The Devil Wears Black(13)

No, I chided myself. Ethan doesn’t have doubts about dating me. We’d been hanging out for three whole weeks and still hadn’t slept together. He was obviously in it for the long run.

I could see Chase shaking his head in my periphery, chuckling to himself. “You don’t want what normal people want, Mad.”

“You don’t know what I want.”

More silence. My soul was banging its head against the futuristic-looking dashboard. Why did I have a soft spot for people I didn’t know? Why had I thought this was a good idea? But I never really could refuse small acts of kindness. That was why I didn’t narc on Nina from work for bullying me. I knew intern jobs in fashion were hard to come by, so I sucked it up while Nina verbally abused me daily. I kept a chocolate bar in my purse in case others fainted on the subway and needed sugar to spike their blood pressure. It was an Iris Goldbloom trait I’d inherited.

“Friendly reminder—you have to pretend that you like me,” Chase snapped after a while, tap-tap-tapping his steering wheel with his perfect long fingers. I closed my eyes and breathed through my nose.

“I know.”

“Convincingly.”

“I could be convincing.”

“Debatable. There may be touching involved. Light patting in nonstrategic areas and so forth.” His eyes were still on the road.

“Are you out of your mind?” I hissed.

“Presently, yes, hence why you’re here. As a result, we’re going to have to play the loving couple.”

“We will. Now can you please, please be quiet? I’m doing you a favor. A huge one. Don’t make me regret it,” I finally barked, feeling dangerously close to falling apart. My face was hot, my eyes watery, and it felt like someone had punched my nose from the inside.

To my surprise, he zipped it.

We zoomed past Long Island, the Tesla’s quiet buzz the only background noise accompanying the drive. I closed my eyes, feeling my throat bob with a swallow.

I longed for a truce. For Chase to take a step back and let me gather my ragged self-esteem and frayed thoughts. For a sign what I was doing was the right thing and not destructive to both my heart and his family.

Most of all, I longed to run away. Somewhere far, where he couldn’t grab my heart with his poisonous claws again and devour it.

See, I had a secret I didn’t share with anyone. Not even Layla.

Sometimes, at night, I could feel Chase’s claws sliding across my heart, sharp as blades. I still wasn’t over him. Not truly. I didn’t even think it was love—there was nothing about Chase’s personality I particularly enjoyed.

I was obsessed.

Consumed.

Completely enamored.

Problem was, Missionary Ethan, I knew, would be kinder on my heart than Reverse Cowgirl Chase.





CHAPTER FOUR

CHASE

First thing I’d noticed about Madison Goldbloom when I’d hit on her in Croquis’s elevator? Her beautiful hazel eyes.

Okay. Fine. It was her tits. Sue me.

To anyone else, they were probably average, pleasant-looking tits. They were even modestly tucked inside a perfectly sensible, albeit visually offensive white turtleneck with a tacky lipstick pattern all over it. But they were so perky—so goddamn erect and round—I couldn’t help but note they were the perfect size for my palms.

In order to test that theory, I had to wine and dine her first. Since nature all but conned me to pursue her, I took Madison to one of Manhattan’s finest restaurants that same evening and spared no expense—nor compliment—for the sake of my palm-to-tit ratio research.

(Which turned out to be a success. Science, baby. Never failed.)

Madison was smaller than the average human being, which was preferable, seeing as I hated people, so the less there was of them, the better. Alas, this specific person was a honey trap. Because what she lacked in size, she made up for with enthusiasm. She was perky and charitable and got breathless when she spoke about things she was passionate about. She cooed at babies and patted dogs on the street and made eye contact with strangers on the subway. She was in-your-face alive in ways I wasn’t accustomed to or comfortable with, and that didn’t sit well with me.

As for her clothes . . . part of me wanted to take them off her because they were horrendous, and it had nothing to do with the sex part.

It was never supposed to be more than a fling. The thought of it exceeding the shelf life of a week hadn’t even crossed my mind. My relationships typically coordinated their expiration dates with my milk cartons. In my thirty-one years of existence prior to meeting her, I’d only had one girlfriend, and it had ended in a farce that reminded me that humans, as a concept, were faulty and unpredictable and, although unavoidable, should be kept at arm’s length.

Then came Madison Goldbloom, and poof! Girlfriend number two materialized. If we were being technical here, she didn’t earn the title. She stole it.

Mad and I went out the evening I’d met her (the no-fraternization rule didn’t apply since we technically didn’t work in the same company). She had very big, very brown-green-whatever eyes rimmed by brown and gold speckles, a pixie haircut that gave her a dramatic, will-slowly-steal-your-heart-if-you’re-not-careful Daisy Buchanan look, and lips so full and pillowy I got a semi every time they moved.

Which was every time she spoke.