Chapter 11
eleven
“COME DANCING” — THE KINKS
Miller
The night is going exactly the way I planned.
I don’t let myself think that too loudly. I’ve spent enough time in enough high-stakes situations to know that the moment you congratulate yourself on your success is the moment everything goes to shit.
But sitting here, with Tavey beside me, the reception humming around us, candlelight doing something unreasonable to her hair and those dragon clips catching the light every time she turns her head — I let myself have it.
Just for a second.
This is working.
She’s been making me laugh for the better part of an hour.
Not the polite, managed version of laughing I do at work when something is actually funny but I don’t want to encourage anyone.
Real laughing. The kind that comes out before I can stop it.
She said something about the best man’s speech — something about how he seemed to have mistaken “heartfelt tribute” for “lightly veiled blackmail material” — and I had to set down my drink.
I don’t do that.
I don’t set down drinks because someone made me laugh.
And yet.
At some point her hand ended up in mine. I’m not entirely sure which of us was responsible for that and I don’t particularly care. What I care about is the way she turned her hand over when I covered it. Deliberate. Unhurried. Like a question she’d already decided the answer to.
I’ve been patient for a long time.
Longer than most men would’ve been, probably.
But sitting here with her hand in mine, watching her tilt her head and say something to the woman across the table that makes the entire end of the table laugh, I think — with sudden, unnerving certainty — that every day I waited was worth it.
This is the version of her I’ve only ever caught in glimpses.
At work, she’s warm and bright and entirely herself, but there are edges she keeps managed.
This version has no managed edges. She’s fully, unapologetically Tavey — the costume, the dragon clutch, the laugh that’s slightly too loud for formal occasions — and she is, without question, the most interesting person in this room.
I’m watching her argue passionately with someone about whether the theme was executed correctly when I hear it.
“Evans.”
I look up.
Ford Langley is standing at the edge of our table with a whiskey in one hand and the particular expression he gets when he’s about to make someone’s night either significantly better or significantly worse, and there’s no way to know which until it’s already happening.
Behind him, Matt Ballard has both hands in his pockets and the restless, slightly dangerous energy of a man whose brain is running several conversations simultaneously.
Jonathon Bagdon stands to Ford’s left, impeccable as always, taking in the table with that cool, efficient gaze that has made grown men revise their quarterly projections on the spot.
Tavey goes still beside me. Deer trapped in the head lights still.
I feel it more than see it — the slight shift in her posture, the way her hand tightens fractionally in mine before she remembers herself.
I get it.
Most people at FMJ know the three of them in the abstract.
The company’s informal as hell, but there’s still a psychological divide between working peons and the genius trio of men who built a billion dollar company from the ground up.
Ford bridges it more naturally than the others.
Matt bulldozes through it with the oblivious chaos of a man who values ideas over status.
Jonathon simply stands on the other side of it and waits for the world to adjust.
Ford looks me over once, gaze dropping to the leather vest, and lets out a low whistle. “Evans. Buddy. If I’d known you had abs like that, I’d have put you in more client-facing roles.”
Matt snorts. “That is absolutely not an appropriate use of corporate resources.”
“Depends on the client,” Ford says.
Jonathon’s gaze moves from me to Tavey and back, taking in the whole scene in one efficient sweep. “I’m more interested in the event that convinced him to dress in costume at all.”
Tavey makes a small, strangled sound beside me.
“They’re making fun of my clothes,” I tell her.
Ford puts a hand to his chest. “That is slander. I’m admiring your commitment.”
“You look great,” Matt says. Then he points at Tavey. “But she’s clearly the brains of this operation.”
“She usually is,” I say.
Tavey turns to look at me like I’ve just done something dangerous to her cardiovascular system.
Ford catches it. Of course he does. In Ford’s presence, no social cue gets left behind. His smile deepens slightly, but he politely redirects. “You must be Tavey. I’m Ford.”
“I know,” she says. Then, immediately: “I mean — not in a creepy way. Obviously I know who you are. Because the company literally has your initials in the name. Well, not your initials specifically. Not only yours. All of your initials. Which… you know.”
Matt’s grin goes feral. Jonathon’s mouth twitches. Ford takes the ramble entirely in stride.
“It’s good to meet you, Tavey.”
“You too,” she says, with the expression of someone faintly horrified by their own existence.
Matt leans in slightly. “I’m Matt. The company’s cautionary tale about what happens when you give a programmer equity too young.”
“That is not how we present investor confidence,” Jonathon says.
“It should be.”
Jonathon offers Tavey a small nod. “Jonathon.”
“Hi,” she says, with commendable restraint.
Ford glances between us. “Y’all having a good time?”
“Yes,” Tavey says immediately.
“Mostly,” I say, which is close enough to the truth and considerably less alarming than Yes, I think I’m falling in love with the woman beside me, thanks for asking.
Ford follows that answer with the easy smile of a man who already knows more than he’s letting on. “Good.”
Matt looks me over again, apparently still not over the costume situation. “Did you actually watch the show, or did you just Google ‘shirtless warrior’ and go from there?”
