Chapter 12
She woke to the sound of his phone alarm, followed by a muffled curse that pulled a laugh from her as she buried her face deeper into the pillow.
Propping herself up on one elbow, she peered over the edge of the absurdly comfortable king-sized bed and spotted her fake fiancé twisted on the sofa like a human pretzel.
One foot dangled off the armrest, and his neck was bent at an angle that all but guaranteed a future filled with chiropractor visits and regret.
“Sleep well?” she asked.
His gaze slid to hers, a mixture of irritation and heat that curled low in her stomach. “Splendidly,” he said, his voice thick with sleep. “Nothing like spending the night folded like origami.”
After quick showers and changing into their sailing outfits, they joined the Beauchamps on the veranda for breakfast. Eleanor and Andrew were already seated, looking effortlessly elegant despite the early hour.
“Did you sleep well?” Eleanor asked as they sat down.
“Like a dream,” Devney said truthfully, then caught Ronan’s subtle wince as he adjusted his position. “The Rose Suite is beautiful.”
An hour later, they were aboard the Tidewater—a sleek, gleaming vessel that Andrew described as a “modest day sailboat,” but looked to her like it belonged on the cover of a yachting magazine.
The morning was perfect for sailing, with clear skies and a gentle breeze that carried them across the glittering water of Vineyard Sound.
The most remarkable thing was watching Ronan move with confidence across the deck when Andrew called him over to help with the sails. His hands worked the ropes and rigging with ease, revealing yet another layer to the man she thought she knew so well.
“He’s quite good,” Eleanor said, following her gaze. “Andrew doesn’t ask for help unless someone actually knows what they’re doing.”
“He never ceases to amaze me,” she said.
“Would you like Andrew to take a photo of you two?” Eleanor asked, as they rounded a beautiful stretch of coastline. “The lighting is perfect.”
The words caught in her throat as Eleanor turned, already calling Andrew over with her idea. Ronan appeared behind them, his expression blank.
“I’m terrible in photos,” she said softly to him.
“Impossible,” he said, his hand finding the small of her back—a gesture that was becoming second nature. His palm pressed against her thin top, sending a quick tremor through her.
Following Andrew’s direction, she moved to the railing and turned toward the view, extending her arms outward in the classic “king of the world” pose. She felt both silly and exhilarated, with his hands settling on her waist from behind.
“Beautiful!” Andrew said. “One more!”
What happened next seemed to unfold in slow motion.
A sudden wave caught the boat, causing it to lurch sharply.
She felt herself losing balance, her outstretched position leaving her with nothing to grab.
His hands tightened instinctively around her waist, but the sudden movement had already sent her pitching forward.
For one suspended moment, she was aware of his grip slipping, Eleanor’s gasp, and the sickening realization that she was going overboard. Then she was falling, a dizzying view of blue sky, then the sudden, cold impact of the water.
She surfaced spluttering, pushing wet hair from her eyes in time to see a clean, arcing dive as Ronan entered the water barely five feet away from her.
He surfaced with powerful strokes, reaching her in seconds. “Are you hurt?”
“Only my dignity,” she said, still trying to process what had happened. “I didn’t expect an impromptu swim today.”
Relief passed over his face. “Next time, warn me before you decide to go for a dip,” he said, one arm sliding around her waist to keep her afloat.
The Tidewater had continued moving after their fall, leaving them perhaps thirty yards away—close enough to see Eleanor’s concerned expression, but far enough that they had a moment of unexpected privacy in Vineyard Sound.
“Are you really okay?” he asked, his arm still secure around her.
She nodded, suddenly aware of their proximity—his face inches from hers, water droplets clinging to his eyelashes, his normally perfect hair slicked back from his forehead. “My hero,” she said, trying for levity but hearing the breathless quality in her voice.
His features grew more intense, his eyes moving from hers to her lips and back again. For a breathless moment, she thought he might kiss her—right there in the Atlantic.
