The Devil You Know (The Devils #3)(18)

We talk about our interests. Mine include long walks at sunset, which is something I plan to like in the future, and work. His include fantasy football, “dank memes” and Xbox.

Our love was written in the stars.

I offer to pay the bill and he enthusiastically accepts. This also does not happen in Hallmark movies, where the men are old-fashioned and insist on holding doors and paying tabs, ignoring the heroine’s weak feminist protest.

As we leave, he asks if I want to hang out, which I assume is a euphemism for something more naked. “Your place is probably better,” he adds. “All my roommates are home.”

For a moment, despite how consistently disappointing Tad is, I consider it. My libido has been like a furnace at peak temperature for a full day now at least. But I can only picture overeager fumbling and awkwardness, a sweaty pale torso covered in idiotic tattoos—a Tasmanian Devil waving a rebel flag or a cartoon character peeing on a car—so I tell him I’ve got to get to bed.

I arrive home and discover the one plant I own is extremely dead. Keeley bought it when I was discussing getting a cat to prove I could not take care of a cat—I guess it’s a good thing we ran this experiment first. I sigh, “Sorry, my little plant friend, it wasn’t meant to be.” I throw it in the trash and the apartment seems emptier than before, which is an accomplishment because it’s been empty since I moved in.

I bet Ben’s house is gross. I picture a leather sofa covered in bodily fluids, a dartboard and artwork of the “Dogs Playing Poker” or “James Dean sitting in a 50s cafe” variety.

And I would definitely look down on him for all of this, but when he stepped into me, when his hands ran from my back to my ass and he started moving me toward the bedroom…it would not matter all that much. The next morning, I would, indeed, be appalled I just slept with someone who owns “Dogs Playing Poker” but for the hours preceding it—Ben’s weight pushing me into the bed—I bet I’d be able to look past it.





13





You can make anyone seem like a monster if you know enough about him: if you put him on the stand and ask about the time he drank too much at a party, told an off-color joke, got into an ugly argument in public, was late for school pick-up. The trick is to know about all these things.

Dennis Roberts, a college basketball coach in the process of divorcing my client, has practically done my job for me.

“Oh, Dennis,” I say aloud, going through his social media accounts, “I deeply appreciate your lack of discretion.”

I hear a laugh and look up at Ben standing just inside my door. He’s smiling…and he has dimples. I don’t know why that makes my heart give one overly loud thump. “What did he do?” he asks.

I’ve learned, after what happened at Stadler, that no one you work with is truly your friend, but I’ve missed being able to share a victory with the few people who will truly understand it. “Sent a picture of his dick to a temp,” I reply, unable to hold in a grin. “And then tried to pay her off.”

His smile, for a moment, is almost affectionate. “Only you would be so excited about potential harassment of an employee.”

“You’d find it exciting, too, if you weren’t hoping to get away with it yourself. Did you need something?”

He blinks, as if I’ve caught him at something. “Did you finish the records request?”

I sigh. “I did it this morning. If you’d checked your inbox, you’d know that already. Also, I’m not an idiot, so don’t treat me like a first year.”

He shoves his hands in his pockets as he comes a step closer. “I don’t need to check my inbox when I can just ask. And you’re not partner yet, so it’s not like I’m going to assume you’re competent.”

That devil on my shoulder starts whispering suggestions again. She’s full of bad ideas, and I lack the restraint to ignore her today. “Someone’s in a bad mood. Did your girlfriend not ask you to the winter formal?”

“I’m sure she will, once she’s in high school.”

My traitorous mouth twitches. “You’re disgusting.”

“Speaking of things that don’t impress you,” he says, a flicker of unease in his gaze, “how did it go with the chef?”

“Great,” I reply briskly. “Really fun.” Though I’m not sure listening to Tad talk about how “turnt” he got the night before and then paying for the opportunity was as superb as I’m making it sound.

“And how was his cottage?” His face says I know for a fact that asshole did not have a cottage.

“Amazing. Six-burner Wolff range. Subzero refrigerator. He made me popovers this morning and served them to me in bed.”

He freezes, and for a moment he looks sort of…pissed off. “Are you serious?”

I roll my eyes. “No, because it was a first date. Visiting his cottage and having him make me a gourmet breakfast is more of a third-date scenario.”

His eyes are still narrowed. “Your expectations might be a bit high.”

I pull out a pen. “Lower expectations…” I repeat, scribbling the words on my desk calendar. “That’s great life advice, Ben. Anything else?” I hold eye contact with him and bite the tip of my pen, as if waiting breathlessly for more.