The Devil Gets His Due (The Devils #4)
Elizabeth O'Roark
JANUARY
“I have two goals,” I announce, handing Gemma a margarita and sloshing it all over my hand in the process. This is either because the margarita is too full or because it’s not my first of the day. I have a feeling the Langham Hotel is going to regret letting me host an event here.
Gemma smiles. “Only two? Let me guess, neither of them involves a savings account.”
I pinch her. “Two goals for your party, asshole.”
Gemma, to my vast irritation, ran off and married her boyfriend in an entirely elegant and dignified manner, a situation I hope to rectify this weekend. That was the plan, anyway, until her new brother-in-law, Graham, got involved.
“Okay.” Gemma blots the stem of her glass with a napkin and places it on the table. “Let’s hear these ‘goals.’” She does air quotes around the word goals, which feels a little unfair to me when she hasn’t even heard them, but is entirely fair based on our six-year friendship—she knows how I roll.
“One, to throw you the wedding party of a lifetime. Two, to bang the hell out of Six Bailey. Not necessarily in that order.”
Six Bailey, one of her husband’s many famous friends, is a hot, tattooed man-child, the kind of guy who will fuck like a machine and take off before I can tire of him. Will he reciprocate my interest? Probably. I’m blond and blue-eyed and look just like my mother, who once had two semi-famous rock stars get into a fistfight over her on stage. The interest part seems to take care of itself.
Therefore, Six Bailey is already a sure thing, and possibly the one part of this weekend Gemma’s awful brother-in-law won’t manage to ruin.
“I’m just relieved you and Graham managed to agree on something,” Gemma says. “I was beginning to think this party wouldn’t even happen.”
“I’d hardly say we agreed,” I mutter. Because what’s left of my proposed week-long party in Santorini? Happy hour in a hotel bar today followed by an afternoon party tomorrow. Yes, an afternoon party. Like we’re celebrating a fucking baptism.
“I told Ben the two of you would make a terrible couple. Oh, before I forget, they’ve got a new color of the Sydney stiletto in stock at Stuart Weitzman and—”
“Wait, what?” I cut in. “Ben thought we wouldn’t be a terrible couple?” What sentient human possibly could have believed that Graham Tate and I wouldn’t shred each other to pieces, and not in a sexy way, if given the option?
As I’ve discovered thanks to way too many phone calls, Graham is the kind of guy who does what he’s supposed to at every juncture. Other women would call him a “keeper”: he saves money, tracks his macros, and has the next ten years planned out. He will take you out on a series of polite, respectful dates while assessing your ability to bring up his children and say the right thing at work events.
Personally, I have no desire to procreate, say the right thing or meet someone’s standards. I mostly don’t ever want to be “kept” and, therefore, I avoid keepers like the plague.
“It was ages ago,” she says with a wave of her hand. “Graham had—oh, wait, they’re here!”
Her fingers dig into my arm as she drags me across the room toward her tall and extremely handsome new husband…and the even hotter man beside him, who is supposed to be Graham but absolutely can’t be.
I’ve developed an image of Graham in my head after spending six straight weeks bickering with him by phone, so I know he must be bald and tiny and look two decades older than Ben somehow—though he’s actually two years younger. He carries an abacus or encyclopedia with him everywhere he goes and uses them to discuss things no one but him cares about. Like taxes or healthcare or politics.
Therefore, the broad-shouldered guy with the bone structure of a young superhero and wearing the hell out of a very nice suit can’t possibly be Graham.
Can I picture this guy with an abacus? No. Can I see this guy with an encyclopedia? Yes, but only in a kinky way. Like maybe he’s about to fuck you in the back of the library and doesn’t bother to sweep the books off the table before he pins you there.
He is not Graham. Except he does look a lot like Ben—the same dark hair, the same perfect bone structure, the same quarterback build—and Gemma is currently saying “two nemesises come face to face” in a British accent as if she’s narrating a nature documentary.
“I think the plural is nemeses,” the guy who can’t be Graham says with the ghost of a smirk on his face. He has the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. “I looked it up in anticipation of this meeting.”
I recognize his low, gravelly voice—even sexier now that I’m seeing the face that goes with it. I also recognize the corresponding desire to punch him.
Ugh. It is Graham. I suppose that means any moment now he’ll be asking me how much these margaritas were and deducting them from his share of the costs.
What a waste. You could sharpen a knife on that jawline. Alas.
His eyes meet mine, though I don’t miss the way they went to my cleavage first. Good. I bought this dress hoping to make the most of my assets, and if even boring Graham is looking, Six Bailey is in the bag.
“Well, well, well,” I say. “Look who put down the actuarial tables long enough to show up at the party.”