The Devil You Know (The Devils #3)(12)

I raise a brow. “You didn’t look all that troubled. If I’d shown up five minutes later, you’d probably be inviting them over.”

She shakes her head. “Never. They’re lawyers, therefore too boring to be serious about, no offense.”

I shrug. “None taken. You know my stance.”

“Ah, right.” She hands me her drink. “You only want a guy who lives in a small town and wears winter clothing year-round.”

“The winter clothing isn’t a demand. More of a preference.”

“My friend Mark wears like fifteen layers.” She’s referring to the homeless guy who lives outside her building, the one she brings her Wall Street Journal to every morning and from whom she often seeks financial advice. “I’ll make an introduction.”

“I’m going to respectfully pass,” I tell her, but she’s already on to the next thing, dragging me back to the bar and winking at some athlete in the corner before she smiles brightly at the bartender and holds up two fingers. He smiles back like he’s won the lottery. He will now make two of every drink he knows in order to please the pretty blond.

“Speaking of FMG,” she says, turning to me, “what happened with Fields’ announcement? Did they make you partner? You never said.”

My laugh is a trifle bitter. “They made an announcement to tell us they’ll be announcing it later.”

She rolls her eyes. She’s been on me to leave for a while now. Like, ever since we met. “And what happens if they don’t give it to you?”

My heart sinks. If they don’t give it to me, it would be such a slap in the face I couldn’t possibly remain. Yet, I’ve staked every single ambition on making it at FMG—at taking their obnoxious old-boys network and turning it on its head. I refuse to contemplate any other possibility. “They’ve got to give it to me.”

“They’re assholes, Gemma,” she chides softly. “They’ve always been assholes. I’m not sure anything is a given over there.”

I could tell her about Margaret Lawson’s case, the way it will probably seal the deal for me. But that would involve mentioning Ben Tate, and I’m reluctant to do so. She’s heard plenty about Ben over the past two years, and he’s no less awful than he ever was. But there’s this piece of me remembering the wrong things about him at the moment: the concern on his face when he asked about my wrist, his decency to Margaret, his mouth, shaping the words there’s nothing small or weak about me. I know Keeley—she’ll read those conflicted emotions before I’ve even sorted them out myself.

I guess that’s why, when I discuss the Miami trip, I leave out the fact that I’m not going alone.





9





I arrive at LAX on Sunday afternoon, flustered and cranky. We could probably have handled the settlement conference over Zoom, but Fiducia’s headquarters is in Miami where another disgruntled former employee resides, so it made sense to talk to her in person before we meet opposing counsel.

It made sense at the time, anyway. Now the former employee has canceled and I’m stuck with Ben for the next twenty-four hours, a prospect I’m unreasonably nervous about.

I’ve traveled with other colleagues before, but not him. And though I’d like to believe I will discover something I can use against him later on, something to damage his impeccable reputation, I’m not especially optimistic. The odds that he’ll turn out to be the guy who gets drunk on free airplane booze are slim.

He’s waiting for me near security, wearing jeans, a t-shirt…and an unbuttoned flannel shirt, with the sleeves pushed up.

We’re about to spend six hours on a plane and won’t meet opposing counsel until tomorrow, so it’s not as if he needed to wear a three-piece suit. But I’ve never seen him in casual clothes before, and Ben in jeans and a t-shirt is brain-scrambling: flat stomach, trim hips, nice forearms.

Internally, I search for my ever-present chant of we hate him, we hate him, but it’s feeling a little forced today. My steps falter as I get closer, taking in his unshaved jaw and cocky smile.

“See something you like?” he asks.

I feel pinned by his gaze. “No.” I clear my throat. “I just expected more scales and open sores.”

“We’ll save that reveal for the pool,” he says with a smirk, waving me in front of him.

The pool. Ben, half naked. I get a sudden image of nicely chiseled abs, trunks hanging low, a happy trail. The penis that’s apparently neither small nor weak, though based on my knowledge of the law I’d suggest he shouldn’t be revealing it in public.

Thank God we won’t be staying that long.

I ignore him all the way to the plane. I definitely do not stop to watch him threading his belt through his jeans with agile, practiced fingers after we get through security. Nor do I notice the way he blocks people from shoving us in line with his broad shoulders, or how he moves me in front of him as our boarding passes are scanned, his hand on the small of my back, as if I’m someone who needs protection.

My phone rings and I answer gratefully when I see Keeley’s name. Ben’s currently lifting my carry-on into the overhead bin as if it’s nothing—a toy car, a paper plate. I could use a distraction.

“I’m at Saks,” she says. “Looking at those shoes you wanted. Will you be mad if I buy them for myself?”