“Paul, I’m so sorry.” Deven didn’t even know what she was apologizing for, but guilt pierced her like a knife. Kennedy was her sister, so, to some degree, she felt responsible. “Listen, we’re going to get to the bottom of this,” she said with forced conviction. “We will get your money back.” Maybe if she said it enough, she would start to believe it.

At first, Deven hadn’t wanted Paul to follow her home, even at his insistence. But she had to admit, she was comforted knowing that he was there in eyesight, escorting her back to safety. Because if she was honest with herself, a part of her was terrified Deuce knew where she lived and would come looking for her. At this point, she couldn’t be sure exactly what he knew. Only that he was dangerous.

The first few streaks of dust were settling in by the time they arrived back to her place. Deven was surprised when she noticed Paul parking in one of the visitor spaces. She had assumed he would pull off once he confirmed she’d gone into her building. Part of her figured he was probably in a rush to get away from her and all her baggage. She had put him through enough trauma for today. Still, Deven didn’t object when he waited for her at the entryway and wordlessly, followed her upstairs.

As soon as they were inside, Paul made it his business to check around the apartment, opening doors and peeking through anything that looked remotely like a hiding place. It was obvious they had been contemplating the same thoughts about Deuce, though he would probably never admit it out loud. Deven kicked out of her shoes and crossed into the kitchen to pour them a drink. She would let him do his thing. In fact, she was grateful for it right now. The entire ordeal had put her on edge.

“All clear,” Paul announced entering the kitchen. Deven nodded her appreciation and opened the refrigerator to peer inside. The contents were scant at best, but it wasn’t it like she had an appetite. She just needed something to do with her hands. “You hungry?” she asked. “I can probably order us some food or something.”

“No, you don’t have to do all that.”

Fair enough. But that drink, on the other hand, was not optional. Deven pulled the Sangria bottle from the door and held it up for Paul to see. “You’re not working tomorrow, are you?”

“Nope.”

“Me neither.” Thankfully. She reached for two glasses from the dishwasher and poured them each a generous portion. She turned then and handed one of the glasses to Paul.

He accepted the drink. “We should toast,” he said out-of-the-blue.

“To what?”

Without hesitation, he clinked his glass against hers. “To Kennedy,” he said. “The woman who ruined both of our lives.”