My niece launches herself in front of the camera and conversation turns from Charlotte to Kaitlin—at age three, the new baby of the family. “I’d better go,” sighs Liddie. “I’ve got to put Kaitlin to bed.”
I suspect she’s holding me responsible for the hour and feel a pinch of irritation. “Can’t Alex do it?”
“She only wants me,” Liddie says.
“She’s spoiled,” my mother replies. “That’s why you need to have another kid.”
It’s the wrong thing to say to Liddie right now. “Wow, Mom,” she says. “Any other sage advice?”
I watch as Charlotte sinks further into her chair. Has this Zoom call made her feel less alone or more alone? She’s supposed to be going home at the end of August. I’d like to tell myself life will improve for her there, but as I listen to Liddie and my mother argue—the guest of honor forgotten completely—it’s hard to believe it’s true.
7
Hayes is already up and waiting when I arrive the next day. His eyes skim over me—lingering unhappily on my perfectly unobjectionable gray sheath and black heels.
“You’ll need to come with me this morning,” he says, his misery obvious.
I set the coffee down with an unhappy thud. “On house calls?”
I laid awake for hours last night, worrying about Charlotte. Time with him is the last thing I need today.
He points at the first name on the schedule. “That star right there means I need an assistant. Jonathan booked them back-to-back.”
“Unless you’d like me to use the ample medical knowledge I’ve gleaned from watching Grey’s Anatomy,” I reply, leaning against the counter, “I’m not sure how I’d be useful.”
“It goes without saying that you won’t be especially useful,” he replies, his mouth twisting, “but I still need you there. Let’s go.”
He starts heading out. Apparently, I’m to follow like a dog—which I do, grabbing my bag as I race to catch up.
He holds the door of his BMW open for me, a surprising bit of chivalry for a man who can’t even bother to tell me goodbye in the morning. He gets into the driver’s seat and glances at me. “You might want to fix your dress,” he says, his tone half growl, half disgust. His gaze flickers to my legs and his jaw sets.
“Is it suddenly 1800?” I ask, twisting as I fasten the seat belt. “Will my reputation be destroyed because you caught a glimpse of my porcelain thighs?”
“You really have to argue about everything, don’t you?” he asks. He hits the accelerator, taking off at a speed I generally associate with roller coasters and space shuttle launches.
“Yes,” I reply. “And if you crash at this speed, you will ruin your pretty face. Good luck surviving in the real world without your looks.”
He shrugs. “I’ll still have lots of money, which matters far more to women.”
Nice attitude, I think, but I no longer have the energy to bicker with him. Instead, I stare out the window, hoping the view will improve my mood. It usually does. Though there have been times when I’ve missed things about home—feeling safe when I walk down a street at night, the change of seasons—southern California makes me happy in a way Kansas never did. Ocean, mountains, perfect weather. Even here in the city, there are sprightly pineapple palms lining the boulevard, and every house we pass is dotted with color: bougainvillea or the spectacular haze of purple jacaranda. I feel whole again, looking at it, so wouldn’t Charlotte as well? Wouldn’t she be far better off here with the views and beach and endless sunshine than she would back home, subject to my mother’s haphazard care?
If she weren’t going into her senior year of high school, I’d seriously consider it. I still can’t believe my mother couldn’t even stay sober for Charlotte’s birthday. I know my father’s death hit her hard, but surely, she realizes it’s time to put on her big-girl pants for my sister’s sake?
“You’re surprisingly quiet,” Hayes says. I’d almost forgotten he was here, which was nice while it lasted. “It’s been at least ten minutes since you’ve nagged me or delivered unsolicited advice.”
“I thought you’d prefer it.” I don’t take my eyes off the landscape as I respond.
“Yes,” he says, turning into a small cul-de-sac. “I wasn’t complaining. Just curious.”
We pull up to the gate of a Spanish-style villa, from which purple flowering vines hang heavy, and a huge orange tree dotted with fruit stands in the courtyard’s center. I’m not sure how long I’ll have to live here before I stop being thrilled by all the things that can grow in a warm climate.
