The Devil Gets His Due (The Devils #4)(78)

My jaw falls open. “A while ago? How long is a while ago?”

He laughs to himself. “From the day of the ultrasound.”

I stare at him. “That was months ago. How could you have kept it a secret that long?”

He holds my eye. “It made you feel safe, for a while, thinking I was leaving. Right?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

He’s right. If he’d told me he planned to stay, I’d have freaked out. I’d have geared up for a daily custody battle. I just can’t believe he sold his condo without anywhere else to go.

“But where would you have gone if all this hadn’t happened?”

He hitches a shoulder. “I’ve been looking for houses,” he says. He nods to the yard. “I know you love your apartment, but I want this for our kid. So, at the risk of freaking you out, I was kind of hoping I might convince you to come with me when I moved.”

I picture our daughter chasing after the ice cream man in bare feet. Biking home from a local pool with popsicle-stained lips. Walking to school every day. I love my apartment, and I love living in the city, but I think I might like this even more.

“I can’t tell if you’re okay or about to catch the first flight to Cabo because I’ve pushed you too far,” he says quietly.

“That depends.” I rest my head on his shoulder. “Are we talking about a house like Ben’s, or some kind of Warren Buffett-style ‘look how frugal I am despite all my money’ thing?”

He laughs. “Yes, Keeley, you’ll get your Mariah Carey closet.”

“You have no idea how horny that just made me.”

He laughs again, and his fingers twine with mine. “I know it’s a lot, but while I’m piling on here, I wish you’d at least consider quitting your job. You could have the baby, take some time to get settled into it, and find something that suits you better.”

“I’d feel like I was being kept by a Saudi prince.”

He smiles. “I thought you wanted to be kept by a Saudi prince.”

“I do. It’s a good thing. We might need to do some roleplay.”

“Saudi prince roleplay and anniversary anal. I like it. Just out of curiosity, are we going with January eighth for our anniversary? Because I want to make sure I mark it on my calendar.”

I place my mouth against his ear. “Graham, once I get this kid out, you aren’t going to have to wait for once a year anything.”

“Jesus,” he says under his breath. “Are you ready to get out of here? I’m tired.”

“How can you be tired? This was the laziest day I’ve ever seen you have.”

He gives me a sidelong look, one that starts at my eyes and lands on my mouth for a long moment. “I’m not actually tired, Keeley.”

Ohhh.

“I hate to eat and run,” I announce to the table, as I rise.

“You just got here,” Gemma argues.

“Don’t push this or she’ll just pretend she’s going into labor, Gemma,” Graham warns.

I’m beginning to think marrying him was the smartest thing I ever did.





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41





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KEELEY





He leaves for New York, but it all feels different now, in a good way. I don’t hand in my notice because I intend to get as much paid maternity leave out of Kathleen Fox as possible before I quit, and the rest of my life is so good that a little aggravation at work hardly seems to matter.

We’re staying together. We’re going to have a baby, and a house, and I’m going to have my Mariah Carey closet, and once we’ve waited the required length of time after the delivery, I’m going to reacquaint myself with the not careful, not gentle side of Graham Tate in bed.

The only person more excited about this whole thing than me is Gemma.

“I found you a house,” she says, calling me for the sixth time in two days. “When we were walking Lola last week, we met this couple who said they were getting ready to move, so I stalked them, and she said it goes on the market next month. It’s perfect for you.”

I laugh. “Gemma, I don’t even know our budget.”

“Please. Graham could afford ten houses in my neighborhood if he wanted. How soon can you get out of your lease?”

I ignore the fear that this is all too much good fortune at once, that I’m building up to a life it will hurt too much to leave. I remind myself that having a life you don’t want to leave is a good thing.

“Graham has a copy,” I tell her. “I’ll check when I get home.”

I leave work at a reasonable hour—I now have loads of made-up doctor’s appointments going forward to prevent a week full of ten-hour days—and go into his room. His desk is neat as a pin, his bed is made, every folder in his file drawer labeled.

I flip through a lot of things that look financial, seeking something labeled with the word apartment, and land on Contracts, Keeley. Gemma calls just as I’m grabbing the file. “I think I’ve got it,” I tell her, flipping it open on his desk.

Gemma’s saying something about getting out of my contract but I don’t really hear it. Because it isn’t a rental agreement in this file. It’s a different kind of contract entirely.