Chapter 11
The week dragged. Each day was an exercise in restraint as he watched the clock, counting down the hours until Friday arrived. Not because he was looking forward to a weekend with the Beauchamps—God, no—but because the anticipation itself felt like torture.
His office felt like a minefield; every interaction with her held a new, unspoken risk.
Devney would breeze in with her usual sunflower energy, place coffee on his desk, and he’d notice things he’d successfully ignored for months—the small dimple that appeared in her left cheek when she fought a smile, the way her hands moved with grace when she explained details she cared about. It was maddening.
“Forward them to me.”
“Already did,” she said, and he could hear the eye roll in her voice without seeing it. “Also, Eleanor sent the final itinerary for the weekend.”
That made him look up. “Anything we didn’t expect?”
She nodded, one shoulder lifting in a casual gesture that somehow made his stomach tighten.
“Apparently there’s a sunset cocktail reception with some local politicians and business leaders tomorrow evening.
The sailing outfit we bought should work for everything else, but Eleanor mentioned ‘casual elegance’ for the reception. Whatever that means.”
“It means expensive clothing that’s designed to look effortlessly thrown together,” he said. “Which I happen to execute without fuss.”
“Right,” she said. “You have three blue ties that are the same.”
“They’re different shades.”
“My point exactly.” Her laughter filled his office, bright and unrestrained.
The noise messed with his pulse—offbeat and annoying as hell. That stupid bet with Knox and Gabriel tried to push its way in. He shut it down before it got comfortable.
“What time is the helicopter tomorrow?” he asked, changing the subject.
“Ten sharp. I’ll meet you at the heliport at 9:30.”
“I’ll pick you up at 9,” he said. “It’ll be more convincing if we arrive together.”
A moment of silence hung between them. “Right,” she said. “The performance.” She straightened, resuming her professional posture. “Nine it is. I’ll be ready.”
As she walked away, her words left a sharp ache inside him.
Friday morning was sharp and clear, the September sky an almost offensively perfect blue.
He sat in his car outside Devney’s apartment, checking his watch (9:01) and wondering why today of all days punctuality seemed to be a mystery to her.
As he reached for his phone, her door flew open, and his breath caught.
She emerged in a cream-colored dress that floated around her knees, a light cardigan draped over her arm, her hair loose around her shoulders instead of pinned back in one of her usual work styles. She looked relaxed, radiant, and something in him stilled at the sight.
He stepped out of the car as she approached, taking her weekend bag from her without giving her a chance to object.
“You’re late,” he said, though she wasn’t, not really.
“By one minute.” She slid into the passenger seat as he held the door. “And you’re uptight.”
“I’m punctual,” he said, closing her door with perhaps more force than necessary.
The drive to the heliport was subdued, their conversation limited to practical matters—the weather forecast, the anticipated arrival time, whether Andrew Beauchamp would grill him about financial projections over dinner.
It felt safer this way, keeping to safe territory when everything else between them seemed suddenly charged.
The helicopter ride to Martha’s Vineyard should have been quick and unremarkable.
Instead, it became an exercise in self-control, the confined space shrinking around him with every breath she took beside him.
When turbulence struck halfway through the journey, her hand found his arm, fingers curling around his wrist in an instinctive gesture.
He felt the contact burn through the fabric of his shirt.
“Sorry,” she said, removing her hand as quickly as she’d placed it. “Not a huge fan of flying.”
He glanced at her, noting the slight pallor beneath her usual healthy glow. “You should have said something.”
She shrugged. “And give you ammunition to tease me about? No thanks.”
“I wouldn’t have teased you.”.
Her eyes met his, something unreadable in their amber depths. Neither of them spoke.
Then she smiled—a small, genuine curve of her lips that unsettled him. “Good to know.”
The helicopter touched down on a private landing pad that overlooked the Atlantic.
As the rotors slowed, a uniformed attendant opened the door and helped her step out onto the helipad.
He followed, ducking his head beneath the still-spinning blades.
Another staff member in crisp khakis and a navy polo with the Beauchamp crest approached to collect their bags.
“Welcome to Vineyard Haven,” he said. “I’ll take these to the main house for you.”
Ronan nodded his thanks, surveying their surroundings as the helicopter powered down behind them.
The Atlantic stretched out before them, vast and blue.
