Chapter 8
The bell above Lucy’s bakery door chimed its usual sing-song greeting as Devney stepped inside, the scent of cinnamon and fresh bread wrapping around her like a comforting hug.
It was early, and the shop was still waking up, much like she was.
Her mind was foggy, stuck somewhere between the gala and the reality of this morning.
Behind the counter, Lucy was already in full baker mode, dusted in flour, sleeves pushed up, hands moving with a steady rhythm as she worked a ball of dough.
Her dark hair was piled atop her head in a messy bun, wisps escaping to soften the sharp edges of her expression.
She looked up, and a wide grin bloomed across her face.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in.” She flicked a glance at her friend over the ball of dough. “You’re glowing. Which either means you won the lottery this morning, or—” She paused, flour-covered fingers stopping mid-knead, “—you’re in love with your fake fiancé.”
Devney’s heart stuttered at the accusation, heat rising to her cheeks. She scoffed—maybe with a little too much force—as she dropped onto her usual stool at the counter. The wooden seat creaked beneath her, familiar and grounding.
“First, rude. Second, this is the glow of a woman who got seven hours of sleep and had an ordinary morning.” The lie felt awkward and unconvincing in her mouth.
She’d deliberately not called Lucy on Sunday, and ignored her two calls, knowing a play-by-play of the gala would only cement how not-ordinary things had become.
In reality, she’d spent the last two nights replaying every glance, every touch, every moment of tenderness in his voice at the gala.
Lucy didn’t even look up, her hands moving through the dough. “Right. And I’m the type of person who minds my own business.” She pressed her thumb into the dough like it had personally offended her.
Lucy folded the dough one last time before covering it with a cloth. She wiped her hands thoroughly on a towel, then reached into the display case for a scone. She slid it across to Devney on a small plate. “So, how was the party?”
Devney leaned her elbows on the counter, drawn to the heat still clinging to the pastry as its buttery aroma mingled with the cinnamon-sugar topping. She pretended to be interested in the scone. Anything to avoid her friend’s too-perceptive gaze.
“It was fine. You know, champagne, small talk, obscenely expensive dresses.” She shrugged, aiming for nonchalance and landing somewhere closer to suspicious evasion.
Lucy braced her hands on the counter, her stare so intense it made Devney want to squirm. “Try again. Because you bit your lip the way you do when you’re pretending a big deal wasn’t a big deal—when it absolutely was.”
Devney let out a deep sigh. “It was. Fun.” She winced at her own admission, as if the word itself was dangerous. “Okay, not fun, but better than I expected. He was different. More relaxed. He—he actually made jokes, Lucy. Jokes!”
The memory of his low laugh beside her ear made a shiver run through her. It had been a private sound, meant only for her, something she’d felt through the thin fabric of her dress where his hand had rested on the small of her back.
Lucy snorted. “The same Ronan who once told you that ‘office humor undermines productivity?’ That Ronan?”
“I know!” She threw her hands up, nearly knocking over her untouched coffee. “But he was different. We were talking to the Beauchamps, and everything was going well, and then—I don’t know. It felt easy. Like we weren’t faking it.”
His arm around her waist seemed to belong there. Like the way he’d said “She’s worth it” wasn’t only for show. Like the silent drive home afterward, the way he’d actually opened up to her about his parents, meant more than their elaborate charade.
“That’s because you weren’t faking it.”
“Don’t start,” Devney said, pointing at her with a butter knife, a weak attempt to ward off a truth she didn’t want to admit. “It was good acting.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Lucy leaned forward, her eyes bright with interest and a hint of worry. “Tell me, did he dance with you? Did he stand a little too close? Did his eyes linger a little too long when he thought no one was watching?”
Her stomach flipped at how accurately Lucy had guessed.
Different moments flooded her memory—his fingertips pressed against her dress, his breath brushing against her neck, feather-light and close, the moment when his eyes had met hers after she’d told the Beauchamps about her grandmother’s sunflowers.
Something had shifted between them in that instant, something that made her heart race even now, sitting safely in Lucy’s bakery with the morning light streaming through the windows.
“You’re imagining things,” she said quietly, breaking off a piece of scone without eating it. “And enjoying it way too much.”
“Am I?” Lucy said, her voice quieter now, more concerned than teasing. “Because, Dev, you’re sitting here in my bakery, looking like a woman who got twirled around a ballroom by a billionaire and actually enjoyed it.”
She fumbled for words, opening her mouth, then snapping it shut when nothing coherent came out.
Lucy had a way of digging into things she wasn’t ready to examine, of forcing her to look at feelings she had tried to keep hidden, even from herself.
The truth was, she had enjoyed last night—more than she should have, more than was safe.
She’d liked the feel of his hand on her back, the surprising softness in his eyes when he’d looked at her, the way his voice had softened when it was only the two of them. She’d liked feeling like they were a team, navigating the crowded ballroom together. She’d liked it, and that terrified her.
