The Devil Gets His Due (The Devils #4)(51)

I glance outside. He’s walking off fast, angry. “He seems like he’s not over it.”

She rolls her eyes and shrugs. “I told him at the start I didn’t want anything serious. Rich guys always think they’ll be the exception.”

“I guess he’s the source of your Birkin bag?”

Her eyes narrow. “If you’re about to accuse me of having an ‘arrangement’ with men again, we are going to have an extremely loud and public fight.”

I wince. I’d forgotten I ever said that. To be fair, however, I had no idea she was dating guys like Kramer. “I’m surprised you let him go. I thought your greatest dream was to be kept by a Saudi prince.”

She rolls her eyes. “Jesus Christ, Graham. Do you not know me better than that? My greatest dream is to make my own money and be alone for the years I’ve got left.” She offers me a forced smile. “I’m a butterfly, remember?”

She thinks she doesn’t want to be grounded or kept by anyone, yet she didn’t want to stay inside alone today for five seconds. She follows me around the kitchen in her apartment every night like I’ve got her on a leash, and I’ve even seen her following the cleaning lady around to chat. She doesn’t want to be alone, ever. So why is she telling herself the opposite?

When we return, it’s bedtime. Lola cries when we put her in the crate in Gemma and Ben’s room, and Keeley’s eyes well. “I can’t stand it.”

“Go stay in the guest room,” I tell her. “I’ll sleep in here.”

“Or we could just, you know, not make her sleep in the crate. She could sleep in bed with me.”

“They’re trying to train her, Keeley. You can’t just undo their hard work. Go to the guest room.”

She does so reluctantly, and I settle into bed, ignoring Lola’s pathetic little cries. This is going to be an issue with me and Keeley once we’re parents: she will give in, and I’ll always be the heavy. She’ll have our kid eating Lucky Charms and sleeping in her bed and watching Bridgerton, and I’ll have to be the bad guy coming in to ruin everyone’s fun. But I guess it’s good that she’s bothered by the crying. Despite all the things that will go wrong, our child will never doubt she’s deeply loved.

Eventually, I fall asleep. I’m vaguely aware of a noise in the middle of the night—Gemma warned us that Lola gets up to pee around four—but it stops before I’ve even opened my eyes. I figure if it’s really an issue, Lola will let us know.

I wake to discover the sun coming through the windows and Lola and Keeley in my bed, Lola between us, Keeley’s hand on Lola’s stomach.

Keeley’s loose waves cover half her face, but I can still tell she’s smiling in her sleep.

God, the sight of her like that burns in my chest. It’s all the things I wish were different and all the things I wish we could have been, wrapped into one.





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30





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KEELEY





On Sunday morning, Lola and I play while Graham is very Graham: making himself a healthy breakfast, going for a run, checking on work, telling me to stop holding Lola.

When he’s finally exasperated by my inability to follow directions, he suggests we take her for a walk. We head toward downtown Santa Monica, and since Graham refuses to let me carry her, Lola spends the walk begging every person we pass for attention—and getting it.

“You should get a tattoo,” I say, glancing back at the tats on the guy who just finished cooing over her.

“Tattoos are ridiculous,” he replies. “I can’t imagine caring about something enough to permanently disfigure my body over it.”

“Well, I think that’s sad.”

“Yeah, so sad. What are the deeply meaningful things Six Bailey has written on his body?”

I reach for my phone and look up Six Bailey and tattoos because I’m certain Graham’s wrong. He takes my phone, flinty-eyed, and expands the picture.

“A marijuana leaf. How touching. Then there’s a bird, I suppose to signify his desire for freedom? A shark. I’m not sure what the fuck that’s for. Oh, and it looks like McGruff the Crime Dog.”

“You don’t know that,” I mutter, rising onto my toes to see the picture again. “I’m sure there are loads of St. Bernards who wear a trench coat with the collar popped.”

He laughs to himself. “Well, you’ve definitely proven your point. It’s deeply sad that I don’t care about freedom, drugs, sharks, and McGruff the Crime Dog enough to permanently disfigure myself.”

“Well, I think—”

Graham’s hand wraps around my hip as he presses my back to a storefront, his body shielding mine as a kid on a skateboard blows past us seconds later.

I blink up at him, at first in surprise, and become aware—not for the first time—of his lovely sharp jaw, already in need of a shave, and his lovely mouth, slightly ajar, and his bright blue eyes, which are currently focused on my lips.

For a half second, I can’t imagine wanting to look at anything else.

For a half second, I’m certain I know why I married him, I definitely know why I slept with him...and I think he might want the same thing I do.