Page 57 of There is No Devil

I pull it out, feeling a leap of excitement at the sight of Cole’s name, even though he’s only been gone an hour.

“What did they say?” I cry, by way of greeting.

“Marcus York seemed to like it,” Cole replies.

“When will you hear back?”

“Soon. York is pushing this thing through as quickly as possible. He’s got some finger in the pie, I don’t know what exactly—probably a kickback on the construction.”

“Do you want to win?” I ask him, wondering how disappointed he’ll be if Shaw takes it instead.

“I always want to win.”

“And if you don’t?”

Cole laughs. “I don’t know how I’ll feel—I’ve never lost before.”

I like the sound of his voice over the phone—like he’s murmuring right in my ear. It makes the little hairs on my arms stand up. I don’t want to hang up.

“Are you coming back now?” I ask him.

“I’m almost there already. I’m driving like it’s the Grand Prix. Come stand at the window so I can see you as I pull up.”

Impulsively, I unfasten the straps of my overalls and step out of them. I pull off my shirt and my underwear as well.

Then I step up onto the window frame, completely nude, looking down at the street below.

I see Cole’s black Tesla zoom up to the curb, stopping short with a jerk. He steps out, tall and lean, his long dark hair tossed back by the wind.

He looks up at me.

I press my palm against the glass, phone to my ear.

“Fucking hell,” Cole breathes. “You’re a goddess.”

* * *

We head backto Cole’s house, which is beginning to feel like my house. Not because I own it, but because I love it so much. I love the stark, forbidding face, the jumble of pointed dormers and dark gables. The ornate woodwork and the black stone.

Most of all, I love this perch high up on the cliffs, with the endless cycle of waves crashing below.

The wind blows off the bay, wild and cold. It’s the chilliest November on record. People keep making stupid jokes about how we could really use that global warming right now. Janice said it to me this morning.

As Cole opens the door for me, I think perhaps I like the smell of his house best of all.

He’s lived here alone for more than a decade. The scent is all his: leather and clay, the spice of his cologne, ocean salt, wet rock after rain. And running through it like a vein, my own scent as well. As perfect a pairing as any I’ve created with food. More delicious than banana and bacon, or avocado and jam.

The textures and colors of his house soothe me. Everything is muted and dark, but so lovely. Cole could never bear anything garish or loud.

The deep chocolate boards creak beneath my feet. The diaphanous curtains blow back from the open windows with a sound like a sigh, letting the sea breeze into the house.

Cole heads up to his room to change out of his clothes. He’s fastidious and doesn’t like to wear the same shoes and trousers that made contact with the outside world. He’ll come down in a minute, probably wearing some old-fashioned smoking jacket and a pair of velvet slippers.

I’ll have to change clothes as well, as I’m still covered in paint.

For the moment, my attention is caught by my laptop, still open on the table where Cole left it.

I don’t care that he was reading my emails. I would have been incensed if anyone had done it a few weeks ago, but we’re well past that now.

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