Page 77 of Luck of the Devil
I nearly laughed. I was pretty sure very few people—if any—had ever called James Malcolm the sweetest.
“What’s he gettin’?” my grandfather asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “But I’m sure it will be delicious.”
“That’s a thoughtful young man you have there,” Grandpa said. “You’re lucky to have him.”
He was right on both counts. Malcolm had been a good friend, and I’d repaid him by verbally attacking him and then calling the man who probably wanted to put him back behind bars.
With friends like me, who needed enemies?
I felt like I was going to be sick.
What exactly had happened outside? Why had he been so … kind? Understanding? He’d let down his guard, dropped his usual armor, but I couldn’t figure out why. Was it my grandparent’s influence? His wish that he’d had grandparents like mine?
To my horror, I realized I’d caught a glimpse of James—not Malcolm—the real him, and I’d thrown it in his face with insults and accusations.
I felt like I was going to be sick.
“You don’t look like you’re feeling well,” my grandmother said, starting to get to her feet.
I patted my hand toward her. “I’m fine. Just tired. It’s been a long week.” I gestured to the hall. “Is it okay if I use your bathroom?”
“Of course,” she said, her forehead pinched with concern. “Do you remember where it is?”
My grandfather laughed. “Even if she doesn’t, it’s not like we live in a mansion. It’s easy enough to find.”
I shot him a smile, then headed down the hall to the bathroom, which was exactly where I remembered it. I shut the door behind me and leaned my back against it, squeezing my eyes shut.
As impossible as it seemed, I’d hurt Malcolm. His persona was made of steel. He came off as someone who didn’t have feelings, but in reality, he was a human being who had massive feelings. I’d never bought his assertion that he was good to his employees because happy employees were better workers. He felt responsible for them, so he wanted them to be cared for and protected.
I was taking too long, so I did my business, then moved to the sink to wash my hands. I glanced at my reflection, mulling over our conversation and Malcolm’s reaction. The more I thought about it, the more unsettled I became.
Why did I care so much about what he thought? It was easy to say we were just friends, but the part of me that was forcing me to face the truth about my addiction refused to lie about how I felt about him. I’d been admiring his good looks from a safe distance, but I had to admit I was drawn to him. The more he revealed himself, the deeper my attraction became.
I wanted more than friendship with him, and for the first time, my reasons for keeping my distance didn’t seem as insurmountable as when we’d first met.
But I wasn’t the only person in this non-existent relationship.
Is it possible Malcolm is interested in something more than friendship?
I turned off the water and tried to study my face objectively. I had big brown eyes and long lashes—which were undoubtedly my best features. The rest of me was passible. Not beautiful but not hideous. Average. I’d never attracted the attention of men the way my friends in college had. Men had become interested in me after they got to know me, not because they glimpsed me across the room and thought I was gorgeous. Even then, I was fairly sure they were drawn in because I seemed unavailable—a mystery to unlock. Only they never could, because I would never let them get close enough to see beneath the surface. Still, I’d never had a problem with my looks, or lack thereof, but now I felt a tinge of… what? Jealousy?
It was ridiculous to even think of something with Malcolm. He’d made it clear he didn’t want to sleep with me, and frankly, why would he? He was a very attractive man and could have just about any woman he wanted—as long as she was willing to overlook his past. But it wasn’t like he was looking for a long-term relationship. Besides, should he ever decide he wanted to settle down, I had no doubt there were plenty beautiful women he could choose from.
Besides, even if he got past my average features, it wasn’t like he would be drawn in by my sparkling personality. I’d been nothing but confrontational and rude. I’d been a downright bitch. Who would want a woman like that?
James Malcolm probably found me vile. And I’d given him plenty of reason to feel that way. And if he wasn’t done with me after what happened outside, he definitely would be after I told him about Deveraux. He wouldn’t want to be my lover, my friend, my anything.
The thought of losing him filled me with a profound sadness that made my lungs thick and difficult to breath. But the thought of putting him in legal danger scared the shit out of me even more. I’d find a way to protect him. I didn’t know how, but I prayed it would come to me. And if by the grace of God he didn’t turn his back on me…
I shook myself out of my reverie. What the hell was I doing in my grandparents’ bathroom, pining for James Malcolm?
I had a shitload of problems, and wanting to sleep with him couldn’t be one of them.
I spent the next half hour talking my grandparents about their lives—their jobs, their friends, their hobbies. I was starting to wonder if Malcolm was coming back, when the front door creaked opened. I expected to see his large frame filling the entryway to the living room, but instead a small, slightly round woman entered the room. The sprinkles of gray in her light brown hair and the wrinkles around her eyes and lining her forehead suggested she was in her fifties or her early sixties. She stopped in her tracks as her gaze landed on me. Her eyes went wide, and her face paled as if she’d seen a ghost. Lifting her knuckles to her bottom lip, she turned to my grandmother. “Is this real?”
“She’s real,” Grandma said, starting to cry again.
