Page 56 of The Devil Gets His Due

“Ugh,” I grumble. “He’s complaining about aweek? Give me a break,Ben. I’ve been married for six months, and I haven’t had sex once. I think that’s grounds for an annulment right there.”

He stiffens. “So there was no one else…after Vegas?”

I sigh heavily. “You are the only person I’ve slept with since last summer, and I don’t evenrememberit.”

Our eyes meet and I feel that shift inside me again, which is occurring more and more. That goddamn kiss was the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. I can barely think of anything else half the time. He simply has to walk into the room and my skin is too warm, the lace of my bra is too rough, and I’m wondering what it would take to get him to kiss me again. I’m wondering what it would take to get him to domore.

“It’s been a while for me too,” he says.

What an absolute waste.Someoneshould be taking full advantage of that body and that face. And if he’s not sleeping with anyone and I’m not sleeping with anyone…maybe it could be me?

It would be a terrible idea given the baby is coming and we’re actually friendly at the moment, but I’ve never let the fact that an idea was terrible stop me before.

And it would be expedient. Efficient. He’d like that aspect of it.I mean, we’re in the same place and it’s not like he can get me extra-pregnant and—

“Ben asked me to take a look at something,” he mumbles, walking away.

“I think we dodged a bullet there, Lola,” I whisper, as the door shuts behind him.

Lola and I play for a few minutes, but she’s not especially chatty, and the house gets too quiet. “Let’s go see what Graham is doing,” I tell her, and we walk out the back door to find him on his knees, looking muscular and competent while he messes with an outlet. There’s a screwdriver held in his teeth and a toolbox at his knee. I never imagined I’d see him with a toolbox, and I never imagined how appealing I’d find that. I’ve always been more the type to find men hot when they’re…you know, on stage. Or ignoring me. I suppose Grahamismostly doing the latter.

“You love all this, don’t you?” I ask. “A house, a garden, all the family bullshit.”

He gives me a slight, sheepish smile. “Yeah. I guess I do.” He shrugs. “Who knows if it’ll happen? I’m gonna have some baggage.”

I think about the way women look at him when we’re out, and out of nowhere I feel leaden.

“You’d get snatched right up, if that’s what you wanted,” I tell him.

His gaze lingers on my face. “What makes you say that?”

“You’re adorable, obviously.” I flush and scuff my shoe along the patio’s edge. “I mean in a really gruff, stern, ‘those shoes are overpriced’ kind of way.”

He smiles, but there’s something wistful in it. “You mean in a way you personally hate.”

“I don’t hate it,” I reply. “Well, the commentary on my spending, yes. But the rest of it is just fine.”

His mouth quirks up a bit. “You’ll appreciate the commentary on your spending later on, when you’re ready to retire.”

“I’m not sure that’s true,” I reply, and we both laugh. “I’m going to take Lola for a walk.”

“Are you actually walking her or are you just planning to carry her the whole way? Because you haven’t put that dog down once. Our kid isn’t gonna learn to walk ’til she’s five at this rate.”

“Ugh, you’re not the boss of us,” I say, hugging Lola closer. “We don’t want him to come anyway, do we?”

Lola and I walk to the pet store, and I wind up carrying her most of the way because she keeps just sitting in the middle of the sidewalk. And she’s very little, after all. I then buy her more dog treats than she should eat in a year and feed her half of them on the way home, but again, she’s very little and probably needs food.

Just as we reach the house, though, she vomits.

Because of me.

Is this the kind of mother I’ll be too? Will I let my kid eat until she vomits? Will I ignore completely rational advice because I like my own way better and ruin her?

Lola falls asleep in my lap once we’re inside, and I just feel guilty. If I’m a terrible dog mom, I’ll probably be an even worse regular mom.

I go outside to look for Graham, hoping he can somehow make me feel better without me admitting what I’ve done. He’s at the far end of the yard, shirtless and tugging God knows what out of the ground, his taut, ripped shoulders glistening in the sun.

Ugh. Why does he have to look so goddamn good without a shirt?

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