The Devil Gets His Due (The Devils #4)(54)

I wonder if he realizes just how often he growls his questions. Because it’s a lot. And I don’t owe him an explanation, not after he shot me down last night, but I don’t have the time or energy right now to bait him, either.

“It’s my mom’s birthday.”

He turns fully, bracing himself against the counter. “You must know it sounds weird when you say it like that, under the circumstances.”

“It’s a séance. I’ve got her skull right here.” I pat my tote bag. I wait until he laughs before I shrug. “I’m going to her grave. It’s a pain in the ass because she’s buried all the way up in the Valley, but it is what it is.”

He prods the inside of his cheek with his tongue. “I’ll drive you. You shouldn’t be in your tiny little car on the highway.”

I open my mouth to object, but I like having Graham around. “I guess if you’re driving, I can finish telling you about all the people on Glee who dated each other in real life.”

His mouth curves. “Something to look forward to then.”

I laugh and I’m pretty sure only Graham could make me laugh on my mom’s birthday. It’s probably for the best that he turned me down. I might get more attached than I already am.





I get a lunch break for once, and I spend it online, reading about Anna Tattelbaum. She is everything I am not—she likes art and doesn’t go to fancy galas simply for the free booze. She is British, something I can’t even fake, and I know this because I’ve tried several times.

The sentence that stops me in my tracks, though, is this: Anna Tattelbaum, rumored to be dating hedge fund manager Graham Tate, one of the city’s most sought-after bachelors.

Graham is one of NYC’s most sought-after bachelors? How? Sure, he’s good-looking, but that kind of status is reserved for royalty or heirs to fortunes and he is neither. Which means it’s time to do something I’ve avoided for months.

Looking a man up online, especially one you really want to have sex with, is the slippery slope that leads to the Pit of Obsession. You learn one fact and you want to learn another. You see one photo and you need to see more. I sense, even before I begin my search, that my slide into the pit will be long and painful, and that I will thoroughly regret this later on.

The first thing that comes up is an article on “NYC’s Sexiest Male Singles”. They’ve got a photo of him looking bored and ridiculously hot at some charity function.

Graham Tate, the reclusive founder of Tate Capital, leads our list. With a net worth estimated at over a hundred million, we’d date him even if he didn’t look like the face of the next Tom Ford campaign. But he does. Therefore...Graham, give us a call. Any of us.

What. The. Hell.

The guy who was too cheap to get a chocolate fountain or tequila luge for our party is worth a hundred million. The guy who doesn’t own a car. The guy who bitched about the cost of the green juice I wanted this weekend and keeps telling me I don’t need both Netflix and Hulu.

I’ve known loads of millionaires and every last one of them flashed his wealth somehow. More importantly, I’ve never known one who didn’t think it made him special, who wasn’t under the impression his money exempted him from taking out the trash or carrying his own plate to the sink.

I slam my laptop shut and bury my face in my hands. I thought success was an attractive quality in a man, but it’s got nothing on the discovery that Graham has it in spades...and couldn’t care less.





NYC’s Sexiest Single is forced to wait for nearly forty minutes outside my office, because I’m so backed up…and that’s with me telling Trinny I couldn’t take Dr. Joliet’s six o’clock.

“I’m sorry,” I say, rushing out to the car, still in my lab coat.

“You’ve got to tell them,” he says as he pulls into traffic. “Seriously. This is insane.”

I sigh. “I know.”

“I mean it, Keeley. What’s the worst that can happen if you tell them? You don’t even like that job.”

I frown at him. “Oh, maybe I hadn’t mentioned this, but I’m actually about to have a child. It’s not a great time for me to be unemployed.”

“I’m not Jeff Bezos, but I can afford—” He circles his hand over me and my stomach. “—all this. If you want to just quit and wait until you find something.”

I laugh. I spent every free minute today researching Graham Tate. I now know he’s the guy billionaires entrust with their finances, and that there’s an entire subreddit devoted to What Graham Tate is Buying. I’ll continue to imply he does something with insurance, though. It keeps him on his toes.

“I appreciate the offer,” I reply, “but I think that would go poorly.”

He rolls his eyes. “Why?”

I can’t believe he’s arguing. Only a fool would offer to support me while I look for a job. He’s got to know I’d just sleep in until eleven and shop all day.

“Because then our power isn’t equal. The second you’re paying the bills, you’ll be like ‘No, Keeley, we can’t buy a Silver Cross stroller.’”

“I already told you we’re not buying a Silver Cross. Fourteen hundred dollars for a fucking stroller. It’s ridiculous.”