The Devil Gets His Due (The Devils #4)(34)

I search for the inevitable sarcasm in that statement but don’t find it. He seems legitimately befuddled. “You don’t like me.”

“I don’t approve of some of your habits.” He flushes, suddenly unable to meet my eye. “That’s different than not liking you.”

I’d assume he was bullshitting me now, but that’s the thing about Graham…I’m pretty sure he’s physically incapable of bullshitting me, and thus his repeated references to the fact that I’m growing bigger when he should be saying, “you look exactly the same to me.”

Which means Graham actually thinks I’m likable. It makes me feel weirdly defenseless, hearing this. Vulnerable.

“What are we watching tonight?” I ask. “I think I should get to choose since you made me cry yesterday.”

He laughs, deep and rumbly and unexpected. “You sure like to bring that up. Fine, what do you want to watch?”

Maybe I’ve got a shot with the sexy kidnapper movie this time, if I frame it better. “There’s a movie about a guy who kidnaps this woman he’s obsessed with and—”

“Veto. If I wanted to watch porn, I’d just watch porn.”

My gaze flickers to his face. Does Graham watch porn? He seems like the guys I knew at Catholic school who truly believed every word Father Thomas said, the ones who always looked like they were gonna pass out before they went into confession Wednesday mornings.

Then again, he seemed perfectly okay with premarital sex, so he’s probably okay with masturbation too. I picture one of those big hands sliding into his boxers, the way he’d swallow hard to stifle his groan. I squeeze my thighs together as I try to drive the image away.

“We’ll alternate,” I tell him. “My show tonight, because you made me cry, and yours tomorrow. Let’s just rewatch Bridgerton, I guess.”

“The word rewatch implies I saw it the first time.”

I gasp in horror, my hand going straight to my chest. “How could you not have? What the hell were you doing during the pandemic?”

“Preserving brain cells?” he offers, and I kick him.

After dinner, I move to one end of the couch and he moves to the other, as far apart as we can possibly be, though he’s sitting up politely while I’m stretched out. If I knew him better, or at all, I’d slide my toes under his thigh for warmth.

I cue up Bridgerton, which begins with a sex scene. It’s awkward, under the circumstances. Does this remind him that he slept with me? Because it’s reminding me I slept with him.

I’m relieved when we move on to Daphne, the main character, being presented to the queen.

“Why is her chest heaving like that?” Graham asks. “She barely walked twenty feet to get there.”

“She’s nervous. It’s a big deal.”

“I think Daphne needs to do more cardio.”

I ignore him, but minutes later he’s questioning the distribution of the free gossip rag, arguing that without ads, no one’s turning a profit. I tell him he’s taking the show too literally and slide my toes under his thigh.

He yelps. “Jesus Christ, your feet are like ice.”

“Stop being such a baby. My toes are cold, your thigh is warm. It’s a perfect symbiotic relationship.”

“I’m not sure what I get out of having your dirty feet pressed to my skin.”

I guess I really didn’t have to warn him not to tell me my swollen feet were beautiful. I could be a foot model and he wouldn’t tell me my feet or any other part of me was beautiful.

An image of him comes to mind, though, from one of those nights we were together. He was pushing my hair away from my face, about to kiss me, and looking at me like I was the moon and the stars. I think it might have been our wedding. Huh.

“And now they’re talking about Daphne at full volume and she’s sitting right beside them. How is she not hearing this? The duke should run. She needs serious cardio and is deaf in one ear.”

I groan aloud. If he’s this bad with Bridgerton, I can’t imagine what he’d say about 365 Days. “Stop shitting on it and let me enjoy the fantasy of being courted by the perfect man.”

“So he’s perfect? How is the duke different from me?”

I bark a laugh. There is an entire universe between Simon, the Duke of Hastings, and Graham Tate. “He’s a duke.”

“I’d actually figured that out on my own.”

“He’s—” Cranky, commanding, intense, smug, fierce, handsome, amusing, intelligent. All words someone other than me might use to describe Graham, too, dammit. “British.”

His lips twitch. “Yes, there’s not much I can do about that part.”

“It’s sort of a dealbreaker, unfortunately.”

He laughs. To be honest, he has a pleasant laugh. I’ve dated men who make a noise that sounds like laughter but doesn’t feel like it. When Graham laughs, it’s like I’ve caught it in my own chest, some kind of minor virus that leaves me happy for the rest of the night.

If we weren’t going to be forced to share a child, he’s someone I might be friends with.

We’re at the final scene: Daphne and the Duke’s first dance, under the stars. Fireworks explode, the music swells…and Graham speaks.