The Beauchamp estate commanded prime real estate—an enormous white colonial mansion with black shutters, extensive gardens, and a path that led down to a private beach.
An old-money establishment, built on generations of power, privilege, and strategic social moves.
“Holy mother of—” she said softly beside him, eyes wide. “This place is straight out of a movie.”
He placed his hand on the small of her back, guiding her along the stone path toward the main house where Eleanor Beauchamp waited on the expansive porch, looking every inch the elegant hostess in white linen pants and a coral blouse.
The light pressure of his palm against her back felt surprisingly right.
“Welcome, welcome!” Eleanor said, arms opening wide as they approached. “You made it in time for lunch.”
“Eleanor,” he said with a polite nod. “Thank you for having us.”
“The pleasure is ours,” she said, her gaze sliding to Deveney with obvious interest. “We rarely get to entertain young couples. Everyone our age is so dreadfully serious about everything.”
Devney stepped forward. “Your home is stunning,” she said, gesturing to the gardens. “Those hydrangeas are magnificent.”
Eleanor’s face lit up. “Ah, you know your flowers.”
“My grandmother was an avid gardener,” she said. “She taught me everything about planting seasons, soil types, root systems—I was her little apprentice.”
Eleanor hooked her arm through Devney’s, leading her inside while launching into a detailed explanation of her gardening strategies.
Ronan followed a step behind, feeling strangely like an afterthought as they disappeared into the foyer, their conversation about optimal soil pH already in full swing.
“Ronan,” Andrew Beauchamp’s deep voice came from the foyer as they entered. He stood at the foot of a sweeping staircase, looking both relaxed and imposing in tailored weekend attire.
“Good to see you.”
“Andrew,” he said, nodding in greeting as they shook hands. “Thank you for the invitation.”
“We’re delighted you could both make it,” he said, his gaze drifting to where the women had paused by a massive flower arrangement. “Your fiancée is charming. Eleanor’s already smitten.”
He felt an unexpected surge of pride at Andrew’s words. “She has that effect on people,” he said, the truth of the statement hitting harder than he expected.
“Wilson will show you to your room,” Andrew said, gesturing to a stoic older man who appeared silently at his side. “Get settled, then join us on the terrace for lunch.”
Ronan nodded, glancing toward where their luggage had been placed near the foot of the sweeping staircase. “Room?” he asked, careful to keep his tone even. “Singular?”
Andrew looked at him. “Naturally,” he said, his voice dry with a trace of humor. “Eleanor and I may value tradition, Ronan, but we’re hardly Victorian. You’re engaged to be married—we wouldn’t dream of separating you.”
Heat crawled up the back of his neck—a sensation he hadn’t felt since his early twenties. He wasn’t embarrassed by the implication; he was unsettled by how his mind conjured images of her in a shared bed, her hair spilled across pillows meant for two.
“This way, sir,” Wilson said, already moving toward the stairs.
Ronan caught Devney’s eye across the foyer and gave a slight tilt of his head, indicating she should follow. She excused herself from Eleanor and joined him, her questioning look turning to confusion as Wilson led them up the massive staircase.
“Our room,” he said as they climbed. “Singular.”
“As in one?” she said softly, eyes widening.
He nodded.
“The Rose Suite,” Wilson said, pushing the doors open with reverence.
The room beyond was beautiful—spacious, with high ceilings, cream-colored walls, and accents of rose throughout.
Sunlight poured through tall windows that overlooked the ocean, illuminating a king-sized four-poster bed draped in luxurious linens, a sitting area with a fireplace, and double doors leading to what he assumed was an en-suite bathroom.
It was elegant, refined, and romantic—a room designed for lovers to retreat from the world.
And there was, indeed, only one bed.
“Wow,” she said softly, her voice full of awe as she stepped inside. “This is gorgeous.”
Wilson nodded, pleased by her reaction. “Mrs. Beauchamp selected it personally for you.
She thought you might appreciate the view.”
“It’s perfect,” she said, moving toward the windows. “Thank you, Wilson.”
He bowed. “Lunch will be served on the east terrace in thirty minutes. May I show you the way?”
“We’ll find it,” Ronan said, noting their luggage had been placed discreetly near the expansive wardrobe.
Wilson nodded and withdrew, closing the doors behind him with a click that seemed to seal their fate.
The moment they were alone, she turned to him, her composed facade slipping. “One bed,” she said, stating the obvious.