The Devil You Know (The Devils #3)(51)

There’s shouting in the background, then someone tries to take his phone.

“Sorry,” he says. “It’s mayhem here. My brothers got in a fight over whether it’s best to cook a turkey in the oven or a deep fryer. Needless to say, this means we’ve now got three turkeys being prepared, and my mom is yelling at us to get out of her way.”

I laugh, trying to hide the part of me that feels a little wistful, imagining it. For all my grumbling about the holiday, I used to like Thanksgiving back when my mother invited people over. “How does your mom feel about you bringing teenage girls as guests, by the way? Does she make them sit at the kids’ table?”

He laughs. “I’ve never brought a woman home for Thanksgiving. And you sound jealous.”

“You wish.”

“Yeah,” he says, “I guess I do.”

I don’t know how to reply to that, so I tell him Keeley is waiting. The office feels even emptier after we hang up.

I work for several hours, enjoying a pathetic little Thanksgiving feast of coffee and cereal bars, and head home after dark. I’m climbing into my cold, lonely bed when my mother calls.

She’s on her way home from the bar. Something dies inside me at the exhaustion in her voice.

“Did you have a good day?” she asks, struggling to sound cheerful.

“I’m so stuffed,” I reply. The lie about going to Keeley’s dad’s house has worked out well for me this year. “They made two kinds of turkey. How was the bar?”

“Very festive. Lots of drinkers on Thanksgiving, it seems. And the owner brought in Thanksgiving dinner for all of us, and it was a thousand times better than cooking it myself.”

She’s trying so hard to convince me she’s happy, and I’m doing the same. I wonder what would happen if we just put that effort into making it true.





Ben texts on Sunday morning.

Ben: Coming back early because I miss you. And I haven’t slept since I left. Please tell me you’re not going into the office.

I lean against the door of my apartment, which has just swung shut behind me because I was, indeed, going to the office. I read those words again: Coming back early because I miss you. They make me feel like a balloon is expanding in my lungs—I’m delighted, lighter than air, and terrified at the same time of the moment that balloon will pop.

I can’t help it, though. Today, delight wins out. I unlock my door and kick off my shoes.

Me: I can be persuaded not to go in.

Oh, so casual, when my heart is beating like a drum.

I listen for his knock, and when it finally comes I want to leap over the couch to reach him faster.

I open the door, and he takes me in, wearing next to nothing before him. His eyes go from pleased to feral in a second flat.

“Undress,” I command as the door shuts behind him.

“You first,” he growls, closing the distance between us.

We don’t make it out of the kitchen for the first round. The minute we’re done I pull him to the bedroom and position him exactly how I want him.

“You’re not done,” I warn as he collapses on the pillow beside me twenty minutes later. “So don’t get any ideas about sleep.”

His nose burrows into my neck, then his lips press a sweet kiss to my skin. “What’s up with you today?”

“What do you mean?” I ask, already defensive.

He raises his head to look at me, mouth turned up in a quizzical smile. “You’re…affectionate.”

“Is that a euphemism for horny? Are we suddenly being delicate with each other? Because I’ve got your cum all over my chest, so it’s a little late for delicacy.”

He laughs. “No. I meant affectionate. It’s almost like you missed me.”

My eyes flicker to his and away. “I guess crazier things have happened.”





30





At the next meeting of partners and senior associates, Fields announces that Natalie Brenner and her husband are dissolving both their marriage and multimillion-dollar production company. She is looking for a firm that can handle the divorce and financial proceedings, and FMG is one of several she wants to interview.

My spine straightens, as if electrified. Representing a critically acclaimed actress in her divorce would make my career. I’d need help with the dissolution of the production company, but it’s too much work for one lawyer anyway. My first thought, to be honest, is Ben: he oversaw Drew’s fight with her managers and record company a while ago. He’s got a lot more experience than I do with the business side of things.

Our gaze meets for a half second, and I can see he’s thinking what I am: we’d crush this, together. Fiducia will likely settle once they see how much dirt we have on them—I’d like to share another case with Ben when it’s done.

“I’d be very interested in getting in on that,” I tell Fields.

His gaze cuts to me without turning his head, as if I’m a small child distracting him and the other grown-ups with my noise.

“Craig,” he says, “I’d like you to meet with her.”

It’s a slap in the face. If Fields had yelled at me to shut the fuck up, it couldn’t be more cutting than it is. Everyone looks away, aside from Ben, who turns toward Fields with narrowed eyes.