The Devil Gets His Due (The Devils #4)(62)

I hang up, and then stand for a moment, letting this sink in. Letting the relief hit me, and then the realization I’m relieved when I shouldn’t have cared in the first place. This is potentially the biggest moment of my life. How could I have forgotten that simply because Graham wasn’t home?

Whatever. I still need to talk to him. I want him to listen to all the side businesses I’ll spin from my future reality show. He’d probably know all about syndication rights too. That’s where the money is, or so I’ve heard.

I dress as fast as I can, then take the elevator to the top floor, where the building’s plush gym looks out over the city through a million windows.

When I walk in, he’s doing dead lifts, so it’s his arms I notice first—massive, rippling with extra muscles that don’t even exist in real men. And not to brag, but I’ve seen a lot of men naked, so I’d know. Sweat glistens on his brow, his eyes so focused and determined that lust hits me like a bolt of lightning.

Lust has also hit the chick on the treadmill, however. She is surreptitiously taking photos of him, which I find deeply irritating. I mean, she doesn’t even know him.

“He’s married,” I hiss as I pass. “FYI.”

I continue on, wondering what the hell led me to say that. Graham will soon be gone, but I might be sharing an elevator with that woman for years.

Well, she shouldn’t be looking at a married man. Even one who isn’t wearing a ring.

He sees me and sets the weight down, his brow furrowed in concern. “Are you okay? I assume only an emergency would bring you to a room where people exercise on purpose.”

“I’m up here all the time,” I reply primly, though I’ve not been here once since my tour of the building, two years prior.

Treadmill Stalker is still watching, so I walk closer than I normally would and press my hand to his chest, the way I might if he were actually mine rather than simply pretending to be. His gaze falls to my hand, and he raises a brow.

“I’m checking your pulse,” I tell him. “For the life insurance policy I’m taking out on you.”

“That’s not where you find a pulse, Keeley.”

“Oh, I forget…which one of us went to medical school, Graham? Was it you?”

He smirks. “I wasn’t convinced it was either of us until quite recently. So what’s up?”

“I’m about to be really famous and I need you to help me figure out what my reality show should be called.”

“Reality show,” he repeats flatly. “Is this an actual thing or are you just spit-balling again?” He runs a broad hand over his head and it holds there. My nipples tighten simply at the sight of his armpit. This is what I’m reduced to after six months without sex—a woman whose nipples tighten at the sight of male armpit hair.

It’s a new low.

“I just got this text,” I say, brandishing my phone.

He reads it but fails to swing me in the air with the ecstasy of a lottery winner, which I guess lines up—even if Graham won the lottery, he’d just put it all in a mutual fund and go on about his business.

I reach for my phone. “I didn’t call him back yet. I don’t want to look too eager.”

“Let’s hope no one caught you running all the way up here to tell me about it, then.” He frowns. “That’s really what you want?”

“Of course. It’s what everyone wants.”

I can tell he’d like to argue, but he somehow refrains. “Then I guess you’d better go give the guy a call.”

I blink. I wasn’t done discussing this with him. I want to get his thoughts on merchandising opportunities, the likelihood that the skincare/makeup world is too oversaturated for yet another celebrity line (A Dose of Dr. C, Dr. C’s Corrective Cream…the names honestly write themselves). But he’s dismissing me, and he isn’t happy, and I hate that his unhappiness is taking away a little of mine.

I return to the apartment and dial Trevor MacNulty’s number. I leave a message, sounding politely interested at best.

When Graham finally returns to the apartment, I’m still irritated that he didn’t drop his stupid workout to discuss this with me. He is gloriously disheveled. That annoys me even more.

“You look disgusting,” I say sourly.

“Oh, do I?” He crosses the kitchen toward me then very intentionally reaches above me for a glass, pressing his sweat-soaked chest to mine, his damp arm grazing my face. I smell his soap, feel his exhale dance over my skin.

He’s trying to gross me out but instead, a memory hits me out of nowhere, so sharp I can barely stand it: his weight above mine, his breath on my neck, a low, guttural moan—Keeley, I’m gonna come, fuck.

A shiver races up my arms while my stomach tilts and flips, as if I’m a roller coaster hurtling toward the ground.

It definitely happened and I never, ever wanted it to end.

“You okay?” he asks, pulling away. “You suddenly look terrified.”

“That was more sweat than I’ve ever come in contact with at once.”

“That says more about you than me. By the way, I chatted with the woman in apartment 701. You apparently told her I was your husband?”

I grab a paper towel and begin brushing his sweat off me. “I’d have said you were my brother but that would make the whole pregnancy bit a little weirder than it is.”