The Devil Gets His Due (The Devils #4)(20)
“Doesn’t it make more sense to, I don’t know, save your leave up?” I argue. “You can come back after the baby is born. Nothing is even happening now.”
His eyes darken. “Everything is happening now.”
I sigh. “I don’t know, and you’re not going to push me into deciding anything here, so let me just enjoy my steak.”
He smirks. “I didn’t get the sense I was stopping you.”
I look down. My steak is half-gone already. “Just stop talking,” I tell him.
When the meal concludes, he pays the bill and walks me out to my car, eyeing my convertible MINI Cooper. Any second now he’ll say, “that’s not a good car for a kid. Have you considered replacing it with a used minivan?”
“I know you need some time to think,” he says instead, “but I’m only here until Sunday. Can we meet tomorrow morning to discuss it some more?”
“Do you promise you won’t trash any hopes I have about the Saudi prince?”
His mouth twitches. “Do you really think a Saudi prince is going to fall for a woman who’s five months pregnant? It’s not like he wouldn’t have other options.”
My arms fold across my chest. “You’ve got this weird habit of doing exactly what I just told you not to do.”
He smiles to himself. “You’ve got a weird habit of entertaining wildly unrealistic hopes and dreams.”
“Whatever. I’ll meet you at the Starbucks by my apartment at eleven.”
“Eleven? That’s hardly morn—”
He stops himself at my raised eyebrow.
“Fine. Eleven.”
He holds my door while I climb into the car. Holding someone’s door is honestly the most useless action. Were women once so weak they couldn’t close a door on their own? But I guess…it’s not all bad. Maybe it’s a little sweet.
I can see exactly who he’ll be as a father: bossy, demanding, full of unreasonable expectations. But he just flew across the country, tried to get me to eat vegetables, paid for my meal, and saw me safely to my car.
The truth is, he’ll likely be a far better parent than I’ll be.
OceanofPDF.com
12
OceanofPDF.com
GRAHAM
I stay in a hotel that night so I don’t have to lie to my family about why I’m here, a lie that would be dissected by each of them ad nauseam.
She breezes into Starbucks ten minutes late, of course. Probably had to discuss some critical financial issue with her homeless friend Mark. Her pale blonde hair is falling out of a loose bun, the sparkle in her eyes could stop traffic, and she’s smiling at everyone she passes. It’s only when she sees me that she grows wary.
“You came,” she says, making no effort to hide her disappointment.
“Did you think I’d fly across the country for this conversation and change my mind that quickly?”
She shrugs. “I would.”
Yes, I know. I know because you fucking married me and ran off without a word, and then got pregnant with no intention of telling me.
Nothing Keeley does could surprise me at this point, aside from her potentially behaving her age, which is twenty-nine, a fact I only know from the marriage license. Jesus, what was I thinking, and what is she thinking now? She’s so desperate to cut me out of all this and take care of the kid alone when she barely seems capable of taking care of herself.
We reach the counter. It’s on the tip of my tongue to remind her she can’t have caffeine, but right now, she’s holding all the cards. I need her to agree to this plan before I start treating her like the child she basically is.
“I’ll have a venti decaf mocha,” she says, leaning toward the male barista, who is definitely one of those assholes who moved here hoping for his big break. “But tell me something—do you guys, like, experiment with all the syrups when it’s slow?”
He’s eating out of her palm. Of course he is. The most gorgeous woman he’s ever laid eyes on is currently looking at him like he has the world’s most fascinating job.
He grins. “All the time. We—”
“That drink has twenty grams of sugar,” I announce, placing my hand on the small of her back. “That can’t be good for the baby. And I’ll just have the breakfast blend, venti.”
His eyes widen. Yeah, asshole, she wasn’t gonna date you even if she wasn’t pregnant.
“What the hell, man?” she demands of me once we’ve moved beyond the register. “I was about to find out all the barista secrets and you ruined it.”
“You are five months pregnant and flirting with Criss-with-two-s’s while he figures out what to do with his life. Do you really not see anything wrong with that?”
“I wasn’t flirting, and you have no idea what Criss-with-two-ss’s does when he’s not at Starbucks.”
She seems legitimately peeved, which makes me wonder if she just doesn’t understand her own power, doesn’t realize that when she smiles, men turn into fifteen-year-old boys again, too overcome by hormonal impulses to make reasonable decisions. And then they marry her, apparently, if the opportunity arises.