The Rake (Boston Belles #4)(58)

“You said not to wait for you. Twice, in fact. Logic dictates you have no authority nor claim on my affections.”

His affections. My ass just had to go and mess with the only dipshit in Boston who talked like a Jane Austen novel dropout.

“Fuck your logic,” I said.

“Gladly. But it’s not going to be the only thing I’ll be fucking.”

“Your phone’s ringing,” I said dryly.

He pulled his phone out, frowning at the screen.

Tiffany.

He sent the call to voicemail.

Tiffany called again. He pressed his lips into a thin line, sending her to voicemail—again.

The cab pulled up at my OB-GYN’s clinic. I tipped the guy fifty bucks and dashed out, Devon at my heel. His phone flashed in his hand again. This time the screen said it was Tracey calling.

I started taking the stairs to the third-floor clinic without even realizing what I was doing, knowing Devon didn’t do elevators and not wanting to part ways.

“Do you only fuck women whose first names start with a T?” I asked cordially.

“Tracy is a partner at the firm.”

“I bet you screwed her too.”

“She is sixty.”

“So are you.” Seriously? I had the mental maturity of a cupcake.

He gave me another pitiful look before we reached the door to the clinic.

This, I reminded myself, was a valuable lesson. A good thing. If anything, the last half hour was proof I was right, as per usual.

That Devon was still a man, still incapable of keeping his junk in his pants, and still a great danger to me.

Sure, he was nice—more civilized than the men I’d encountered over the years—and polished to a fault. But a man nonetheless.

Devon grabbed my arm, spinning me around and pushing me against the door, crowding me. I looked at him, feeling his body everywhere and craving it and hating it and loving it. All at the same time.

“Leave me alone!” I growled.

“Not in a thousand years, darling. Now tell me—have you not been with anyone since we started hooking up again?”

I hadn’t. Before I got pregnant, I wanted to limit my sexual encounters to Devon in order to ensure he’d be the father of my child. And after, I just couldn’t see myself jumping into bed with some rando when I had a child inside me.

I thought about telling him I had sex all the time. It was the obvious Belle thing to do.

But when my mouth opened, I just couldn’t do it.

He had a way of getting the truth out of me, even when the truth sucked.

“No,” I admitted. Then added louder, “I haven’t been with anyone since you.”

A grunt left his beautiful lips, and he closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, there was fire behind him. “I could kiss you, Emmabelle Penrose.”

I forced myself to smile, pushing the door open, just as Tiffany called him again.

“Don’t, Devon Whitehall.”




One day, while I was cradling my flat, three-month-pregnant belly, eyeballing rows of diaper bags and infant car seats at buybuy Baby while slurping on a deplorable green juice, I noticed a distressed-looking, heavily pregnant woman breaking down at the register.

She folded in two, hands flat on the conveyor belt, a mountain of essential baby supplies in front of her. A diaper bag, burp cloths, and bibs. Things any new mother needed to survive the crazy journey called motherhood. At first I thought she was going into labor. Oh shit. I’m going to stop leaving the house as soon as I hit week thirty-eight, I thought. With my luck, my water was going to break in an elevator full of people. And then we’d somehow get stuck there.

The woman’s stomach had reached a tipping point, where her bellybutton was almost facing down and poking through the fabric of her shirt. Tears ran down her face, weighed down by clumps of mascara.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.” She used the back of her sleeve to wipe snot off her face. “I’ll take some of it back. Just give me a second.”

“Take your time, honey.” The cashier looked like she was ready to bury herself under the tiles, she was so uncomfortable.

“Well … I guess I could really do without burp cloths. Old shirts will do just as well, right?”

I put the nipple ointment I was checking out back on the shelf and rushed over to the cashier, yanking my credit card out of my wallet and slapping it on the counter. “No. Don’t put anything back. I’ll pay.”

The pregnant lady eyed me miserably. She rubbed her belly, as if comforting her unborn baby. Now that I took a closer look at her, she couldn’t be older than nineteen. Fresh faced and rosy cheeked. I wanted to cry right along with her. What a situation to be in.

“I don’t even know why I came here,” she said, her chin wobbling.

“You came here to get things for your baby.” My fingertips touched the back of her arm gently. “As you should. Don’t worry about it. You’re getting out of here with all of the supplies you need.”

“Are you … are you sure?” She winced.

“Positive, dude.”

A sheepish smile spread across her lips. She wore holed leggings and a shirt that clung to her belly like plastic wrap. I wished I could give her some of the maternity dresses I’d purchased with the outrageous budget Devon had poured into my account each month. I didn’t need mine yet. My stomach was flat but hard.