“So, what will I be doing?” I ask as he pulls into the driveway. “I watched a doctor on ER perform a tracheotomy using only a ballpoint pen and a kitchen knife. I feel like I could pull it off.”
“Perfect.” He shuts off the engine. “Any tracheotomies are yours. Your job here, however, is to stay put. Anywhere I am, you are, even if she asks you to leave.”
He’s out of the car before I can ask why the hell she’d want me to leave.
A maid in uniform opens the door and leads us through empty rooms to the back porch, where a redhead in a nightgown waits, already sipping a glass of wine though it’s not quite nine in the morning. She looks up at Hayes like he’s the most delicious candy she’s ever seen, and when she envelops him in her arms, I suspect I know my role: designated cockblocker.
“Hello, Shannen,” he says smoothly, detaching himself. “Let me introduce you to Natalia, my assistant.”
It’s only when she turns to frown at me that I recognize her. She plays someone’s rich wife on a soap opera my mom watches, one of those characters that’s always faking pregnancies and buying people off to get her way. In real life, she seems more pathetic than evil.
“I thought it might just be the two of us,” she says, as Hayes applies numbing cream all over her face. “This is kind of a private thing.”
I can only assume, based on how brazen she’s being, that he slept with her at some point and she’s refusing to take a hint.
“Natalia is here to assist me,” he replies firmly. He casts a quick, uncomfortable glance my way. “And she’s signed an NDA.”
He refuses the glass of wine she offers and begins to fill syringes from several different vials. I’m not sure how he can tell them all apart, but he’s reassuringly confident as he draws them up.
“I’ll start with the Botox,” he tells her, “and give your lips a chance to get numb. Frown for me.”
He makes small marks with a pen—between her brows and above them—and then begins the injections.
I’m…not great with needles. I have to stifle my desire to shudder, but she’s so busy flirting with Hayes she barely seems to notice. Tiny dots of blood speckle her face, but she’s still hitting on Hayes as hard as she possibly can.
He finally gets to her lips. Even with the numbing cream, it’s clearly uncomfortable for her. I busy myself with an empty notepad, unable to watch. When he’s done, she looks at herself in the mirror. “Can’t you make them bigger?” she asks. Her gaze brushes over him and settles on his crotch. “Bigger is better, as they say.”
He gives her a tight smile as he begins packing his bag. “Not where lips are concerned, I assure you.”
“Come upstairs with me a sec,” she says, running a hand over his forearm. I feel an unexpected spike of irritation. How many times does he need to rebuff this woman’s advances for God’s sake?
“I’m sorry,” I interject, addressing Hayes, “but you’re already behind schedule.”
I see a hint of relief in his eyes and weariness as well. He apologizes to Shannen, and with his hand on the small of my back, guides me to the door.
“So, I guess she’s…an ex?” I ask once we’re back in the car. I feel proud of myself for calling her an “ex” rather than something a little more derogatory.
“I don’t ever sleep with patients,” he replies. “And I don’t ever treat people I’ve slept with.”
It’s a slightly more pri
ncipled stance than I’d have expected of him.
“Then why do you accept patients like her at all?” I ask. “I’m guessing you make enough without them.”
“That you think there’s such a thing as enough,” he says, “explains a great deal.”
My lips purse as I fold my arms across my chest. “So does the fact that you think there isn’t.”
He shoots me a narrow-eyed glance before he turns back to the road. “Look, you continue to do your struggling actor thing and I’ll continue to make millions of dollars a year, and if our situations somehow reverse, then you can feel free to judge me.”
“I’m not an actress, struggling or otherwise,” I reply. “But I’m sorry if you felt like I was judging you.”
He says nothing to that, and I guess maybe he was right. I was judging him. And aside from the fact that he drinks more than he should and appears to enjoy sex with almost-strangers...I can’t say my criticism seems especially justified anymore. I’m not exactly thriving doing things my way either.
