Page 46 of Only the Devil
We reach the counter, and she orders something with three shots of espresso and enough syllables to qualify as a foreign language. I stick with black coffee, large, and add my own sugar.
Back on the sidewalk, headed toward Sterling Financial, I spot Phillip Sterling and Ms. Weaver approaching from the opposite direction. They’re walking close, heads bent together in conversation.
“Those two spend a lot of time together,” I say, slowing a hair to watch them. “You notice that?”
“Yeah, I have.” Daisy sips her complicated coffee concoction. “Today I’ll ask the lunch crew what’s going on with them. If there’s any tea to spill, they’ll pour the kettle.”
I watch Sterling’s body language as they walk. His hand hovers near the small of Ms. Weaver’s back without quite touching. Intimate but careful. “Sure seem friendly.”
“He’s not married, but based on her rings, she is. Could be they’re just work buddies.” She pauses. “If it were anything seriously scandalous, it probably would’ve come up at lunch already.”
Sterling may not be married, but if he’s stepping out with a subordinate while running a potentially fraudulent investment scheme, then those actions create a profile. Character tells you everything you need to know about a person’s capacity for deception.
“Well,” I say, turning to face Daisy as Sterling and Ms. Weaver close the distance, “wish me luck on my first day, darlin’.”
The endearment slips out—pure Georgia reflex—and her chin tilts up in response. Her lips, still glossy from her makeup application, part slightly. For a heartbeat, she looks like she expects something. A kiss, maybe.
If we were really dating, I would. Hell, if we were really dating, I wouldn’t have spent the last four nights on that torture device masquerading as a sofa.
“Jake, good morning,” Ms. Weaver’s voice cuts through the moment. She and Sterling have reached us, and she’s smiling that professional smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “The suit looks good on you. Very...authoritative.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” I straighten slightly, letting a little more drawl color my voice. People underestimate Southern politeness, assuming it means pliable.
“Daisy,” Sterling jumps in, and I don’t miss how his gaze slides over her before meeting her eyes. “We still have time blocked out this afternoon, right?”
“Two o’clock,” she confirms, switching into bright, efficient assistant mode. The transformation is seamless—from casual real self to respectful subordinate.
“Perfect.” Sterling’s smile is all teeth. “Jake, I’ll meet you in Ms. Weaver’s office in ten minutes. I want to discuss your role personally.”
As we cross the street, I catch Sterling watching us in my peripheral vision. More specifically, watching Daisy walk away. His gaze drops and lingers, and something dark and possessive flares in my chest.
Easy, soldier.
But the feeling doesn’t fade. Rich bastards like Sterling think they can take whatever they want, look at whoever they want, consequences be damned. The same entitlement that let him steal from veterans probably extends to how he treats women.
Inside the building, I walk Daisy to the elevator bank. The lobby’s sparse—no security desk, no obvious cameras, just marble floors, reception, and expensive-looking art that screams, “We have money to waste.”
Poor security starts with poor design. Too many blind spots, too many access points, not enough controlled choke points.
The elevator in the lobby arrives and we step in together. She pushed the third floor and I push the fourth to report in for my first day. We ride up in silence, but I keep thinking about Sterling eyeing Daisy.
The doors open and as she steps out, I step forward and wedge my foot in the doorway to keep it open, pulling her toward me for a quick, possessive kiss. It’s supposed to be for show—establish our cover, make it clear she’s taken—but the moment our lips meet, the pretense evaporates.
Her hand comes up to rest against my jaw, thumb brushing over my mouth when we break apart.
“Have a good day, sweets,” she says, eyes sparkling with something that might be mischief.
The elevator doors close, and I’m left standing in the elevator like an idiot, the taste of coffee and Daisy lingering on my lips.
Sweets.
Yeah, that’s exactly the problem.
I find Ms. Weaver’s office on the fourth floor, the executive floor. Her office is a study in controlled elegance—everything in its place, nothing personal visible except a single photo of her, a teenage boy, and a golden retriever. I settle into the chair across from her desk and wait while she arranges papers that don’t need arranging.
“Now, Jake, I’m going to be straight with you,” she begins, finally looking up. “We’ve never hired private security before.”
Interesting choice of words. During the interview, she’d danced around this fact without outright lying, but she’s being “straight” with me now.
