Nor do I want to. I look over his schedule to avoid his gaze. It’s all too depressing, the way nothing I hoped for is coming true.
“Why can’t I just want to be an assistant?” I ask. “Or a bartender?”
“Because you seem like someone destined for more,” he says quietly.
My head jerks up. I scan his face for sarcasm and find something else instead…interest, intrigue. If he knew me better, I imagine any intrigue would die a quick death. Because I once thought I was destined for more too, thanks to the writing contests and accolades in college, and time is definitely proving otherwise.
I paste an indifferent smile on my face. “I came out of the womb wanting to bartend. Which makes us well-suited, since you probably came out of the womb asking for a good scotch.”
“Macallan,” he agrees pleasantly. “It was my first word, actually. Coffee was second.”
I grin. “I’ve got a few guesses what the third word was. It starts with a p.”
He laughs as he rises from his chair, the sound low and warm and unexpected. It makes me feel like I’ve won something. He’s taken two steps toward the door when he stops and turns back toward me.
“Whatever it is you really wanted to do...you’re a little young to have already given up on it. And it seems unlike you to go down without a fight.”
“You’ve known me for a week. How would you know if I fight for things or not?”
“Well,” he says, “you’re fighting with me now, aren’t you?”
As he walks away, I admit to myself he might have a point. I’ve had Matt’s words in my head for too long, telling me I only got the book deal because of him. Telling me I’m never going to finish.
But Matt’s been gone for a year. Even if he’s still talking, perhaps it’s time I stopped listening.
I sink into the plush white chair in my office and turn on the computer, ignoring, for now, the Post-It note Hayes has left asking me to fix the hot tub and bedroom mirror. I return the weekend’s messages and adjust the schedule and it’s only when I’ve completed every last task that I wrinkle my nose and head upstairs to survey the damage.
If there’s a clog in that hot tub, I bet it’s something that rhymes with…fizz.
Marta hasn’t come in yet, so his room still looks like a crime scene. There are clothes on the floor, chairs overturned, and a bright red stiletto is wedged dead in the center of the massive mirror. Like, how does that even happen? Was it a strip tease run amuck? Were they trying to break the mirror? Either seems a possibility with Hayes and his, uh, friends.
I move past it to the deck off Hayes’s bedroom, where I find the water in the sunken hot tub alarmingly discolored and full of champagne bottles, one of which appears to be stuck in the filter. I could probably “fix” the issue simply by reaching in and plucking the bottle out, but fuck that. There’s not enough chlorine in the world for me to brave immersing my hand in that much bacteria.
I call repair guys for both, and while I wait for them, my mind returns to the book and what Hayes said this morning. What happens when I admit to the publisher I can’t finish it and have spent the advance? Even with what I earn at this job, I won’t have enough to repay it in full. My credit cards are nearly maxed out and Charlotte’s still got three months of treatment at Fairfield to pay for.
Maybe I’ve just gone off course and need a second opinion, but who can I ask for advice? Not my editor, as it would mean admitting the book is only half finished. Not my professors at NYU, nor my former classmates—I can just imagine all the snickering about a fantasy romance while they wield quietly brilliant prose about the mundane.
I’m in the middle of grocery shopping for Hayes—a list which mostly involves alcohol, mixers, and garnishes—when it comes to me: Sam. My old buddy from undergrad, who remained at Kansas State to get his PhD in English. He loved fantasy novels, but he was also a sharp and brutally honest critic.
And brutally honest is what I need, even if it kills me.
I get home that night and dial his number. Sam answers on the first ring. “Tali?” he asks. “Is it really you?”
I guess his surprise makes sense. Aside from the occasional email, I mostly fell out of touch when we graduated. Matt was always bothered by our friendship. It seemed best, when we left Kansas, to let it fade.
“It’s really me,” I reply, trying to inject some enthusiasm into my voice. “How’s school?” He must be nearly done, which just makes me feel worse. I’d have my graduate degree by now if I’d stayed.
“Good. Working on my dissertation. What about you? I saw...online,” he says haltingly. “About you and Matt.”
Ugh. The one thing worse than breaking up with someone you’ve dated for most of your life is having his exploits broadcast nationwide. Everyone assumes I was the one who got dumped, and that I’m sitting back in my squalid apartment weeping over what I’ve lost. Which wouldn’t be entirely false, I guess, though not for the reasons they’d think.
I give him the barest details about the breakup, we discuss his dissertation and summer plans and my visit back home at the end of August.
“How’s the book coming?” he asks at last. Sam’s so easy to talk to, I’d almost forgotten the whole reason I called.
“I’m glad you brought it up,” I reply, flopping onto my mattress and arranging the pillows under my head. “I’m completely stuck at the midpoint and was hoping you could take a look at it. As I recall, you were always a voracious reader of fantasy novels.”
“So hot, isn’t it? The ladies love a guy who can discuss George RR Martin in detail. If I knew how to play Dungeons and Dragons, the package would be complete.”