The next few patients he sees are spread inconveniently all over the city—Holmby Hills to Bel Air to Pacific Palisades and down to Manhattan Beach. They aren’t exactly like Shannen, but share with her a complete lack of boundaries and self-respect: husbands yelling at their wives as if we aren’t there, rambunctious children screaming and throwing a football overhead while their mother has a needle pressed mere centimeters from her eye, patients making out with their boyfriends as if we aren’t even there.
At our final stop of the day, before I meet the patient...I meet her dogs. They come charging out of the house just as I climb from the car, so fast and so much larger than me on their hind feet that I’m thrown backward before I even have time to process what’s happened, my head smacking the window with an audible thwap.
And just as fast, Hayes is there, shielding me with his large frame like some kind of avenging angel. I blink up at him as he helps me right myself. We’ve never stood this close before, and I find myself staring at his eyes—at the tiny green flecks there. At his lovely mouth. At the crease where a dimple sometimes, rarely, appears.
“Are you okay?” he asks, jaw tight with concern. Probably just concern that I’m going to file an unsafe workplace complaint, but concern nonetheless.
I nod. It’s probably adrenaline that’s got me feeling warm and slightly light-headed.
He turns toward the patient. A muscle in his cheek flexes. “Genevieve, can you make sure they stay out of the room this time?” he asks. “I really don’t want to miss when I’m injecting you.”
“Oh, I try,” she says, “but they just want to be near their mama.”
Which sounds like no to me, and certainly seems like it when she leads us into the house, making no effort to keep the dogs from following. Hayes stays close to my side the entire way in, his hand on my back as if prepared to leap into action once more, and his jaw locked so tight I’m worried he’s about to break a molar.
When everything is ready, Hayes tips her chin upward. Just as he presses the needle to her right cheekbone, the largest of the dogs comes charging into the room toward the two of them. Panicking, I leap in his path, only to find myself knocked to the floor.
“You should have brought Jonathan,” Genevieve chides, as Hayes leans down to help me up. I thought I’d seen him angry before, but that was a pale imitation of what I’m seeing now. His eyes are dark as night, and more ominous.
“I’m not going to be able to do this unless you close the door,” Hayes says, his voice so clipped it’s barely civil.
“But I can’t,” Genevieve says. “They’re sad if they can’t see me.”
Hayes begins packing his things. “I’m not putting my assistant through this,” he says. “And it isn’t safe for you either.”
Hayes places a hand on my back as he marches us out of the house. I’m not sure if he’s angry with her, with me, with the dogs...or perhaps all three. But as he climbs in the driver’s seat, it’s obvious he’s very angry about something.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him.
“I’m not mad at you,” he says, his teeth grinding. “I’m mad at myself. I should never have put you in that position. You’re half Jonathan’s size.”
It unsettles me, these small moments when he fails to be as awful as I thought he’d be. I force a laugh. “I’m dumbfounded you’re concerned about anyone’s discomfort but your own.”
His shoulders sag a little, and I feel like I just took a cheap shot. Before I can apologize, he shrugs. “It surprises me as well.”
We are silent most of the ride home. It’s only when I stiffen at the sight of Matt’s face stories above us that he seems to notice me again.
“Are you alright?” Hayes asks, glancing over at me.
“Yes,” I say, though I’m not sure it’s true. It’s not about missing Matt, or even regretting it’s over. It’s just that the sight of him reminds me that trusting anyone other than yourself is a bad idea—and I’m finding myself with this bizarre urge to trust Hayes, of all people.
When I finally collapse in bed that night, exhausted, I dream about the book, but none of my characters are there. It’s me, standing in a ballroom in the castle. The walls are draped with burgundy velvet, candelabras hang from the ceiling, and the feast laid out on the table is unlike anything I’ve seen in real life.
A man stands behind me. I can’t really see him, but I know he’s tall—and dangerous. “Look around,” he says. His voice is low and seductive. My nipples pinch and goose bumps crawl up my arms at the sound of it. “Pick out anything you want and it’s yours.”
