The Rake (Boston Belles #4)(64)

I was feeling particularly nice toward Devon that day. He’d made sure to come to my apartment every day since Frankgate and ensured that I came.

On his dick, on his tongue, on his fingers.

You name it, he shoved it in me.

I hadn’t broached the subject of exclusivity, but I made a mental note to let him know that I was not down with him dipping his sausage in every sauce available in the all-you-can-eat Boston dating scene buffet.

I spent the four days leading up to the move trying to convince Persy, Aisling, Sailor, and Ross that I was definitely, definitely not in a relationship with Devon.

Luckily, the Frank story made it easy to explain how we’d become roommates.

Everyone thought Devon was a dreamboat for providing me shelter, and that I was a complete and utter moron not to kiss his feet and beg him to wed me.

Things looked like they were finally settling down.

I would even go as far as to say I was getting comfortable in one of Devon’s spare rooms.

He sneaked into my bedroom every night since I’d moved in, but I always kicked him out to the master bedroom afterward, citing that I would never be able to sleep with a man next to me.

During my time here, I caught glimpses of conversations between him and his mother. She called him frequently, sometimes a few times a day. He always seemed polite and reserved, friendly—even though, it had to be said, Ursula Whitehall sounded like a giant pain in the ass.

“No, Mum, I haven’t changed my mind.”

“No, I don’t know when I’ll come to England next. Is the money I’ve sent you not enough?”

“No. I’ve no desire to speak to her. I’ve apologized. That should be enough.”

This last tidbit made me want to ask questions, but then I reminded myself it was none of my business.

Three days after I moved in with Devon, he went to work and I stayed behind.

I was sitting in front of the alabaster marble nook, enjoying an assortment of exotic fruit and grains—fine, it was Froot Loops. I was eating Froot Loops—minding my own business. I wore nothing but an oversized shirt (Snaccidents Happen). Thank you, Etsy, for providing me with a wealth of inspiration and life mantras and my brazen attitude. The doorbell chimed. I went to open it without thinking much of it. I mean, his casa was mi casa now, right?

Besides, what if it were a delivery person bearing more yummy shit? Dudebro had five hundred fancy food box subscriptions.

In front of me stood a tall, stork-like woman with dark locks and a Kate Middleton outfit. She had stilettos, a face full of tasteful makeup, and an irritated look on her face. She smelled like an upscale mall.

And she stared at me like I’d stolen her husband or something.

“Hullo.”

British accent. She must’ve been Devon’s sister. Or maybe his mother with a very (very) good facelift.

“Heya.” I propped my elbow against the doorjamb, thinking to myself, if this is Tiffany, I’m going to give her a five-step head start before I bitch slap her.

“I suppose you’re the stripper he knocked up accidentally who is now standing in his way of his family fortune?”

Hmm … what?

“That’s exactly who I am!” Recovering from the blow, I exclaimed cheerfully, refusing to show an iota of weakness, “And you are …?”

“His fiancée.”





That day, work had been glossed over.

Coming back home and burying myself in Emmabelle seemed more important than helping my clients get out of whatever trouble they’d gotten themselves into.

I knew what we had was temporary. Women like Sweven hardly made for domestic goddesses. But like all mere mortals, I was fond of playing with deities, even though I knew all about how these stories end.

Also, I really needed to ensure she was safe until my baby was out of her body.

Also, Mum was getting on my last nerve, begging me to come to England and meet Louisa for a cuppa, which meant I needed to head back to Britain soon and explain to my family that I wasn’t going to marry someone just because my dead sperm-donor strong-armed me.

I took the stairs up to my loft two at a time.

I keyed in the code, flung the door open, and sing-songed, “Honey, I’m home!”

And stopped dead in my tracks.

Belle was sitting at my breakfast nook, still wearing the same ridiculous oversized shirt she sported before I’d gone to work.

She wasn’t alone.

“Hello, Devvie.” Sweven’s smile was saccharine, but her eyes darted poisonous daggers at me. “Busted.”

Across from her sat Louisa, sipping green tea.

Shite.

Louisa stood up, dangling her hips seductively while she made her way over to me. She placed a lingering kiss on my cheek, her whole body angled toward mine.

“Darling, you’ve been missed. Your mother gave me your address. She is awfully distraught. She asked that I come speak to you personally.”

Brazen move. Even—dare I say—deranged? But there were several million dollars on the line in properties and heirlooms, and Mum had no liquid assets and no other income sources.

As for Louisa, I was the one who got away. The prized match.

“You could’ve called.” I smiled enchantingly, bowing my head to kiss her knuckles easily.

“I could say the same,” Louisa remarked smartly, not looking half-bothered by my icy welcome. She was sharp, but not—I noticed—hostile, like Belle was. “When’s a good time to talk?”