Page 88 of The Devil Gets His Due

He didn’t fly back to New York…He went to get us breakfast. What a ridiculous thing to make my heart swell ten sizes.

And then his gaze lands on me, on the t-shirt I’m wearing, and I feel heat climbing up my neck.Fuck.

He crosses the room to me and pulls a cup from the tray. “It’s decaf,” he says and I hold the mocha latte to my nose, letting the steam rise in a delicious waft of fresh roasted beans and chocolate before I take a sip. He holds the bag aloft. “And I got your disgusting muffin.”

He bought the muffin he doesn’t approve of. For me. Instead of forcing me to eat some gross concoction of protein powder and eggs and peanut butter like he does.

“Thank you,” I reply. “I assume you snuck quinoa into it, but that was sweet of you.”

“It’s quinoa-free.” His eyes lower now to his t-shirt.

Fuck. Again.

“I, uh…” I begin, and my mind suddenly is empty of all plausible excuses for stealing his shirt when I had to step over my own clothes to reach it.

His gaze raises to my face, and there’s a hint of a smile in his eyes. “I like it.” He steps closer and, removing the coffee from my hand, kisses me.

“You can’t kiss me,” I argue, though I’m making no effort to back away from him. “I haven’t brushed my teeth.”

“You taste like coffee, which happens to be one of my favorite things.”

His hand lands on my hip and I’m suddenly breathless. “I didn’t know that.”

He pulls me close then, close enough to feel the bulge in his gym shorts—which is pretty much all the foreplay I need. “Would you like to know some of my other favorites, Keeley?” His lips graze the shell of my ear, and before I’ve even begun to nod, his hand is sliding beneath the t-shirt and over my skin.

“Yes,” I whisper.

“You’re not going to tell me this is a terrible idea?” His hand runs along my rib cage, his wrist brushing the underside of my breast.

“I’m going to think it but keep it to myself.”

He laughs then picks me up like I’m feather-light and carries me back to bed.

There should have beena whole chapter inWhat to Expect When You’re Expectingon the dangerous combination of pregnancy hormones and Graham Tate. Because I’m pretty sure that if one of us wasn’t a vaguely responsible adult—hint: it’s not me, but it’s barely him either—we would fuck until we died from lack of sleep or starvation.

We do manage to talk, a little. I tell him about the way Dr. Fox is trying to force me out and how I’m not sure if this is even the kind of dermatology I’m interested in. He tells me about Prescott, the dick who is leaving to manage a competitive hedge fund, and how he thinks Jody, the new second in command, will rise to the task.

Most of our conversations are slightly less intense, of course. I haven’t changedthatmuch.

“I like the name Blossom for a girl,” I muse.

“She can’t be secretary of state with a name like Blossom,” he argues.

“She’s got half my DNA, Graham. She was never gonna be secretary of state anyway.” I smooth my hand over my bare stomach. When I’m lying on my back as I am now, I can’t even see my legs anymore. “I don’t think I lookthatpregnant. There was a model in Australia who had a baby when she went to the bathroom and never even knew she was pregnant. All her clothes still fit.”

He chokes on a laugh. “Keeley, when was the last time you could claim that all your clothes still fit? You’ve been bragging about your new breast size pretty much since I got here.”

I cup them. “Aren’t they amazing? I hope that part sticks around.”

I wait…for him to say he hopes it does too. Or to say it doesn’t matter to him. Something to allude to what happens after the baby is born, when he’s in New York with the elegant Anna and I’m here—sleep-deprived, covered in spit-up and quite possibly a B-cup again.

But he just laughs.

Which I guess is okay. Your first weekend as a couple isn’t the time to have a whole “where is this headed?”conversation under normal circumstances. Then again, under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t be thirty-four weeks pregnant with his kid either.

On Sunday afternoon,we leave the apartment for the first time all weekend to attend Gemma’s barbeque, which I now regret agreeing to. He’s flying out of LAX tonight, and it’s a flight he will need to make.

“One hour, right?” he asks when we pull onto their street.

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