The Devil Gets His Due (The Devils #4)(49)
“Ben asked me to take a look at something,” he mumbles, walking away.
“I think we dodged a bullet there, Lola,” I whisper, as the door shuts behind him.
Lola and I play for a few minutes, but she’s not especially chatty, and the house gets too quiet. “Let’s go see what Graham is doing,” I tell her, and we walk out the back door to find him on his knees, looking muscular and competent while he messes with an outlet. There’s a screwdriver held in his teeth and a toolbox at his knee. I never imagined I’d see him with a toolbox, and I never imagined how appealing I’d find that. I’ve always been more the type to find men hot when they’re…you know, on stage. Or ignoring me. I suppose Graham is mostly doing the latter.
“You love all this, don’t you?” I ask. “A house, a garden, all the family bullshit.”
He gives me a slight, sheepish smile. “Yeah. I guess I do.” He shrugs. “Who knows if it’ll happen? I’m gonna have some baggage.”
I think about the way women look at him when we’re out, and out of nowhere I feel leaden.
“You’d get snatched right up, if that’s what you wanted,” I tell him.
His gaze lingers on my face. “What makes you say that?”
“You’re adorable, obviously.” I flush and scuff my shoe along the patio’s edge. “I mean in a really gruff, stern, ‘those shoes are overpriced’ kind of way.”
He smiles, but there’s something wistful in it. “You mean in a way you personally hate.”
“I don’t hate it,” I reply. “Well, the commentary on my spending, yes. But the rest of it is just fine.”
His mouth quirks up a bit. “You’ll appreciate the commentary on your spending later on, when you’re ready to retire.”
“I’m not sure that’s true,” I reply, and we both laugh. “I’m going to take Lola for a walk.”
“Are you actually walking her or are you just planning to carry her the whole way? Because you haven’t put that dog down once. Our kid isn’t gonna learn to walk ’til she’s five at this rate.”
“Ugh, you’re not the boss of us,” I say, hugging Lola closer. “We don’t want him to come anyway, do we?”
Lola and I walk to the pet store, and I wind up carrying her most of the way because she keeps just sitting in the middle of the sidewalk. And she’s very little, after all. I then buy her more dog treats than she should eat in a year and feed her half of them on the way home, but again, she’s very little and probably needs food.
Just as we reach the house, though, she vomits.
Because of me.
Is this the kind of mother I’ll be too? Will I let my kid eat until she vomits? Will I ignore completely rational advice because I like my own way better and ruin her?
Lola falls asleep in my lap once we’re inside, and I just feel guilty. If I’m a terrible dog mom, I’ll probably be an even worse regular mom.
I go outside to look for Graham, hoping he can somehow make me feel better without me admitting what I’ve done. He’s at the far end of the yard, shirtless and tugging God knows what out of the ground, his taut, ripped shoulders glistening in the sun.
Ugh. Why does he have to look so goddamn good without a shirt?
He glances up as I approach, and his face is clear and untroubled for once. He’s in his element here, fixing shit and pulling up weeds. Working hard and being responsible—my polar opposite.
“I just saw your future,” I tell him. “You’ll settle down with some nice little wife who grows her own vegetables, loves to cook, and worries about getting your shirts done just right.”
He rises, studying me. “You sound like you don’t approve.”
I swallow, staring at the ground as I blink back tears. “It’s all fine until you decide our kid should stay with you permanently because it’s a better environment.”
“Jesus, Keeley,” he whispers, closing the distance between us. “Stop. I would never, ever do that to you.”
My eyes fall closed, my heart aching so much it’s hard to speak. “But you’d be right,” I whisper back. “She’d be better off with you.”
He nestles me against his firm chest, his arms wrapping tight around me. “Bullshit,” he says. “You’ll feed her endless amounts of garbage and she’ll get expelled at least once for saying something wildly inappropriate, but no one will love that kid more than you do, and make sure she knows it. And what could possibly matter more than that?”
I can almost see myself the way he sees me: a version in which my gross irresponsibility is merely a quirk and my heart isn’t jaded at all.
“I made Lola vomit,” I whisper. “I gave her too many treats.”
He laughs. “That sounds about right. But it’ll be okay.”
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GRAHAM
In the afternoon, there’s a knock at the front door. I open it and a little girl comes rushing into the house. Hayes, Ben’s best friend, stands on the front stoop.
“Sorry,” he says, “Ben said it was okay if we stopped by? My daughter is obsessed with Lola.”