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Despite his warm and outgoing demeanor, Devon’s gut told her there was a lot more to Blake Pierson than he’d allowed her to see. He was a complex guy, one with an agenda that was still murky. He was clearly running interference for his grandfather. Devon knew she was part of that interference. But that was the case with James as well. The difference was that Blake was harder to read.
And she was attracted to him. Tonight was going to be a challenge.
Monty’s late-afternoon phone call hadn’t helped.
Devon had been wrapping up her last appointment of the day when the clinic’s receptionist had poked her head into the examination room to announce that Devon’s father was on the phone.
Monty was terse. He’d called to give her a heads-up about Louise Chambers. After his chat with her, he had the distinct feeling she an
d Blake were involved. Whether that involvement was romantic, platonic, or conspiratorial, he didn’t know. But it bugged him.
Another dark corner to explore.
By the time Devon arrived home, she was tight as a drum. Blake was due at six thirty; it was already six. She jumped in the shower, then hurried into her bedroom to pick out an outfit.
Merry nearly collided with her in the doorway. “Sorry.” A rueful grin. “Bad timing, good timing.”
“What does that mean?” Devon began vigorously towel-drying her hair.
“It means I didn’t mean to plow you down, but I’m glad I reached your room before you got dressed. Blake called while you were in the shower. He said to wear jeans.”
“Jeans?” Devon lowered the towel, her brows drawn in puzzlement. “I don’t get it. I thought we were going to some elegant seafood place.”
“Not anymore. A change in plans, he said. Jeans, a sweater—over lots of layers—and boots.”
“Where are we eating, in the Arctic Circle?”
Merry laughed. “No idea. I’m just the messenger.”
“Okay. I’ll bite. Jeans and layers.” Devon yanked the appropriate apparel out of her closet.
The doorbell rang at six thirty on the dot. By that time, Devon’s hair was dried, and she was dressed in a light blue cable-knit sweater and jeans. She trotted downstairs and opened the door herself.
Blake was leaning against the doorjamb. He’d adhered to the same dress code as she—jeans, sweater, and boots—all topped off by a down parka and gloves.
He assessed her with an approving grin. “Good. You got my message.”
“Confusing as it might be, yes.” Devon folded her arms across her breasts. “So we’re not eating seafood?”
“Nope. Not even close.”
“Care to tell me what we are doing?”
“Driving down to Central Park. It’s a beautiful night—cold, but beautiful. First, we’ll go sledding down Pilgrim Hill. Next comes ice skating at the Wollman rink. And don’t worry. We won’t starve. After that, we’re going to Serendipity. We’ll get dinner and frozen hot chocolates.”
Devon blinked. “You’re kidding.”
“No, I’m not kidding. The past few days have been nightmarish for us both. We need stress relief. You’ve already done the wine-and-dine thing with James. So this is kick-back-and-have-fun night.” He paused. “Unless you’re not up for it?”
Devon heard his note of challenge loud and clear. “Now that’s a dare if ever I heard one.”
“So, are you taking it or wimping out?”
“I’ve never wimped out on a dare in my life.” Devon was already in motion, walking over to the coat closet. She grabbed her down jacket, then squatted down to fumble around on the floor. “Give me a sec to find my skates.”
“No problem. Oh, and I brought two sleds. Just in case you don’t have one.”
“How thoughtful.” Devon was smiling when she rose, skates in hand. “As a matter of fact, I do have one. But it’s in the basement, so I’ll use yours. I don’t want to waste a minute during which I could be wiping that smirk off your face. Let’s go.”
