if this is what I’m acting like after three hours with him, what will I be like after three days, let alone three weeks?
I thank him quickly and slip my arm from his grasp so I can lift my camera again. ‘Mind if I get a couple more shots of you walking away?’ I need a minute to get ahold of myself again. ‘Kind of as an I’m coming back; you better watch out message.’
Dev smirks but picks up his board and walks away from me, calling over his shoulder, ‘I know you hate to see me go, but you love to watch me walk away!’
——
We’re back in Dev’s mom’s SUV a little later. He’s changed into shorts and a T-shirt, the kind of outfit I’m most used to seeing him in. Dev in a tux is a wonder, and Dev in a race suit is impressive, but Dev dressed down? That’s my favourite version.
‘Can we make a stop on the way home?’ I ask once we’re pulling back onto the road.
‘Sure.’ He’s relaxed in his seat, hands resting at the bottom of the steering wheel like driving a three-ton road car barely requires his attention. It’s hotter than I’d prefer to admit. ‘Where?’
‘Stella Margaux’s,’ I answer, dipping my chin in embarrassment. But I’m desperate for a little treat to inhale while I’m editing photos for the rest of the evening.
He glances my way, his brow furrowed. ‘The macaron place?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Huh,’ he murmurs, looking back at the road. ‘I didn’t know you liked those.’
‘Probably a little too much,’ I confess. ‘Their location in New York closed for renovations, so I haven’t had them in a while. I tried to make them myself but that, um, that didn’t go so well.’
‘Isn’t baking a stress reliever for you?’
‘Never said I was good at it.’
He frowns thoughtfully for a second, then nods, his lips lifting into a small smile, like he’s picturing me burning desserts. ‘Touché.’
It’s a quiet five minutes before we pull up in front of the lilac-painted building. The name is scrawled in beautiful cursive script emblazoned across the plate-glass windows. Everything about Stella Margaux’s is a whimsical, pastel dream, from its display cases decorated to look like the macarons are floating on clouds to the Michelangelo-esque paintings on the ceilings.
According to several human-interest stories, the murals in each store are painted by marginalized artists from the local community, and a portion of the stores’ sales goes to supporting arts education in public schools. In addition to making the best macarons in the world, Stella Margaux herself is a gem of a woman, the exact kind of person I want to be.
Too bad my baking skills will never live up to hers.
‘What are your favourite flavours?’ Dev asks as he ushers me inside, holding the door open.
‘I love their summer peach and vanilla,’ I answer as the sweet sugar scent hits me square in the face. This is my happy place. ‘They also do an amazing lavender and honey, but all their classic flavours are fantastic too. I’ll get you a pistachio to try. You’ll love it.’
But before I can make my way to the counter to order, Dev is gently shouldering me out of the way and smiling at the woman in a puffed-sleeve pink dress behind the counter. She blinks rapidly at the sight of him, a hand fluttering to smooth down her already perfect hair. I can’t even blame her for reacting like that.
‘Yeah, hi,’ he greets, skimming the display case before bringing his focus to her. ‘Can I get ten of every flavour?’
‘Dev,’ I blurt, blinking at him in horror. ‘That’s, like, two hundred macarons.’ I’m not saying I have the entire menu, seasonal flavours included, memorized . . . but I have the entire menu memorized, and that’s a lot of macarons.
‘Any particular boxes you’d like?’ the woman behind the counter says without hesitation. She waves her hand delicately, motioning to the display of beautiful boxes in front of us.
Dev’s smile widens, and I swear she swoons. ‘Surprise me.’
‘Dev,’ I say again, this time grabbing his elbow. ‘What are you doing?’
He shrugs, pulling his wallet out and slipping a black credit card from one of the slots. ‘Business expense. You’re on the clock. Besides, I want to see what the hype is about. I’ve seen these stores all over the world, but I’ve never gone in.’
‘We can’t eat all of these!’
‘We’ll share with your family,’ he says with a shrug. ‘And if Mark asks what I ate this week, we lie. You’ve got my back, right?’
‘Of course I do,’ I reply. I always have. Still, I scoff. ‘You’re out of your mind for doing this.’
‘Hey, you said you liked them, right? Why wouldn’t I do something that makes you happy?’ He drags a hand through his hair, his focus trained on me. ‘You’re doing me a huge favour, so this is nothing in comparison.’
Howam I supposed to respond to that? Another woman at the register is already tallying up our total, so I press my lips together and watch as he hands his card over and makes upbeat small talk with the employees. All the while, my stomach twists and turns, battling the fresh influx of butterflies.
I’m handed bags upon bags several minutes later, from pale pink to buttercup yellow, filled with boxes of my favourite dessert. I’ll admit, I once ate fifteen in a sitting – a record that had me riding a massive sugar high for hours – but this is beyond excessive. Dev once again holds the door open as we exit, and then he helps me gently load all the bags onto the back seat of the SUV.
‘I should take a picture of this haul and send it to Mark,’ I threaten weakly, but my brain is too busy repeating he bought two hundred macarons because you said you liked them.
Laughing, Dev opens the passenger-side door for me, but not before he sneaks a box out of one of the bags. ‘I dare you. He’ll yell at you too for bringing me here.’
‘Okay, fine. Your secret’s safe with me,’ I concede as I climb up into the SUV. Mortifyingly, the breeze lifts the hem of my flimsy dress before I can make it into the seat, and my face flames at the idea that I might have just flashed Dev. I’m wearing bikini bottoms, thankfully, in case I had to go into the water, but the knowledge does little to settle my embarrassment.
His expression is just as light as it was before, giving nothing away as he holds up a sunset-orange box and raises a brow. ‘You wanna eat these with me? Or are you going to be a tattletale? Because snitches don’t get macarons.’
I offer my pinky. ‘I promise, no snitching.’
Our eyes meet the second his pinky hooks around mine. The contact sends sparks arcing between us, stealing my breath away. It feels dangerous. Like a warning shot I should heed. Except the shot thrills me instead of scaring me off. It makes me want to slink closer, makes me want to push the limits. It makes me want to buck my promise to always be careful – with my body and my heart – and do something undeniably careless.
But then Dev drops my finger and the wave of wild desire ebbs again, bringing me back to my senses. I know better. And from the guarded gleam in his onyx eyes, so does he.
‘Let’s go eat our haul,’ he says, his voice carrying a hint of tension. Like he’s holding back the words he really wants to set free.
I nod and let him shut my door, taking a second to breathe.
Get your shit together, the little voice in the back of my head scolds. Too bad it’s drowned out by the memory of Chantal’s knowing laugh.