Sam has never understood his appeal, no matter how many women throw themselves at him. “Stop. You seemed to find plenty of girls willing to ignore your nerd side.”
“I was kind of holding out for a girl who wouldn’t need to ignore it,” he replies.
Matt always claimed the girl Sam was holding out for was me, and the truth is if I hadn’t already had a boyfriend, I’d have been interested. He’s cute, and we probably had far more in common than I ever did with Matt.
“I’m sure there are plenty of those too,” I reply. It’s only after the words are out that I hear how potentially flirtatious they sound. Am I flirting? I don’t even know.
He tells me he’d be happy to read what I’ve got and we make tentative plans to meet up when I’m home at the end of August.
“Hey, Tali?” he says, catching me before I hang up. “It’ll be good to see you again. And I’m so glad you finally dumped Matt.”
The call ends, and I sit staring at the phone in my hand. I’ve told myself Sam is only a friend for so long that it’s a little surreal to consider any other possibility. And while the idea of dating again terrifies me, he’d be a little less terrifying than anyone else.
I’m still holding the phone when it chimes with an incoming text…this time from my boss. I’m less irritated than I should be that Hayes is now texting at midnight.
Hayes: Are you awake?
Me: Let me guess…unresponsive female in your home and you need me to come dig a shallow grave.
Hayes: No, that’s more of a 3 AM text. The bartender here is a twat. What’s the most irritating drink we can order?
Me: It’s called The Hayes. At least that’s what irritates me personally.
Hayes: Always so sharp-tongued.
Me: Yes. Like a snake. And you’re Satan, so it’s perfect for you.
Hayes: Your tongue is perfect for me? Say more.
Why Hayes is texting me while on a date with another woman is beyond me. What’s even more puzzling is…I like it.
9
He looks worse than I’ve ever seen him when he gets downstairs. That’s really saying something, under the circumstances.
He presses his fingers to his temples. “Take your daily vitamins,” I say, pushing Advil toward him.
“You’re judging me again.”
“Not
at all,” I reply pleasantly, leaning both elbows on the counter to face him as he slides onto a stool. “Though the text you sent in the middle of the night saying ‘send these girls Florida’ was unclear. Did you want me to send them to Florida or somehow gift them the state of Florida?”
“Sorry,” he groans. “Fucking autocorrect. That was probably supposed to be flowers. I don’t really remember.”
I take a sip of my coffee, looking over his schedule. “So, I spent my entire shower trying to figure out how to gift them Florida for nothing.” I smile and shove the schedule toward him.
“You thought about me in the shower,” he says, mouth barely twitching. “Does that happen a lot?”
“Sometimes I wonder if my soap is strong enough to kill off the bacteria from your home. Is that the kind of thing you mean?”
He winces, pressing his fingers to his temples. “Ouch. I’m too hungover for your mouth this morning.”
I bet he doesn’t say that to many women.
“You currently have nothing from noon to two if you’re in need of a nap.”
His lip curls. “I don’t nap.”
“You should,” I reply with a sigh. Hayes has clearly brought this all on himself, but I feel bad for him anyway. The way he lives is untenable for anyone under normal circumstances, even without all the booze and the sleepless nights.
He holds his forehead up with his hand. “Can you get the girls upstairs out of the house after I leave?” he asks.
Girls. Plural. Any sympathy I might have felt vanishes. My arms fold across my chest. “What girls?”
“The ones upstairs. I thought I made that clear. Three of them.”
Three women? That’s the stuff of pornography and letters to Penthouse, not real life. And I seriously doubt any human, even him, has the agility to service more than two women simultaneously. “Can’t you just be content with a run-of-the-mill threesome like the rest of the world?”
His mouth lifts. I get a hint of a dimple. “Are you saying threesomes are run-of-the-mill for you? I don’t even see you having twosomes.”
He’s pretty much nailed it, not that I’d ever admit it to him.
“I would not be interested in a threesome because most men are barely capable of pleasing a single woman without doubling the workload.”
His eyes gleam. “Maybe you’ve been with the wrong men.”
“Maybe you’ve been with women who do a lot of faking.”
He laughs, so certain of his talents he isn’t even going to reply. “Don’t forget to send them flowers, yeah?”
I roll my eyes. “Fine. Today’s note shall read: Sorry I came so fast and left you all unsatisfied.”
“You seem very certain of yourself for someone who is, in fact, having sex with no one,” he replies. “And don’t try to tell me I’m wrong. You’re far too chipper and well-rested to be doing anything interesting at night.”
“Maybe I’m just capable of enjoying my leisure time without letting it destroy me the next day.”
“Tali,” he says, rubbing his brow as he stands, “any man sleeping with you would keep you up all night long whether it was in his best interest or not. He wouldn’t be able to help himself.” Without even looking at me, Hayes picks up the schedule and walks out, not even realizing what his comment has done to my insides. Because something in the almost-reluctant way he said it...made it seem like he might have been talking about himself.