“Oh, look, croissants! Let’s focus on those.”
Lucy rolled her eyes but let it go—for now. “Fine. Be in denial. But just so you know, the longer you pretend this is all business, the harder it’ll be when reality catches up.”
The words landed with a heavy weight. She tried to brush them aside, but they settled deep, impossible to ignore. What if she was in denial? What if this charade was becoming more than business, at least for her? What would happen when it inevitably ended?
The bakery door swung open, and a rush of morning customers spared her from answering. She grabbed her coffee, muttered a quick goodbye, and slipped out before Lucy could dismantle her defenses any further.
Outside, the morning air was crisp with the bite of autumn. She walked briskly, her thoughts jumbled with each hurried step. Lucy’s words echoed in her mind, a warning she couldn’t quite silence. The longer you pretend, the harder it gets.
Was she pretending? Or was there real emotion growing beneath the surface of their arrangement?
She thought of his rare moment of vulnerability in the car after the gala, the way he’d opened up about his parents, about never having seen a good marriage.
It had felt genuine, like a glimpse of the real person he kept guarded.
Like he was letting her see parts he kept hidden from everyone else.
As she approached the gleaming glass entrance of Oath Capital, she paused, catching her reflection in the polished surface—her cheeks flushed from the walk.
Get it together, Sinclair. This is business, not a romance novel.
With a deep breath, she steeled herself and pushed through the door, the hum of the office surrounding her. Normalcy, she thought. This is my normal life. The gala was an anomaly, a performance, nothing more.
But as she moved through the office, the world felt different—as if everything was slightly off-kilter.
He stood outside his office, arms crossed, waiting for her. He looked like himself again, all business, no trace of the vulnerability he’d shown when he drove her home that night, sharing pieces of his past in the quiet of his car.
“We have a problem,” he said, his voice clipped.
“Good morning to you too.” She set her things on her desk. “What kind of problem?”
“Eleanor Beauchamp invited us to spend the weekend at their estate. The entire weekend. On Martha’s Vineyard.”
“She did what?”
“Apparently, she was so charmed by us at the gala that she’s eager to spend more time together.” He rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Which means we have to continue this charade for an entire weekend, under the watchful eyes of the Beauchamps.”
A weekend. With him. Pretending to be engaged. Panic and anticipation rose inside her. An entire weekend of more moments like when the line between real and pretend blurred beyond recognition.
She let out a low whistle. “Wow. The upper crust is buying it.”
“This is serious, Devney. If we screw this up, Beauchamp could pull his interest.”
“Relax, Wilder. I’ve got this. We’ll be the perfect fake couple. But you need to work on your affectionate husband-to-be act.”
“I don’t do affectionate,” he said flatly.
Liar, she thought, remembering the feel of his hand on her back, the way he’d looked at her when she talked about her grandmother.
“Then you’d better learn fast.” She patted his arm before walking around her desk, ignoring the spark that jumped from his arm to her fingertips. “If we’re leaving Friday, you have time to find clothes less intimidating. Maybe a sweater.”
“I don’t wear sweaters.”
“That’s my point,” she said, but he had already walked away. And there. As she settled into her chair, she realized Lucy’s words from that morning kept replaying in her mind. The longer you pretend.
She reached for her keyboard. This was business. Plain and simple.
She had to believe that. Because if she didn’t, if she let herself think, even for a second, that some part of this was real, she would never get through it without getting hurt in the end.
And it would end once he secured Beauchamp’s investment. Then back to boss and assistant. The thought created an unexpected ache inside her.
Through the glass walls of his office, she could see him at his desk, his attention fixed on his computer screen.
He looked the same—focused, in control, a man whose world ran on precision and calculation.
But she knew better now. She’d seen beneath the surface, the past hurts that formed him, the things that motivated him.
And that knowledge was dangerous. Because it made him a man with scars, fears, and moments of tenderness.
A man she might fall for.
The thought sent a jolt of fear through her. Falling for him wasn’t part of the plan.
But as she forced herself to answer emails, schedule meetings, and check off the tasks that made up her day—another thought surfaced. Plans change. Hearts change. People change.
Footsteps approached, then stopped at the edge of her desk. He cleared his throat. “We’ll review strategy tonight.”
“Right,” she said, matching his brisk tone. “Strategy. Actual couples don’t need to review strategies for spending time with friends, you know.”
“We’re not a real couple,” he said.
“Obviously. I’m making a point.”
“Make it less ambiguously next time,” he said, turning to head back to his office. But he paused at the doorway.
“And thank you. You were effective.”
Effective. Like a new software update. Not charming, not the woman who’d made him laugh for what felt like the first time in years. Effective.
“Anytime,” she said, her voice lighter than she felt. “That’s what you pay me for,”
He disappeared into his office, leaving her alone with her thoughts.