Chapter 10
She tapped her pen against the edge of her desk, trying to focus on an email she’d been attempting to finish for twenty minutes. The words blurred together.
“Are you ready?”
She startled at his voice and looked up to find Ronan standing by her desk, suit jacket already on, car keys in hand. Julia from Accounting, who’d been dropping off files, froze mid-motion.
“Yes,” Devney said quickly, grabbing her purse and standing.
She turned to Julia with an exaggerated sigh.
“I was supposed to leave an hour ago, but you know the boss—he doesn’t care much for other people’s schedules.
” She gave him a pointed look, hoping Julia would buy the story.
“He promised to get me to the dentist on time. I’ve got a toothache. ” She pointed to her right cheek.
Julia’s curious expression relaxed into understanding. “Good luck with the tooth,” she said before heading back to her desk.
In the elevator his mouth twitched. “I care about things.”
“Sure you do,” she said. “Forecast models, profit margins, and properly aligned desk items.”
“What was that about?” he asked as the doors closed.
“I saved us from being today’s gossip on the office boards.”
His forehead creased. “We have a gossip board?”
“Two, actually,” she said. “The official one in the break room, and the unofficial Slack channel where everyone discusses everything from your ties to the disappearance of food from the communal fridge.”
“We need to stop that,” he muttered, as they reached the parking garage.
“Good luck. It’s been around longer than I have.” She slid into the passenger seat of his sleek car. “Besides, you’d have to fire half the accounting department.”
He made a noncommittal sound as he pulled out of the garage, a noise that might have passed for agreement or mild tolerance.
The drive to Neiman Marcus was surprisingly comfortable. She watched the city blur past while a tight, nervous feeling grew in her stomach. Shopping with him, a man whose suits probably had their own insurance policy, promised to be an adventure.
When they arrived, he handed his keys to the valet with the casual confidence of someone who expected perfect service as a birthright. He navigated the store with purpose, ignoring the salespeople who bustled as he passed.
“Could you slow down? Some of us aren’t built like gazelles.”
He paused, glancing back to find her several paces behind. “Sorry,” he said, actually waiting. “I’m used to moving at my pace.”
“Yeah, I noticed,” she said, catching up. “The Ronan Wilder special—everyone else’s comfort be damned.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “Efficient.”
They reached the personal-shopping floor, where a woman in an impeccable black dress approached. “Mr. Wilder,” she said. “Perfect timing.”
“Natalie will be with you momentarily,” the woman said, leading them to a private suite that looked more like a luxury hotel room—plush chairs, a small table with champagne on ice, and an array of mirrors.
Natalie appeared—tall, elegant, and polished. “Mr. Wilder, how wonderful to see you again. And this must be…?”
“My fiancée,” Ronan said. The word sent a tremor down Devney’s spine. “As we discussed on the phone, she needs a full wardrobe for the weekend at the Beauchamps’ estate. Something that fits the Vineyard.”
“Of course. I’ve already pulled a selection based on the itinerary you sent over. They’re waiting in the private suite.” Natalie gestured toward a doorway draped in heavy velvet.
As they walked, Devney leaned closer to him, her voice a low murmur. “You sent an itinerary? And they already have clothes waiting?”
“Efficiency is expensive, Devney. That’s why we’re here.”
Two long racks were already filled with silks, linens, and fine wools. Ronan settled into a leather armchair as if it were a throne. “Let’s see if Natalie’s eye matches mine.”
The next hour became a blur. Ronan’s critiques were immediate and maddeningly specific. “The sleeve length is wrong,” he said about a cream blouse. “The color washes her out,” he said about a camel-toned dress.
Eventually, Natalie smoothly pulled a breezy linen sundress in sea green from the rack. “Actually, for a casual luncheon on the terrace, this might be more the speed. Casual but elegant.”
“That looks appropriately nautical,” Devney said, touching the fabric.
