Page 3 of Tempting Mr. Knightly

Knox’s jaw tightened, a beat pulling near his temple. “I was unaware she was involved.”

“She’s Devney’s best friend and Tessa’s first call for anything dessert-related. She’s been involved since the engagement.”

“I can manage the budget remotely,” Knox offered. “Email. Phone. Video conference. All viable alternatives to physical presence in a bakery.”

Ronan tilted his head. The look was familiar. It was the look Ronan gave market projections that didn’t make sense. “You don’t like bakeries?”

“I don’t like unnecessary proximity to flour.”

They stared at each other. Knox outlasted most people in staring contests. Ronan was one of a few exceptions, the others being his late father and a Yorkshire terrier he’d once encountered at a client’s home.

“Dev says something happened at the party,” Ronan said, his voice dropping half a register. “With you and Lucy.”

“Nothing happened.”

“She grabbed your tie and kissed you.”

“That’s her version of nothing. She kissed me,” Knox said. “Then she told me it didn’t happen and left the building.”

On anyone else, the expression might have been sympathy. On Ronan, it looked like he’d identified a problem he hadn’t accounted for.

“The first meeting is Thursday at ten,” Ronan said. “Flour & Honey. Try not to antagonize the woman who’s making the cake.”

“I don’t antagonize. I observe.”

“You observe like an audit.” Then Ronan left.

Knox picked up his phone and, against every rational instinct he possessed, pulled up the Flour & Honey website.

He’d been to the bakery dozens of times, always on Devney’s errands, always in and out with a box of Danish and a receipt. He’d never lingered.

He scrolled through the photo gallery like a man searching for evidence. In the photos he saw Lucy behind the counter, hair pulled back, apron dusted white; a close-up of her lemon bars, the glaze catching studio light; the bakery at dawn, empty and golden, the worn wooden counter reflecting morning sun through the front windows.

He’d stood at that counter and ordered right there, and he’d never once registered the light across it.

He closed the browser.

He opened it again, read two customer reviews, and closed it for good.

The call at two thirty was about a restructuring proposal that required his full attention, and he managed to provide it for approximately forty minutes before his brain served up a sensory memory that had no business in a restructuring call.

He pinched the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses and recalculated the amortization schedule from scratch.

The steakhouse was dim and clubby, the leather booths original, the silverware heavy, and the waiter remembered your order before you sat down. Knox had been coming here for years. He ordered the same thing every time. The waiter still pretended to be surprised.

Gabriel was already there, sitting in the corner booth with a glass of red wine, loose-shouldered and easy, with no visible regrets about the sacred document he’d shredded on Fifth Avenue. He was wearing a blue shirt, no tie, collar open. Six months ago, Gabriel Sterling without a tie would have been front-page news at Oath Capital. Now it was Tuesday.

“You’re early,” Knox said, sliding into the booth.

“You’re late.”

“I’m on time. You’re chronically early. There’s a difference.”

Ronan arrived four minutes later carrying a book. Knox looked at the cover. Emotional Intelligence: A Practical Guide.

“Devney?” Knox asked.

“Yes, she says I need to ‘expand my emotional vocabulary.’” Ronan set the book on the table like a man presenting evidence of his own persecution. “Apparently ‘fine’ is not an emotion.”