Chapter 11 #2
“I see that,” he said, surveying the room more thoroughly. A small sofa sat in the bedroom—elegant but impractical for sleeping. Only five feet long, it seemed laughable compared to his height of well over six feet.
“You won’t fit on that,” she said, following his gaze to the sofa. “Not unless you remove your legs.”
“I’ll manage,” he said, unbuttoning his suit jacket and hanging it in the wardrobe to avoid wrinkles. “It’s only for two nights.”
She bit her lip, a gesture he was recognizing as a sign of genuine concern rather than her usual teasing. “We could alternate,” she said. “I’ll take the couch tonight. You take it tomorrow.”
He gave her a look that made it clear what he thought of that idea.
“Fine,” she sighed, running a hand through her hair. “Be chivalrous and uncomfortable. Don’t complain when you can’t stand up straight on Monday.”
He focused on unpacking his essentials. “We should head down for lunch,” he said, checking his watch. “They’ll be expecting us.”
She nodded, disappearing into the bathroom to freshen up. When she emerged, she’d applied a touch of lip gloss and brushed her hair. The sight altered his heart rate in surprising ways.
“Ready, fiancé?” she asked, holding out her hand. Her eyes sparkled with teasing affection, even as her fingers trembled, betraying the nerves beneath her confidence.
He took her hand—small and trembling but stilling the moment it met his. “Ready.”
Lunch was an elaborate affair served on fine china beneath a white pergola draped with climbing roses.
The conversation flowed with surprising ease, primarily because of her natural ability to charm and engage.
She asked intelligent questions about Andrew’s newest investments, laughed at Eleanor’s stories about local politics, and somehow made him appear more human by association.
“So, Devney,” Eleanor said over dessert, a delicate panna cotta topped with fresh berries. “What was your first impression of Ronan? He can be rather intimidating, I imagine.”
Devney’s eyes met his across the table, lit with mischief.
“Terrifying,” she said with a laugh. “I spilled coffee on my résumé during the interview and was convinced he’d throw me out on the spot.”
“Did you?” Eleanor asked him, clearly amused.
“The résumé was still legible,” he said, finding himself grinning at the memory. “And her qualifications were impressive enough to overlook the coffee stains.”
“Plus,” Devney said, “I think he was amused by how badly I was trying to pretend it hadn’t happened.”
“I could see your hands shaking,” he said, the detail surfacing from a memory he hadn’t realized he’d stored. “But you answered every question despite it.”
She stared at him. “You never told me that.”
“You never asked,” he said simply.
Eleanor watched with obvious satisfaction. “When did you realize it was more than work?” she asked, glancing between them.
The question hung in the air, deceptively simple, yet loaded with danger. This was the heart of their charade—the moment their story had to sound real.
“I knew after the Morris acquisition,” he said before she could speak, surprising himself with the certainty in his voice. “We worked through the night on the final contract details.
“Around four in the morning, when most people would have been complaining or making mistakes, she was still sharp, still challenging my assumptions, still improving the terms.”
Devney’s eyes widened, but he kept speaking, unable to stop now that he’d started.
“She fell asleep at her desk before dawn,” he said, the memory startlingly vivid, “her head on a stack of contracts, pen still in her hand. And I realized I’d met no one so stubbornly determined, so brilliantly persistent.
A person who pushed back against my worst tendencies instead of accommodating them. ”
The table had gone silent, everyone watching him with curious expressions. He cleared his throat, suddenly aware that he’d revealed more than he’d intended. “That’s when I knew she was different,” he said, reaching for his water glass to occupy his hands.
“How romantic,” Eleanor sighed, clearly delighted by this revelation.
Devney’s gaze remained fixed on him, an unreadable expression on her face. “I didn’t know you remembered that night,” she said.
“I remember everything,” he said.
A moment of charged silence followed, broken only when Andrew suggested they take a walk along the beach before dinner. Eleanor seconded the idea, rising from her chair.
“Wonderful plan,” she said. “The fresh air will do us all good.”
As they filed toward the path leading to the beach, Devney fell into step beside Ronan, her voice low enough that only he could hear.
“That was quite a performance,” she said.
“It wasn’t entirely a performance,” he replied, the words feeling like stones dragged from
deep within him.