“I did some research,” I say.
Tavey makes a sound that is definitely a suppressed laugh.
“Image searches,” I add, because apparently I’m committed to this.
Matt looks delighted. “Incredible.”
Jonathon, who has been observing all of this with his characteristic stillness, takes a measured sip of his drink.
Then he looks at me — not at Tavey, not at the costume, not at the table.
At me. With that particular expression that means he’s reached a conclusion he didn’t expect. I stifle an annoyed sigh.
This is probably going to result in a lecture from him about the dangers of mixing business and personal life. Possibly a detailed email about the company’s intra-office dating policy. Which I have verified I am in no way violating. Nosy bastard.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look like that before,” he says.
The table goes slightly quiet.
“Like what?” I ask.
He considers the question with more care than it probably warrants.
“Like you’re exactly where you want to be,” he says.
Ford’s smile deepens. Matt wisely says nothing for once. Even Tavey, beside me, goes very still.
I don’t answer.
Jonathon doesn’t seem to require one.
Ford breaks it with the ease of a man who’s been defusing socially charged moments since birth. He straightens, claps me once on the shoulder, and says — casual as anything — “You still coming Wednesday? We need a fourth.”
I glance at Jonathon. He’s the one most likely to be annoyed if I show up. He gives a nod so subtle it’s just as likely to be a twitch. “I’ll be there.”
“Good.” Ford lifts his glass toward Tavey. “Don’t let him brood too much. He does that.”
“I’ve noticed,” she says.
Matt waggles his fingers at her. “It was a genuine pleasure, Tavey.”
Jonathon inclines his head. “Good night.”
And then all three of them fold back into the crowd — a weather system of charisma, chaos, and quietly devastating fiscal intelligence — and they’re gone.
For a moment, neither of us says anything.
Then Tavey turns slowly toward me.
“You have friends in the C-suite,” she says.
“It’s not like that.”
Her brows lift. “It absolutely looked like that.”
“FMJ’s informal.”
“Miller.”
“Lots of people are friendly with them.”
She gives me a long, deeply skeptical look. Then her mouth curves — that slow, reluctant smile that I have spent three years pretending doesn’t do anything to me.
“Wednesday?” she asks.
“It’s poker.”
“With the founders.”
“With three guys I’ve known for a long time.” I don’t say more. Does she need to know that Jonathon is my cousin? I doubt it would change how she sees me, but it’s not a conversation I want to have with so many ears around, so I shrug it off.
My relationship to Jonathon isn’t that big a deal.
We weren’t close growing up or anything.
When I left the SEALs—after an injury that caused just enough nerve damage to make me a liability to my team—my dad suggested I reach out to him.
I did. I think he was as surprised as I was that his company had a position where I could contribute.
That would have been the end of it, if it weren’t for Ford.
Since Jonathon isn’t close with anyone else in his family, Ford makes a point of including me.
As if my presence will erode the wall Jonathon has built around himself.
All of which I’d be happy to explain to Tavey sometime when Devon isn’t within earshot.
She hums in a way that suggests this conversation is not over and tucks the information away with the same focused attention she brings to everything she finds interesting.
Which means she’ll probably bring it up again at the worst possible moment.
I find, to my considerable surprise, that I don’t mind.
Except then she says thoughtfully, “Do you think Ford seems off?”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. Just the last month or so he’s seemed … distracted.” Then she shrugs and grins. “I’m probably reading too much into it. I do that.”
For a moment, I let my gaze follow the guys as they make their way across the room.
If something about Ford set off her Spidey-sense, then probably something is going on there.
On Monday, I’ll stop by his desk and see if I can get him alone for coffee or a beer.
As close as the three of them are, I suspect he doesn’t share everything with them.
God knows there are plenty of things I haven’t shared with even my closest friends.
Like how much I want this woman sitting beside me.
Sure, Nick and Cassie think they know. But you don’t say things like this out loud. Even to friends.
Looking at her now, noticing the way her eyes dance in delight, my world telescopes around me, narrowing down to just her. My whole world is right here in front of me. My future. My family, my home, my life. All of it.
I lean in close, the words right there on the tip of my tongue. I want you. Not just tonight. Forever.
But those words don’t make it out.
Fuck, even I have enough sense to shut that shit down. You don’t tell a woman you love her at a wedding reception where other people are making speeches and some dude is walking around in a full-length faux fur cape. That kind of declaration requires a modicum of privacy.
So instead of saying something stupid, I look around for a passing server. “Do you need another drink?”
She tips her glass, considering the remaining inch of blue cocktail with the serious expression of someone making an important decision. “Something slightly less… combustible, maybe.”
Since the servers are only carrying the themed drinks, I stand. “I’ll be right back.”
For a second I look down at her — at the dragon clips and the ridiculous purse and the soft blue dress and the expression on her face that she hasn’t quite managed to make neutral yet — and something in my chest settles so completely it almost doesn’t feel like anything at all.
Just certainty.
I head toward the bar.