Page 80 of The Devil Gets His Due

I fake a yawn and stretch before I slide away from him and start gathering my clothes. He watches me and doesn’t argue. Which is good. I don’t want him to turn into the tedious guy who argues.

“I’m gonna go,” I tell him.

His eyes drift over my face, a half-second of indecision. I guess I wouldn’t mind if he argued alittlebit.

“Sleep well,” he replies.

I go to my own room and climb into bed, wishing I could have stayed. And suddenly a memory hits me out of nowhere: sometime, during our first night together, he’d pulled me against him and asked if I was thinking about how to sneak away.

“Actually,”I’d said,“I’m thinking you should marry me, and we should have a billion kids.”

It was me. This whole fucking thing was my idea. Possibly even the kid.

36

KEELEY

Iwake, worried sick over what I’m in for this morning. Yes, there’s the question of whether or not I’m about to get fired—especially once they hear I went ontoMindy and Mills—but my most pressing concern is Graham.

I’ve been in this position before and I know how it unfolds: men laud you for being “laid back” about sex atfirst.“Yeah, I’m not looking for serious either,” the guy says, but then he randomly shows up where you work, or texts you forty times in a row while liking every one of your Instagram posts, and has his publicist or assistant call for him when you haven’t replied. Eventually, when you realize he’s not getting the hint, you politely explain to him that you’re just really busy right now—that’s when he freaks out and calls you a fucking whore.

So, yes, I’m expecting the worst when I walk out of my room dressed for work. Perhaps not the texts, or stalking, but at least some puppy-dog eyes and tension. A terse “when will you be home?” at the very least. And he still needs his car—the long drive to the studio will almost certainly entail some dreary talk about feelings, blah blah blah.

Graham is just getting off one of his East Coast calls—I hear mentions of artificial organs and Russian wheat futures—as I’m finishing up with Mark’s toast. He walks in, clean shaven, wearing a button-down and tie. The man wasmadeto wear a tie. If I weren’t so desperate to avoid him, I’d yank his mouth to mine with that tie and pull him down to the floor seconds later. The sounds he made last night—him saying,“do it hard”and“I’ve come a hundred times thinking about this”—play in my head, and I squeeze my thighs together as I try to forget.

He moves toward me and puts the butter and jam in the fridge as if it’s any other day. I see no hint of strain in his face whatsoever. I focus on his long, capable fingers before forcing my gaze away.

“I know we need to get your car,” I begin. “If you can wait until lunch I can—”

He shakes his head. “I picked it up a few hours ago, but take a lunch break anyway.” He moves to the other side of the counter and pulls Mark’s toast toward him. “I can take it down today. I need to tell him he was right about shorting Tesla.”

I watch, astonished, as he leaves with Mark’s toast and paper. I’m still waiting for…something. A longing look, some tension or upheaval. There was nothing at all, as if he forgot, and who could forgetme? I’m amazing in bed.

At least I used to be.No, I’m definitely still amazing in bed.

That it ended too quickly for me to show off any skills is hardly my fault. But I can’t believe we recovered from it all so easily. I guess we were both just scratching an itch, and that it was fucking fantastic isn’t even relevant. No matter how good it is to scratch an itch, you’re better off just, you know, not having an itch in the first place.

And I don’t. I’m all squared away, and so is he. I mean, maybe I’m not ahundred percentsquared away, but whatever.

I should be ecstatic.

Iamecstatic, I’m sure. It’s just buried under all this disappointment.

On the way to work,I swing by the bakery and get three Sunday muffins—one for myself and one for Mark since we missed out yesterday. A third for Trinny because she’s probably earned one by now and will likely endure a whole lot of attitude from our bosses this week.

As will I.

AMindy and Millsappearance is probably the kind of thing I was supposed to run by them first. I knew it even at the time—it’s just that I wanted what Trevor MacNulty was offering more. And now I don’t, which leaves me stuck at a job I hate with two bosses who are going to be very, very pissed off. I can’t believe I might be forced to grovel to remain there now.

I deposit the muffin in front of Trinny but she looks more concerned than pleased.

“What’s this for? Oh my God, this thing is…is it a muffin or is it candy?”

“Don’t judge,” I tell her. “But if we call it a muffin, we can pretend it’s healthy.”

“I wouldn’t say muffins are—”

“Don’t ruin this for me,” I warn, waving a finger at her.

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