The Devil Gets His Due (The Devils #4)(25)

It must be the pregnancy hormones, but man are they packing a wallop right now.

“Hey, roomie,” I say, popping a handful of Lucky Charms in my mouth as he turns to me.

“Hey.” His face is stern as his gaze drops to the cereal, no hint of a smile. “Is that your dinner?”

“A, they’re healthy because they have the gross non-marshmallow bits. And B, I ordered a pizza, but I’m starving.”

Just as his mouth opens to comment on this, the doorbell rings. I start to climb to my feet but he waves me down. “I’ll get it.”

When he sets my pizza and garlic knots on the table, I grab a slice straight from the box.

“Do you not have plates?” he asks.

I groan around the cheese and bread in my mouth. Nothing has ever tasted better than this first bite of pizza. “Too hungry. Cabinet.”

He crosses the kitchen and flings open doors. “You shouldn’t let yourself get that hungry.”

“I didn’t have a choice…I was in the middle of making something when I got called into the hospital.” It’s sort of true.

He takes the seat across from mine and hands me a plate before opening the pizza box. He has a burn mark on his forearm, one I never noticed before. Maybe he left his abacus sitting in the sun too long.

“Can’t they cut you some slack, given the situation?” His eyes fall to my stomach, the way they do every time he sees me, as if he still can’t quite believe there’s actually a baby in there.

I reach for a second slice. “They don’t know yet. I need them to see that the baby won’t change anything.”

“Keeley, the baby’s going to change everything.” He leans back in his seat, a beleaguered sigh on his lips. “What do you think will happen when you don’t come home on time? No nanny is going to be as flexible as your job seems to demand of you.”

The pizza has become a lumpy mass in my mouth, and if he weren’t here, I’d just spit it out. A nanny? I can’t afford a fucking nanny. Just the thought of what that must cost makes me feel like I’m going to throw up.

Am I really going to spend all day at a job I hate, taking endless shit from Drs. Fox and Joliet about my unbelted cardigans and my perceived attitude, just so I can hand the entire paycheck over to a woman who gets to stay home with my baby?

“You’ll be on maternity leave,” he continues, “but when you get back, you’ll need set hours afterward. Plus, there are endless pediatric visits with a newborn. You’re going to need to—”

“Stop,” I whisper. Nothing he’s saying is wrong, but I really don’t want to think about it right now, and knowing I’ll have to face it all—and soon—hammers home how insane this whole thing is.

Maternity leave? Set hours? I can just picture Dr. Fox’s face when I attempt to ask for either of those things.

How did I ever think this would work out?

There’s no way I’m going to be a decent parent and Graham is here solely to remind me. And probably to document it, too, so the first second we can’t compromise, he’ll say, “we’ll see what the court thinks” and produce a long list of my mistakes.

I push away from the table because I’ll be damned if I’m going to cry in front of him.

“I’ll just clean up then,” he says from behind, voice rife with sarcasm.

“Fuck you,” I whisper, slamming the door behind me.





OceanofPDF.com





15





OceanofPDF.com





GRAHAM





The next morning, she’s rushing around the apartment, late and frantic.

I open my mouth and she stops me. “It’s not my fault.”

I doubt Keeley’s ever thought anything was her fault. But given how mad she was at dinner, and how tired she looks today, I figure I should keep this to myself. We probably need to discuss what happened last night—I’m still not sure what the hell I said that set her off—but this clearly isn’t the time.

She swings the bread out from the cabinet. “Can you make Mark his toast?”

I swallow down the unpleasant memory of that name from the night I first came here. For a solid two minutes, I was imagining a man named Mark replacing me, sleeping in her bed, raising my kid.

It felt a lot like jealousy. It still does. I don’t want to hear any other man’s name on her lips for a good long time, homeless or otherwise. Not when she’s pregnant, at least.

“Oh. And this is his paper.” She shoves The Wall Street Journal into my hands.

“Why is he getting his paper here?”

“Well, I buy it, but I really only want the style section so I give him the rest. You’re on your way out, right? Just hand it to him and tell him I’ll be down to hang out with him after work.”

“Far be it from me to criticize—”

Her eyes roll. “Yes, you’ve held back admirably thus far.”

“But maybe you shouldn’t be sitting on a filthy sidewalk while pregnant.”

“I’m not,” she says, heading out. “He keeps a chair down there for me.”

I release a quiet groan as the door slams shut. Of all the women in the world to accidentally knock up, why her? After a lifetime of staggering, consummate carefulness, how could I have slipped up with this person who thinks Lucky Charms count as a health food and who has her own chair to sit with the homeless man outside?