Page 94 of The Devil of Downtown

“I’m taking you on a date.”

I lift a brow. “Do I get any say in this?”

“Nope.” He takes my hand, threading our fingers together like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and starts leading me toward his car. Tonight, it’s not the sleek sports car but a black monster of a truck gleaming like trouble with headlights.

And the smile stretching across my face?

Ridiculous.

Uncontrollable.

Head-over-goddamn-heels.

Chapter twenty-two

Dane

The highway opens in front of us in one long, dark ribbon, the city shrinking behind us. Ivy keeps glancing at the signs, then at me, her suspicion growing every mile we put between ourselves and Manhattan.

“Are you ever going to tell me where we’re going?” She asks, narrowing her eyes.

“You’ll see.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the one you’re getting.”

She groans dramatically and sinks back into her seat, legs curling beneath her, face turned toward me, hair slipping over her cheek in a way that makes it very hard not to reach for her. I manage to keep my hand on the wheel for all of ten seconds before instinct wins, and it drops to her thigh.

She glances down at it, then back at me, and for a moment I think she’ll push it away. Instead, she covers my hand with hers, delicate fingers tracing over my knuckles like she’s committingthem to memory. My grip tightens almost imperceptibly, my pulse kicking up as that quiet, restless craving inside me finally settles—like it’s found somewhere to land.

With anyone else, touch is a decision.

With Ivy, it’s something closer to need.

“Well,” she says after a moment, clearing her throat, “since we’re being honest... I should probably tell you something.”

I glance at her. “That usually means trouble.”

She huffs out a breath. “You don’t scare easily.”

“I’m open to being surprised,” I say. “Go on.”

She hesitates, then her fingers curl more firmly around mine. I keep my eyes on the road. My thumb moves once over the back of her hand, an encouragement more than a question.

“The emergency Sloane had,” she says, “was because her daughter was sick.”

My brow lifts. “Sloane has a kid.”

She nods. “Elsie. She didn’t disclose it when she applied. She thought it would hurt her chances.” A pause, then firmer. “She needed that job. And she deserved it.”

“She would’ve gotten it anyway,” I say. “She was the strongest candidate we saw.”

Ivy’s mouth tightens. “Well, maybe your HR team needs to hear that. Because they didn’t make it sound that way. They spent the interview warning her about the hours. About ‘commitments.’ She took that as a warning label.”

I say nothing for a moment.

“So she panicked,” I say finally. “And asked you to step in.”