The Rake (Boston Belles #4)(10)

“Cool story, bro. Do you have a version of that sentence in English?” And then, because I really was tired, I said, “Never mind. Just get out of here.”

“Are you taking the mick?” He wore a blank expression like it was a full-blown tux.

“Out.”

I had marched over to the door and tossed out his clothes and loafers. He stumbled out half-naked in my hallway, collecting the designer items from the floor. Truth be told, it wasn’t my finest exhibition of character. I was overwhelmed with throat-clogging fear that I would get attached.

Now, Devon was in front of me, all tall and gorgeous and screwable. I caught his frame in the fringe of my sight, hands in pockets, square jaw as sharp as a blade.

“Calling me untrustworthy is libel, Mr. Hot Shot Lawyer.” I puckered my lips, slipping into the role of the ball-busting siren. I wasn’t in the mood to be quick-witted, eccentric Belle—but that was the only version of me people knew.

“Actually, it is slander. Libel is when the false accusation is written. I could text it to you, if you’re so inclined.” He turned to the bartender, tossing a black Amex card on the counter. “One Stinger for me, and a Tom Collins for the lady.”

“W-why, yes, His Highness.” The bartender flustered. “I mean, sir. I mean … what should I call you?”

Devon quirked an eyebrow. “I would honestly prefer if you didn’t. You’re here to serve me drinks, not hear my life story.”

With that, the bartender was off to grab our drinks.

“I don’t see a lady anywhere in this vicinity,” I mumbled into my glass of chardonnay.

“There’s one right behind you, and she is quite fit,” he deadpanned, face stoic.

One of the good things about Devon Whitehall (and unfortunately, there were many) was that he never took himself seriously. After I had shamefully banished him from my bed, he had stopped calling me. The next time we’d met, however, at a Christmas party, he had hugged me warmly, asked how I was doing, and even showed interest in investing in my club.

He’d behaved as if nothing happened. And to him I guess nothing had. I didn’t know why Devon had never married, but I suspected he suffered from the same relationship-phobia I was prone to. Over the years, I’d watched him parade one woman after another. They were all leggy, stylish, and held degrees in subjects I could hardly pronounce.

They also had the shelf life of an avocado.

Devon never tried to get with me again but remained wryly fond of me, the way you were fond of the childhood blanket you used to snuggle with but would not be caught dead in the same room with it anymore. These days, he made me feel chronically undesirable.

“What’s got your knickers in such a twist?” he asked, running his fingers through his thick hair. Streaks of cool wheat and gold.

I wiped my eyes quickly. “Go away, Whitehall.”

“Darling girl, your chances of evacuating an Englishman from a bar on a Friday afternoon are slim to none. Any requests I can actually fulfill?” The casual benevolence rolling off of him made me nauseous. No one was supposed to be that perfect.

“Die in hell?” I pressed my forehead to the cool bar.

I didn’t mean it. Devon had only ever given me good conversation, compliments, and orgasms. But I was really upset.

He slipped onto the stool beside me, flicking his wrist to check his Rolex. I knew he wouldn’t answer me. Sometimes, he treated me like an eight-year-old.

Our drinks arrived. He pushed the Tom Collins my way, handing my glass of chardonnay back to the bartender quietly.

“Here, now. This’ll make you feel better. And then significantly worse. But since I won’t be there to deal with the consequences…” He gave a careless shrug.

I took a sip and shook my head.

“I’m not good company right now. You’d have a better time striking up conversation with the bartender or one of the tourists.”

“Darling, you’re barely civilized, and still better company than anyone in this zip code.” He gave my hand a quick but warm squeeze.

“Why are you nice to me?” I demanded.

“Why not?” Again, he sounded completely at ease.

“I’ve been nothing but horrible to you in the past.”

I thought about the night I threw him out of my apartment, panicked that he’d somehow find a crack in my heart, pry it open, and sneak into it. The fact that he was here, pragmatic and unbothered, just proved that he had heartbreak written all over him.

“That’s not how I remember our brief but joyous history.” He sipped his Stinger.

“I kicked you out.”

“My arse had suffered worse.” He offered a dismissive flick of his wrist. He had nice hands. He had nice everything. “No need to take it personally.”

“What do you take personally?”

“Not many things in life, to be honest.” He frowned, giving it genuine thought. “Corporate taxes, perhaps? It’s essentially double-taxation, an outrageous concept, you must admit.”

I blinked slowly at him, wondering if I was beginning to see a hint of imperfection in the man everyone looked up to. Under the layers of manners and chiseled looks was, I suspected, a truly odd man.

“You care about taxes, but not that I humiliated you?” I challenged.