Brandt’s jaw drops, but before he can unearth a witless comeback, his so-called “friend” finally plods down the stairs, calling his name. Middle-aged guy, cheap suit, hair the color of hair—yes, he’s that boring—and off they go, with no more than a cursory nod goodbye.
“I can’t believe you said all that to him!” I turn around to face Devlin, my smile wide. “Did you see his face? Goddess, Devlin. Never thought I’d say this, but you’re my hero. Truly.”
“I get that a lot.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“I have to ask, mushroom. What onearthdid you ever see in that man?”
“A question I would be asking myself, if I gave even one iota of a molecule of a shred of ashitabout him.” I shake my head and bite back a gag—still can’t believe I let that absolutemolluskinto my bed last year. “You know how some girls go through a bad-boy phase? I was the opposite.”
“Ah, yes. The old khaki-pants-wearing, laptop-bag-slinging, personality-of-a-wet-napkin-boy phase that has fathers locking up their daughters all over creation.”
“Pretty much.”
“The safe choice is the boring choice, Violet. Write that down. Preferablynoton a wet napkin.”
“Forgive me if I don’t make any plans based onthatexcellent life advice.” Laughing, lighter than I’ve felt all day, I head back to the kitchen and steal a fresh scone from the cooling rack, because nothing chases off the oogy-ex-boyfriend vibe like a boatload of sugary carbs. “And speaking of plans… were you serious? About going to the party together?”
Devlin plucks the scone right out of my hand and downs it in two bites. Then, with a mouth full of crumbs and a sparkle in his eyes that reignites all the desperately throbbing parts inside me, he says, “Are you serious about entertaining the idea of allowing me to accompany you?”
“Hmm. Is this the thing where you try to surreptitiously find out if you’ve got a chance before you officially invite me, just in case I say no and feed into your deep-seated rejection issues?”
“Violet?”
I select another scone from the rack. “Yes?”
“Are we going to this hometown hoedown together or not?”
“It’s not a hoedown.”
“But is it a date?”
“Yes.” I bite into the pastry—sweet, crumbly perfection.
“Yes?”
“Yep. But not adate-date.”
“A date-date? Who said anything about a date-date? Absolutelynot!” Devlin laughs, then taps his lips. “It’s… it’s a… there’s a word for it, but it’s not coming to me—”
“Work function,” I supply. “Two professional colleagues attending an event together. An event that has acalendardate, but is not a date in and of itself.”
“Ah, a team-building exercise.”
“Yes!Verygood for morale.”
“Exactly.”
“Precisely.”
“As long as we’re clear.” I shove in the last of the scone.
“Crystal, little mushroom.” Devlin swipes a crumb from the corner of my mouth, then licks it off his thumb. “Absolutely crystal.”
Chapter Twenty-One
DEVLIN