The approach of the Tidewater broke the moment, Andrew calling instructions and Eleanor extending boat hooks for them to grab. His arm released her as they both reached for the hooks, allowing Andrew and Eleanor to help them back aboard.
“I am so sorry,” Eleanor said, her tone fussy, wrapping a fluffy towel around Devney’s shoulders. “That wave came out of nowhere.”
“Entirely my fault,” Devney said, reassuring her, teeth chattering despite the warm air. “I was showing off with that pose.”
“We should head back so you both can change,” Eleanor said. “We have lunch reservations at the yacht club at one.”
Back at the house, they were ushered upstairs with instructions to shower and change. The moment their bedroom door closed, the tension that had been building since their water rescue intensified.
“You should shower first,” he said, already moving toward his suitcase. “You were in the water longer.”
“Are we not going to talk about what happened?” she asked, surprising herself with her directness.
He paused, his back to her. “You fell. I jumped in after you. There’s nothing to discuss.”
“Right,” she said, ignoring the sharp ache of disappointment. “Nothing at all.”
She retreated to the bathroom, letting the hot water wash away the salt and the uncomfortable feeling that she was reading far too much into every interaction between them.
The Vineyard Haven Yacht Club was as exclusive as she’d imagined, with weathered shingle siding, gleaming wood floors, and walls covered in nautical memorabilia. They were seated at a prime table overlooking the harbor, where sailboats bobbed in the midday sun.
Lunch proceeded pleasantly, with conversation flowing between business topics and more personal matters. She was in the middle of describing her grandmother’s blueberry pie recipe to Eleanor when a recognizable piano melody drifted from the far corner of the dining room.
“They’ve started the afternoon music,” Eleanor said with pleasure. “The club has a small ensemble on weekends.”
“They’re quite good,” Devney said, recognizing the piece. “Though I bet Ronan could give their cellist a run for his money.”
The words slipped out before she had the chance to stop them. His head snapped up, his eyes meeting hers with a mixture of shock and something that might have been betrayal.
“You play the cello?” Eleanor asked, clearly delighted by this revelation. “What a wonderful discovery!”
His jaw tightened. “I used to,” he said, his tone dismissive. “A long time ago.”
“He’s being modest,” she said, unable to stop herself. “He still plays. And he’s incredible.”
“How wonderful,” Eleanor said. “We have a beautiful cello at the house—it was my father’s. No one’s played it in years, but it’s kept in perfect condition.”
“I don’t play publicly,” he said firmly, giving Devney a look that clearly communicated she should drop the subject.
“He played for me on our third date,” she said, the lie coming easily. “Bach’s ‘Cello Suite No. 1.’ I cried, it was so beautiful.”
“You simply must play for us this evening,” Eleanor said. “Before the cocktail reception.”
His expression remained neutral, but she could feel his tension from across the table. “I’m afraid I’m out of practice,” he said.
Eleanor’s attention sharpened. Retreat would look like weakness.
Devney stepped in before the silence could be used against him.
“I’ve heard you practice at home,” she said, smiling, her hand finding his. “You played last week.”
His fingers tensed beneath hers, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he turned his hand to capture hers, his grip tight enough to convey his irritation.
“Perhaps a brief piece,” he said, though the lightness in his tone didn’t quite match the tension in his eyes.
When they returned to the house after lunch, he disappeared to make work calls while she spent the afternoon with Eleanor, touring her impressive art collection. Soon it was time to prepare for the evening’s cocktail reception.
Back in their room, she found him halfway dressed in tailored navy pants and a crisp white shirt.
“I laid out your ‘casual elegance’ option,” he said, nodding toward the bed where a simple but elegant cocktail dress in deep emerald hung waiting.
“Thank you,” she said, touched by the gesture despite his obvious lingering irritation. “Though I’m not sure you’re speaking to me at the moment.”
He finished with one cufflink before looking up. “Why did you tell them I play the cello?”
“Because you do,” she said simply. “And it’s one of the most genuine things about you.”
“What does that mean?” he asked.
“I think there’s more to you than you let people see.”
