Page 71 of The Devil Gets His Due

I picture him with someone else, someone more like Anna than me—tall and elegant and, you know,notpregnant, unbuttoning that black shirt he wore. Unbuckling his belt. Him beneath her, allowing her to take charge.

And I hate her, but more than that I hatehim. I hate him so fucking much.

I don’t even know why I hate him, and I guess he hasn’ttechnicallydone anything wrong, but my thoughts are rage-filled and irrational. I picture kicking him out. Changing the locks, dumping his files and computer outside the door. And hehasdone something wrong. We are,technically, married.

I pick up the phone, my only goal to actively ruin whatever he currently has going with someone else in whatever way occurs to me.I’ll tell him I’ve gone into labor. Explain THAT to your one-night stand,Graham. But before his phone’s even begun to ring, I see a note he’s stuck to the bananas:At gym. Try not to eat all the fruit while I’m gone.

I hang up, and then stand for a moment, letting this sink in. Letting the relief hit me, and then the realization I’m relieved when I shouldn’t have cared in the first place.This is potentially the biggest moment of my life. How could I have forgotten that simply because Graham wasn’t home?

Whatever. I still need to talk to him. I want him to listen to all the side businesses I’ll spin from my future reality show. He’d probably know all about syndication rights too. That’s where the money is, or so I’ve heard.

I dress as fast as I can, then take the elevator to the top floor, where the building’s plush gym looks out over the city through a million windows.

When I walk in, he’s doing dead lifts, so it’s his arms I notice first—massive, rippling with extra muscles that don’t even exist in real men. And not to brag, but I’ve seen a lot of men naked, so I’d know. Sweat glistens on his brow, his eyes so focused and determined that lust hits me like a bolt of lightning.

Lust has also hit the chick on the treadmill, however. She is surreptitiously taking photos of him, which I find deeply irritating. I mean, she doesn’t evenknowhim.

“He’s married,” I hiss as I pass. “FYI.”

I continue on, wondering what the hell led me to say that. Graham will soon be gone, but I might be sharing an elevator with that woman for years.

Well, she shouldn’t be looking at a married man. Even one who isn’t wearing a ring.

He sees me and sets the weight down, his brow furrowed in concern. “Are you okay? I assume only an emergency would bring you to a room where people exercise on purpose.”

“I’m up hereall the time,” I reply primly, though I’ve not been here once since my tour of the building, two years prior.

Treadmill Stalker is still watching, so I walk closer than I normally would and press my hand to his chest, the way I might if he were actually mine rather than simply pretending to be. His gaze falls to my hand, and he raises a brow.

“I’m checking your pulse,” I tell him. “For the life insurance policy I’m taking out on you.”

“That’s not where you find a pulse, Keeley.”

“Oh, I forget…which one of us went to medical school, Graham? Was it you?”

He smirks. “I wasn’t convinced it was either of us until quite recently. So what’s up?”

“I’m about to be really famous and I need you to help me figure out what my reality show should be called.”

“Reality show,” he repeats flatly. “Is this an actual thing or are you just spit-balling again?” He runs a broad hand over his head and it holds there. My nipples tighten simply at the sight of his armpit. This is what I’m reduced to after six months without sex—a woman whose nipples tighten at the sight of male armpit hair.

It’s a new low.

“I just got this text,” I say, brandishing my phone.

He reads it but fails to swing me in the air with the ecstasy of a lottery winner, which I guess lines up—even if Graham won the lottery, he’d just put it all in a mutual fund and go on about his business.

I reach for my phone. “I didn’t call him back yet. I don’t want to look too eager.”

“Let’s hope no one caught you running all the way up here to tell me about it, then.” He frowns. “That’s really what you want?”

“Of course. It’s whateveryonewants.”

I can tell he’d like to argue, but he somehow refrains. “Then I guess you’d better go give the guy a call.”

I blink. I wasn’t done discussing this with him. I want to get his thoughts on merchandising opportunities, the likelihood that the skincare/makeup world is too oversaturated for yet another celebrity line (A Dose of Dr. C, Dr. C’s Corrective Cream…the names honestly write themselves). But he’s dismissing me, and he isn’t happy, and I hate that his unhappiness is taking away a little of mine.

I return to the apartment and dial Trevor MacNulty’s number. I leave a message, sounding politely interested at best.

---