I know exactly what he is, and that anything he offers will come at a price, yet I don’t move away from him the way I should. He’s indecently close now—the lapels of his jacket brushing against my bare back, his breath on my neck—but I remain perfectly still, daring him to stay right where he is...or move even closer.
When I wake, my tank is damp, stuck to my skin. I’m painfully turned-on, in a way I’d almost forgotten was possible. And I hate that, because the man in the dream was, quite obviously, Hayes.
I roll to my stomach and bury my face in my pillow. It’s just the stupid incident at Genevieve’s worming its way into my brain when it really shouldn’t. Yes, it was kind of hot, the way he tried to protect me from the dogs. Being shielded by someone a head taller and a foot wider held a primitive kind of appeal. But I’m not going to turn into yet another pathetic female fetishizing the Hayes Flynn experience. If nothing else, because I know how short-lived it would be.
8
I enter the weekend with dread worming its way through my stomach. Writing used to be my favorite thing in the world, and now it’s the bane of my existence, the thing I put off with crossword puzzles and gossip about celebrities I’ve never heard of in The Daily Mail. I now know more about Hamish and Delia from a show called Seduction Island than any adult really should.
There are two calls from Hayes about scheduling issues on Saturday morning, but given I’d expected far worse (House destroyed. Build new one. Also, need more tuxes), I feel like I’ve gotten off easy.
Eventually, I force myself to sit down at my laptop. The story leaves off when things have really gone awry—Aisling discovers the hole they climbed through is shrinking, but when she goes to the castle to get Ewan, the doors are locked. She will need to acquire some magic of her own or they’ll both remain trapped there forever.
It should be exciting…but I’m bored. I’ve tried to write the chapter where Aisling acquires magic. I’ve tried to map out her attack on the castle. I’ve tried skipping ahead to the epilogue, which finds her and Ewan married and settled back home.
But no matter how many words I spit out, I can’t make the book something I would want to read. So, what happens in September when the manuscript is due? Do I turn in a steaming pile of dogshit and hope they don’t notice, or do I return what I can of the advance and spend the rest of my life paying off Charlotte’s stay at Fairfield
? These are the questions that keep me up at night, that have me sliding on my running shoes after dark, knowing sleep will be impossible otherwise.
There was a time when inspiration came after I fell asleep, but this weekend my dreams bring no answers. It’s just me, standing in a ballroom, with a dangerous man whispering in my ear.
That dream is still in my head on Monday morning, when I arrive to find Hayes playing the whole Satan thing to the hilt in a black shirt and pants. The dangerous look suits him—no surprises there. I run my eyes over his chest—his shirt is fitted enough to mold to his very sculpted upper body, and for a moment I picture it all over again—his hands on my arms, his breath in my ear. Warmth spreads over my skin and my bones seem to go loose before I stop myself. What am I doing? I mentally lock that deranged dream down and send it scuttling off to some dark corner of my brain. Never to be seen or heard again, I hope.
Shaking my head, I lift my eyes from his chest to his face. He seems rested and not hungover for once. Jonathan warned me he takes surgery days seriously. I guess I just couldn’t quite imagine Hayes taking anything seriously, other than himself.
“Someone named Piper texted,” I tell him. “She said she wanted to see for herself ‘if it’s as big as everyone says’.”
“My dick,” he says, as if this was unclear. “And it is.”
“I’ll let you inform her yourself,” I reply, sliding him the phone.
He ignores it, tipping his head to observe me. “If you’re not an actress,” he says, “why are you in LA? Modeling?”
I laugh. “Model? I’m five-four. Who would I model for?”
“Children’s clothes?” he suggests. “Or a fashion line for pygmies?”
A smile flickers over my face. “If pygmy fashion model is really a thing, I will tender my resignation immediately.”
He leans back in his seat, watching me. “You still haven’t answered my question.”
A Deal With The Devil: A Steamy Enemies-to-Lovers Romance Page 4