He studied her for a moment, the silence between them thick with unspoken thoughts. Finally, he gave a single nod.
“I’ll play one piece,” he said. “For the sake of our cover story.”
By the time she emerged from the bathroom, hair styled and makeup freshened, he was waiting by the door, handsome in the navy pants now paired with a light gray blazer over the white shirt.
“You look beautiful,” he said, his eyes moving appreciatively over the emerald dress.
“So do you,” she said, and something in his face eased—vulnerable, real. It sent a ripple through her she wasn’t prepared for.
They made their way downstairs to find Eleanor waiting in the library, a magnificent room with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and a grand piano in one corner. Beside it stood a cello on a stand, its wood gleaming with the deep patina that comes only from age and care.
“My father’s pride and joy,” Eleanor said, following his gaze to the instrument. “A French cello from the late 1800s.”
He approached it with visible reverence, his fingers hovering above the wood. “It’s exquisite,” he said, and she glimpsed the man beneath the carefully constructed exterior.
“Please,” Eleanor said. “Feel free to examine it more closely.”
After a moment’s hesitation, he gently lifted the cello, his hands steady as he positioned it and took the bow Eleanor offered.
He sat on the edge of a nearby chair, the instrument settling into place. His back straightened, his shoulders eased, and something in his eyes softened.
Andrew appeared in the doorway, nodding approvingly. “Excellent,” he said. “We’re in for a treat, it seems.”
Ronan’s eyes met Devney’s across the room. She gave him a reassuring look, hoping he could see how much this glimpse of his hidden self meant to her.
He took a moment to pluck each string, the low, resonant notes vibrating through the quiet library.
Finding them flat from years of silence, he adjusted the pegs with practiced, steady fingers, his ear tilted toward the wood until the pitch was perfect.
Only when the instrument was finally brought back to life did he position the bow, close his eyes briefly, and play.
The melody filled the room, alive and flowing, each note connecting with grace.
Watching him was mesmerizing—the subtle changes in his expression as he navigated emotional passages, the confident movement of his fingers along the neck of the cello, the way his entire body seemed to exist in perfect harmony with the instrument.
This was him stripped of his armor, vulnerable, and powerful in a different way than she was accustomed to seeing him.
When the last note faded, there was perfect silence, as if none of them dared to be the first to break the spell he’d cast.
Then Andrew applauded, followed quickly by Eleanor, their appreciation clear in their faces. She remained still, unable to look away from him as he opened his eyes, seeming to return from some place distant and private.
His gaze found hers, something settling in his features—relief, maybe, or something close to peace.
She didn’t applaud. It would’ve felt wrong, too performative for a performance that had felt so personal.
Instead, she looked at him, hoping he could read in her face what she couldn’t quite put into words: that she saw him—really saw him—for perhaps the first time.
“That was extraordinary,” Eleanor said, genuine emotion in her voice. “Truly beautiful.”
He returned the cello to its stand. “The instrument deserves the credit. It’s exceptional.”
“Nonsense,” Andrew said. “The finest instrument in the world is nothing without the right hands to play it.”
As they moved from the library toward the terrace where the cocktail reception would be held, his hand found the small of her back again—that increasingly natural gesture that somehow felt both possessive and protective.
But this time, his touch lingered, his fingers tracing a small circle against the fabric of her dress before settling into their usual pressure.
As they stepped onto the terrace, he leaned close, his breath against her ear.
“Thank you,” he said.
“For what?” she asked, turning to meet his gaze.
He held her eyes, steady and unblinking.
“For seeing me,” he said.
She didn’t get the chance to respond—Eleanor was already calling them over to discuss the guest list, and the moment was gone.
But as they moved into their roles for the evening—the happy, engaged couple among the Beauchamps’ distinguished guests—she couldn’t ignore her trembling hands or the sudden warmth that spread through her with each of his glances.
What terrified her most wasn’t the performance they were giving for the Beauchamps and their friends. It was the possibility that when Monday came and they returned to real life, she might not stop herself from wanting what wasn’t actually hers to keep.