She looked up at him then, her expression open and vulnerable, and the look made him stop, unable to move for a moment. Across the garden, Eleanor called her name, beckoning her
forward to continue their earlier conversation about hydrangeas.
He watched her go, wondering when the difference between the lie and the truth had
gotten so hard to see.
The afternoon passed in a succession of polite activities—the beach walk, a tour of Andrew’s wine cellar, and finally retreating to their room to dress for dinner.
She disappeared into the bathroom with her garment bag, leaving him to change in the bedroom.
He was adjusting his cufflinks when she emerged, and the sight of her made his fingers still.
She wore the blue dress they’d purchased at Neiman’s. The fabric draped well over her curves, and the color intensified the unique shade of her eyes. Her hair was swept up into an elegant knot, revealing the graceful line of her neck and shoulders.
“Will I do?” she asked, like she wasn’t sure of the answer.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, the words emerging rougher than intended.
A flush spread across her cheeks, delicate and genuine. “Thank you,” she said. “You clean up nicely yourself.”
Dinner was a formal affair, with several other couples from the Beauchamps’ social circle joining them in the grand dining room.
Devney navigated the complex social dynamics with surprising grace, charming the venture capitalist seated to her left while holding her own in a debate about sustainable investment with a retired professor across the table.
Despite all the conversations going on around him, he found himself watching her, struck by how she fit into this world she’d had no reason to belong in—but somehow did. She spoke with confidence but without pretension, laughed without restraint, and somehow made everyone around her feel valued.
Eleanor noticed his attention, leaning closer as the dessert course was being served. “She’s remarkable,” she said. “Quite charming. And clearly very much in love with you.”
“Yes,” he said simply, because denying it seemed impossible. “She is remarkable.”
By the time they retreated to their room after dinner, exhaustion had settled deep in his bones—not from the activities of the day, but from the constant vigilance required to maintain their charade while fighting his own increasingly conflicted feelings.
“I’ll change in the bathroom,” she said, gathering her things. “Give you a chance to get comfortable on your miniature couch.”
He nodded, already removing his tie and unbuttoning his collar. The moment the bathroom door closed behind her, he sank onto the edge of the sofa, running a hand over his face. This weekend promised more challenges than he’d anticipated—and none of them were the ones he’d prepared for.
After the contract was signed, this charade would end.
They could go back to their normal roles, their comfortable professional distance.
A few more days of pretending. The thought should have brought relief.
Instead, it left an emptiness inside him.
The problem has changed. It wasn’t convincing the Beauchamps that they were engaged.
The problem was remembering that they weren’t.
He changed quickly into sleep pants and a T-shirt, then surveyed the sofa with grim determination. It was, as she had pointed out, at least a foot too short for his frame. Still, he’d endured worse discomfort for business purposes.
He was arranging a spare blanket and pillow when the bathroom door opened. He turned,
expecting to see her in sensible pajamas and felt his heart stop.
She stood in the doorway, hair loose around her shoulders, wearing what could only be described as a sleep shirt—though shirt was generous, given how little of her it covered. The material barely reached mid-thigh, revealing the unexpected length of her tanned legs.
Tiny, embroidered sunflowers dotted the pale-yellow fabric, a whimsical touch that somehow made the entire vision more devastating.
“Sorry,” she said, noticing his stare. “I didn’t pack anything else. I wasn’t planning to
share a room.”
“It’s fine,” he said, the words emerging strangled.
She crossed to the bed, tugging the hem of her sleep shirt enough to make his mouth go dry. “Are you sure you don’t want to share?” she asked, gesturing to the king-sized expanse. “There’s plenty of room. We could put pillows between us or something.”
“I’m sure,” he said, more forcefully than necessary. The thought of lying next to her all night, separated only by decorative pillows, was a form of torture he wasn’t prepared to endure.
She shrugged, moving with a grace that pulled tension tight inside him. “Your funeral,” she said, settling against the pillows. “Or at least your spine’s.”
He turned away, focusing on making the sofa as tolerable as possible. When he glanced back, she’d turned off her bedside lamp, her form a gentle curve beneath the luxurious bedding.
“Goodnight, Ronan,” she said into the darkness.
“Goodnight, Devney,” he said, lowering himself onto the too-small sofa with a sense of grim resignation.
As he curled into what could only be described as a fetal position to fit his frame onto the inadequate furniture, one thought circled relentlessly through his mind. Kill me now.