The Devil You Know (The Devils #3)(13)

I reach down to fish my laptop from my purse. “The yellow ones? Of course not. I’m probably not buying them anyway. What am I—or you—going to wear with yellow shoes?”

“Easy – the yellow wardrobe I’ll buy to go with them,” she says. “You, of course, will wear them with a boring black suit.”

I laugh. “Good plan. This is why I love you. It’s also why you’ve got so much credit card debt.”

Ben has settled into his seat, clearly listening in, and he’s not even trying to hide it. I stare hard at him. The universal signal for mind your own business.

Instead of respectfully opening a magazine or looking away, his mouth tilts into a shadow of a smug smile.

“If time is dragging while you eavesdrop, Tate,” I hiss, “maybe you should find some other way to occupy yourself.” I return to my phone call. “Sorry, Keeley.”

“Did you just say Tate? As in, the terrible Ben Tate?”

I sigh. “I did.”

“How curious,” she says, sounding far too amused, “that you never mentioned your trip to Miami was with the terrible Ben Tate. And he must be hot if I’ve never heard you malign him physically even once, because you know you would.”

“I’m not that bad,” I mutter. It’s difficult to defend myself with Ben listening.

“You ended a date early because you didn’t like the way a guy’s hair looked from behind.”

I turn toward the window, away from Ben, so I can almost pretend this conversation is private.

“It was bizarre!” I reply. “It was like he had hair going halfway down his neck. Not long, but like…coming out of his neck.”

“And what about the guy with the weird knuckles?”

“What about him? Imagine what his hands will look like when he’s seventy.”

Ben laughs under his breath, and my head jerks toward him. “Don’t you have a single mother you can evict somewhere?”

“I would,” he replies, “but I think they’re about to make us turn off our phones.”

I sigh once more. “I’d better let you go, Keels. The Prince of Darkness here has sensed I might be enjoying myself and is determined to bring it to an end.”

“Bye, babe,” Keeley says. “Tell me how the sex was when he leaves your room.”

I hang up, and Ben turns to me. “So who’s the lucky sixty-nine-year-old?”

I roll my eyes. “Your dad.”

He smirks. “My dad is dead.”

“That,” I reply, “would explain why he’s been so pleasantly quiet in bed.”

He looks absolutely staggered for a moment. And then he starts to laugh. I’m not sure I’ve really heard him laugh before, at least not in a completely sinister way. I wouldn’t have expected it to sound so…male, so pleased, all at once. I have to swallow my desire to smile in response.

After takeoff, I load up a movie while Ben makes himself comfortable, spreading his long legs wider, his knee almost brushing mine in the cramped space. He links his fingers over his very toned stomach—again, not that I notice—and closes his eyes. If his even breathing is to be trusted, he’s fallen asleep. I have this inexplicable urge to look over at him, but we’re halfway across the country before I finally give into it. My gaze brushes over his long lashes, his irritatingly imperfect-yet-perfect nose. I wonder how he broke it and why it’s so goddamn hot to me, that small flaw. It’s like an arrow pointing directly toward his generous mouth.

“Are you staring at me?” he asks.

His eyes are closed. I have no idea how he even knew. Must be some skill he gained via his last pact with Satan.

“Like I don’t see enough of you already,” I reply and force my eyes forward.

“What are you watching?”

I pause the movie and remove one headphone. “Suite Française. You wouldn’t like it. Subtitles, big words, no explosions.”

“It does sound extremely unappealing,” he agrees. “Let me guess: it’s all about a woman’s journey to tackle her inner demons and survive by acknowledging the hidden parts of herself?”

It’s irritating, how freaking often he’s right.

“Isn’t it just the worst when movies show women growing and succeeding on their own?”

“I prefer realistic films,” he says, his arm brushing mine, his muscular thighs spreading wider.

I don’t know if I want to laugh or punch him, but that devil is in my chest, baiting me again, and it’s never been harder to ignore him than it is right now.





10





The hotel lobby is full of older women wearing purple hats, though eleven p.m. seems like an unusual hour for a horde of senior citizens to be mingling in identical attire. Based on the amount of grumbling I hear while standing in the world’s longest check-in line, the hotel is overbooked.

Thanks to both books and Hallmark movies, I fully expect the clerk to tell me there’s been a mix-up when I finally reach the front desk. You and Mr. Tate will have to share a room, she’ll say. It has a twin bed, is only lit by romantic candlelight, and there’s nothing else available in the entire state. You’ll be sleeping in his t-shirt, and he will be completely nude.