The Devil You Know (The Devils #3)(8)

“He’s the owner of a bed and breakfast and she—”

“Is stuck there because her car broke down?” I suggest, pulling out of the parking garage. Whoever writes these movies clearly believes it’s impossible to leave the city without automotive trouble or a deer darting into the road.

“No, actually, she’s there to buy him out.”

“Ah, of course. So, she represents a heartless conglomerate that plans to destroy the town’s charm by making it a tourist destination, and he’s going to prove her wrong and help heal her wounded heart.”

She laughs. “That does appear to be the direction this is heading, and speaking of heartless lawyers, how’s it going with The Client-Stealer?” She, like myself, is not #TeamBen, but all her info comes from me, so it’s unlikely she would be.

I groan quietly, turning off Fairfax onto Sunset and honking at some idiotic kids standing in the middle of the road. “He hasn’t done anything wrong yet. But we only met the client last week. Give him time.”

“If this was a movie, he’d threaten to fire you if you don’t work Christmas, and you’d wind up in a quaint ski resort with a handsome client.”

The threatening to fire me if I don’t work Christmas part is entirely likely, but the partners keep all the fun destination travel for themselves. “Speaking of holidays,” I venture, “what do you want to do about Thanksgiving?”

My mom can’t afford many things on her own, which makes discussions like this tricky. I used to think that once I’d paid off my student loans, I’d be able to help her, but she’s consistently refused to accept anything significant. When I bought her a car, she wept and they were not good tears. She said she’d never be able to look at that car without thinking her own daughter believed she was pathetic and desperate. Eventually I gave in and returned it, and I’ve had to proceed carefully ever since. I now know she will accept a hardback book, but not a first edition; a wool sweater but not a Canada Goose coat. If I claim to have bought her something on a trip, or bought something for us both, she will generally not object. She still believes I got us each a pair of high-end snow boots while skiing with friends, when in reality I found them online and bought them only for her. Ditto the baby-soft cashmere throw, the shearling lined moccasins, the ridiculously expensive face cream.

But there’s no way to lie about airline tickets. I have more money than time—it’s easier for me if she comes here, but I always defer to her.

“I can get you a ticket to LA or I can go there,” I tell her. “My kitchen sucks, but there are some amazing places here that do Thanksgiving dinner. We could even eat outside.”

"Oh, honey. I'm so sorry. Working retail now…I can’t possibly get that whole weekend off, and I took a shift at the bar on Thanksgiving. I just assumed between work and all your friends there, I wouldn’t see you."

I run a finger inside the neck of my blouse. It’s possible I oversold how busy I am, but that’s not what bothers me. It’s that once upon a time, my mother oversaw an epic dinner for twenty every Thanksgiving, and now she won’t even be celebrating. She was the perfect wife, and look where it got her: stuck in a shitty apartment alone, working two jobs.

“I’ll come home for Christmas, then. Just let me know your schedule.”

“You could always visit your father, you know,” she says tentatively. “I’m sure he’d love to see you.”

I wince. I’m not sure how my mother is so big-hearted, but it’s a quality I did not inherit…and I’m glad. Seeing the best in people and forgiving the worst has never gotten a female anywhere, as far as I can tell. “I’ll think about it, Mom,” I reply, which is a polite over my dead body, and his as well, and she knows it.

When we hang up, I find a parking spot and brace myself for the last event of the day and by far the worst: meeting a potential client, at Fields’ request.

I hate doing it under the best of circumstances and am even less optimistic about tonight. West Forest Media could bring us a lot of work, but my impression of them and their CEO is that they are—what’s the legal term?—douchey. I’m young, female, reasonably attractive. It’s a combination that seems to embolden even the most average of men to act like complete dicks, and these guys already seem like complete dicks.

I walk into the bar where West Forest’s senior staff has been holding a post-retreat happy hour. When the CEO, Tim Webber, gives me a once-over as I introduce myself, I know this evening will go just as poorly as I expected.

“Now I see why Fields insisted I’d like you,” he says.

There are times when all you can do is ignore the innuendo. I take his extended hand, but my shake is firmer than it would have been.

“You look like that actress, the one with the—Hey, Jones!” he shouts to a guy near the bar. “Who does she look like?”

“Wonder Woman,” says Jones, and I stifle a sigh.

“That’s it,” says Webber. “Wonder Woman. Gail something or other. You must hear that all the time.”

I force a smile. “She’s a lot nicer than I am.”

He laughs, as if this was a joke when it was, in fact, a warning. “I bet that’s not true.” He turns to the guy beside him. “We’re going to the restaurant. Just bill the whole thing to me.”