Chapter 8
Rhett
Got my washer and dryer hooked up at the property. No more clothesline!
-From Rhett’s Most Important Things notebook, August 15th
“Excuse me, ma’am. Are you aware this is a party?” I ask the poised blonde typing on her laptop at a bar at seven-thirty during a charity event.
“Hello, Rhett,” Devon answers, gaze focused on the screen before her.
Taking up the stool next to hers, I lean my elbow across the quartz countertop. “Are you at least enjoying the open bar?”
Devon raises a dark brown eyebrow at me, looks at the untouched martini gathering condensation on the bar between us, and returns her eyes to her screen without slowing her typing.
“Devon’s got a deadline,” Allie, the charity’s host, explains from behind the counter, pride for her friend clear in her voice. “Whatever it is she’s working on will be done on time, and it will be perfect.”
“Don’t doubt that for a second,” I agree.
Devon continues typing, eyes trained on her screen, but I know she’s listening. I’ve learned over the last couple months that she’s always listening. It’s not unusual for her to answer a question, always correctly, in a neighboring conversation without looking up from whatever task appears to have her attention.
“Dev,” Allie says, tapping the glass stem of Devon’s ignored drink, “I made this just the way you like it, extra olives and everything.”
Devon looks up from her work, shining an unrestrained smile reserved only for friends at Allie. She takes a sip of the drink, followed by sliding a gin-soaked olive off the cocktail stick between her peach pink lips. I’m tempted to believe she made the motion particularly sensual just to torture me.
“It’s perfect. I promise I’m almost ready to get up and enjoy all of the hard work you put into this, Al.” My eyes follow Devon’s as she looks over her shoulder at the party around us. People laugh and drink, their voices barely carrying over the loud music. Trays of food are being replenished by staff, including Bradley who smiles at me from across the room. A display of meats and cheeses are set out on the new bar height tables that Devon designed and I built. Along the windowed wall that’s shared with the closed-for-the-evening motorcycle shop next door, people hover over a row of folding tables covered with black tablecloths, perusing the silent auction that benefits the Coachella Valley Senior Dog Rescue. Through the window, half a dozen adoptable dogs are playing with guests from the event.
“I’m sorry I’m working. This week has been littered with design disasters,” Devon accents the last two words with an eye roll. “I’m behind on this presentation Bea and I have in the morning.”
“She promised she wouldn’t miss the event,” Allie explains to me, then tells Devon, “Even though I wouldn’t have held it against you if you stayed home. You need a break very soon. Maybe even a little vacation.”
“No reason I can’t be here,” the leggy blonde says, smiling warmly before focusing back on her computer.
“I’d never complain about an opportunity to be in the same room as you,” I add, catching the faintest tick of Devon’s mouth at my statement.
Allie smiles, glancing between us before passing me a pint of beer and walking away to help another guest.
Sipping my cold drink, I watch Devon work. Her slender fingers slide across her keyboard, three thin bands, each a different shade of metal, circle the middle finger of her right hand. A gold chain bracelet and matching watch wrap around her left wrist. The skin of her surprisingly toned arms is light. She wears dark gray pants that are loose on her long legs and hug her narrow hips, with a high-necked tank top of the same color. She looks amazing.
“You’re staring at me,” Devon says, still not looking up.
I shake my head. “Hard not to.”
She scoffs.
“What would happen if you didn’t get this done in time for your meeting?” I ask.
She clicks around her screen, opening and closing windows, before resuming her typing. When enough time has passed that I think this conversation is over, she responds, “Wouldn’t know.”
Because she’s never finished anything late.A gentleman would let her get back to work.Tonight, I’m more interested in seeing what happens when I’m not one. “Have you given any thought to my suggestion of doing the wrong thing every now and then?”
Devon shifts her posture just enough to let me see her narrowing her eyes, unimpressed. Each breath this woman takes is a challenge to anyone who dares enter her orbit. Her stern faces and heavy glares are intended to repel people, but they only draw me in closer.
“Aren’t you a little curious what would happen if you did the wrong thing? Blew off work?” I tap my thumb on the edge of her keyboard.
Unbothered by my intrusion, she continues working for a minute longer before carefully shutting her laptop and reaching for her neglected drink. I’m prepared for her to stand up and go find her friend, but she doesn’t leave. She turns on her stool to face me, movements smooth enough to avoid losing a single drop off the edge of her nearly full martini glass. She takes a sip, her deep blue eyes burning into me over the wide mouth of her glass with the attention I crave. “Irrelevant. I’m finished.”
“But what would have happened if you didn’t?” I spent too long sacrificing my happiness for deadlines. Working late, creating things that did nothing to help anyone. Devon’s work isn’t the same as mine was. She actually seems to enjoy it, but the tight grasp she has on it is too familiar. Something has to give, and I know what it’s like when you’re not ready for the impact.
She stares at me blankly, as if her point is already made.
“Scrap the not finishing work on time idea.” She still hasn’t walked away, so I try another angle. “What about something else? Anything else? Do you ever know what the right thing is, and choose not to do it?”
Her answer is immediate. “No, I don’t. That would be nonsense.”
“How so?”
“You’re pretending it’s not obvious.” I know I’m pushing my luck, but neither her voice nor her goddess-like face portrays any irritation.
Leaning forward, I smile broadly. “Humor me.”
A barely noticeable breath escapes her lips, but she does humor me. “Your premise is flawed. The right thing is a subjective term.” Every word is spoken with self-assured authority as if I can’t have a valid contrary argument. “If I know something is right, that’s been determined by my personal sense of right and wrong. Why would I go against my own values?” She finishes with a slight shake of her head, sending the tips of loose, almost-white-blonde waves brushing across her collarbones and smooth shoulders.
Behind that flawless hair is a mind that doesn’t flex for new possibilities. And why would it? She’s already thought through each potential outcome for every moment of her life. Her strict attachment to law and order is obvious to anyone who cares to pay attention. And have I been paying attention. She schedules every moment of her life in that leather planner. She is straitlaced and steady, and sweet fuck, do I want to be the one she unravels for.
“To see what happens,” I answer her question with direct honesty. I want to see her shaken up.
She stares at me, decidedly unshaken. “To see what happens.” Her words barely break a monotone. “That’s your answer?” She narrows her eyes.
“Live a little,” I push.
“Why do I bother talking with you?” She stands up, looking down her nose at me.
Before she has a chance to walk away, I’m standing too, towering over her in a way I know she’s unaccustomed to at her height. I lean close enough that I can smell her peppermint soap and watch her chest rise on a hitched breath. “Because I’m the most interesting part of your life, and you haven’t stopped thinking about our first night together since the moment you ran off scared.”
One of her dark brows, deliberately in contrast with her blonde hair, arches as her tempting lips pull tighter, almost erasing the exaggerated dip in her top lip.
“Pick one wrong thing and try it out.” I lower my voice, speaking directly into her ear, “I dare you.”