“It’s perfect,” Ronan said, cutting in before Natalie could finish. His attention caught hers in the mirror, and something in his expression made her breath catch. “The color brings out your eyes.”
Heat sparked through her as she took the dress to the dressing room. When she emerged, his reaction was subtle but unmistakable—his shoulders squared, his gaze sharpening.
“Well?” she said. “Am I Beauchamp-worthy yet?”
“It’s acceptable,” he said, though his eyes said more.
Natalie moved to the final section of the rack. “Now for the water activities. There will be swimming.”
Natalie brought several options, all more elegant than Devney’s faded one-piece at home. Devney hesitated, eyeing a navy one-piece with a plunging neckline. “I’ll try them,” she said, then added with a glance at him, “but you’re not getting a preview.”
His mouth curved. “You know I’m going to see it this weekend.”
“That’s different,” she said quickly, heat blooming along her neck. “That’s…situational.”
She retreated and slipped it on. It felt more Vineyard than Malibu. Sophisticated. Polished. After a moment’s hesitation, she wrapped herself in a plush robe and stepped out. “I’m getting this one,” she said.
“We’ll take it,” Ronan told Natalie, “along with the sea-green sundress, the sailing outfit, the emerald gown, and…”—his gaze slid to Devney—“the swimsuit.”
When she returned from changing, he was examining the swimsuit Natalie had laid out.
“Is it bad?”
He shook his head. “Not bad for the swimsuit. Bad for my concentration. You’ll look perfect in it.”
As she gathered her things, his attention drifted to her left hand and the sunflower ring.
“That thing is atrocious,” he said. “I would never buy anything so garish.”
“Until you pony up for a replacement that’s new and real, this is what we’ve got. Besides, it has character.”
He considered her for a long moment. “Noted. Are we done here?”
“Actually, I’m starving,” she said. “But it’s my turn to pick.”
Thirty minutes later, he was staring at Tony’s Pizzeria with visible dismay.
“You can’t be serious.”
“Absolutely serious,” she said, pulling him through the door and directly to a booth at the back. “Tony’s makes the best pizza in the city. Relax. No one here cares who you are or how much your watch costs.”
Without thinking, she reached across the table, her fingers snagging the silk of his tie. As her knuckles grazed the warm skin of his throat, the muscle beneath her touch locked. He sat perfectly still, a sharp, sudden intensity taking hold as his dark gaze trapped hers.
“If you’re going to sit in a pizza joint, at least try to look like you’re not planning a hostile takeover.”
“Devney.” His voice was a low warning, but his mouth quirked at the corner as he met her eyes.
“Better. Now unbutton your collar.”
With a resigned exhale, he obliged. A single undone button, a tiny rebellion, and somehow it made her heart thump harder. Seeing him a little undone felt unexpectedly intimate.
They clinked glasses of Chianti. “Tell me a truth,” she said. “A detail I can use this weekend if conversation lags.”
“I played cello. For years. I was quite good, actually.”
“Ronan Wilder, a classical musician?”
“Is it that hard to believe?”
“No, actually. You have the hands for it. Long fingers.” Heat crept up her neck as she realized she’d admitted to noticing his hands.
They traded small truths back and forth—his fondness for old black-and-white films, her quiet wish to matter to people who needed her. By the time they finished, she felt both relaxed and oddly energized. The night had turned more intimate than she’d imagined.
Outside, the evening air was cool against her flushed skin. “Thank you,” she said. “For not hating my pizza place.”
He looked down at her, his features softened by the streetlight. “It was nice.”
When they arrived at her apartment, he insisted on walking her to the door.
“I guess I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said. “At work. Where we’re boss and assistant again.”
“Yes,” he said evenly. “Tomorrow.”
He handed her the bags, their fingers brushing. The contact sparked—warmth racing up her arm. “Goodnight, Ronan.”
“Goodnight, Devney.”
She closed the door and leaned against it, wondering if he felt it too—this confusing connection, a bond formed over pizza, wine, and the kind of truths shared when guards are down.