That night, I go back to the first ball Aisling and Ewan attend in Edinad. It’s the crème de la crème of fae society in attendance—all of them charming and beautiful, constantly inebriated and consumed with sex—a bit like my new boss, actually. I haven’t fleshed them out much, aside from the evil queen, but suddenly, I want more. I picture a man there, just like the one in my dream. Julian. He’s beautiful and darkly intimidating, and when he steps up behind Aisling at the ball, sliding his hands over her bare arms, she’s not sure how to react.
“Name anything and it’s yours,” he tells her.
I don’t even know where it would go in the book, but for the first time in a year, the words come easily.
10
“Hi. This is Drew Wilson,” says the voice on the other end of the line. “I’m interested in getting some work done.”
“You’re the Drew Wilson.” This has to be a prank. Drew Wilson is way too famous to be making her own appointments. She’s also way too young and gorgeous to be in need of cosmetic enhancement.
She sounds amused. “Are you always this suspicious?”
“World-famous singers don’t usually place their own calls.”
“Yeah, I’m definitely not trusting my assistant with this. She’d probably call TMZ before she called you. I mean, this is confidential, right?”
“Of course,” I reply, though I’m really thinking what she needs is a new assistant, not plastic surgery.
She tells me her manager wants her to get a nose job and a boob job, but she needs it to be so top secret that no one but her knows. “Mostly, I don’t want my boyfriend—well, I guess I can’t call him my boyfriend, but let’s just say the guy I’d like as a boyfriend—to know. Can you guys do that?”
My teeth sink into my lip. Drew Wilson has the kind of face other women go to surgeons waving photos of. Why the hell does she think she needs to change it? “I...yes, it’s possible, but you know, you’re going to have a lot of swelling after a nose job and black eyes, possibly. Your boyfriend is going to notice.”
“If I did it while he’s on tour, though...” she muses.
I’m not sure how she thinks her boyfriend won’t notice new breasts, but it’s not even the point.
“Look,” I reply, “I could probably get fired for this but I’m going to say it anyway: you’re gorgeous. There’s nothing wrong with your nose or anything else. Are you sure you want to do this?”
She blows out a long breath. “I don’t even know. Maybe it’s a bad idea. My manager’s been on me and this guy...have you been with a guy who’s, like, fucking perfect? You get along so well, and then he just, like, doesn’t call for weeks at a time?”
The question sounds rhetorical, as if it’s a given. But Matt’s the only person I’ve ever dated. I have no experience with most of the awful boyfriend/fuck buddy scenarios other women seem to have had. “I’ve had one boyfriend my entire life so I really wouldn’t know.”
“One,” she repeats.
“It’s shocking, I know. But you’re stunning, Drew,” I say flatly. “Don’t change yourself for anyone else.”
“Spoken like a girl dating the rare guy who’s actually one of the good ones.”
Yeah, I thought so too. I didn’t have a clue until he showed me exactly who he really was.
I’m in the office going over the inventory when I hear the front door open. Hayes has just reached the kitchen when I step into the room, surprise on my face though there’s no reason for it—this is his home, after all. “Hey. Did you need something?”
He shakes his head, and even that small gesture is weary. “I’m going to try your nap idea from yesterday.”
I smile. He’s made it sound as if napping is something I personally invented.
“It sounds like you’ll need it,” I tell him. “Nicole texted with some interesting commentary about the other night and how she’d like to repeat it. Her text began with ‘It’s so big’ and had multiple exclamation points.”
He barely seems to register the comment as he passes me, heading toward the living area, but I suppose he’s gotten quite a few texts like that in the past. He strips off his button-down and I get a nice look at his shockingly defined biceps as he tosses the shirt onto a chair and lies down on the nearest couch, his long frame eating up every inch of space as he arranges a pillow under his head.
“I don’t see women more than once,” he says, with his eyes closed. “That way no one gets hurt.”
He’s asleep in mere seconds. I hesitate for a moment, then cross the room and lay a throw blanket over him
. There’s something sweet and unexpectedly boyish about his face at rest, and it creates this strange ache in the center of my rib cage. He’s every bit as bad as I’d imagined at the start, and yet…he isn’t.
Anyone who’s ever met Matt would tell you he’s “one of the good ones”, while I doubt anyone would say that of Hayes. But Matt is not nearly what he appeared, while I suspect—under that beautiful, callous exterior—Hayes might be a little more.
For two hours, he sleeps like the dead.
When it’s time for him to get up, I call his name, and he doesn’t move a muscle. He’s a heavy sleeper, like my dad was. My hand looks like a child’s as it presses to his broad back, warm under the T-shirt. “Hey,” I say softly, “wake up.”
“Half a syringe,” he murmurs, eyes still closed. The man works so much he’s there even in his dreams.
“Hayes,” I say more firmly, kneeling beside him and shaking his shoulder, “wake up.”
His eyes open, and for a moment he just takes in my face—not as if I’m a stranger or his annoying assistant, but as if I’m someone he’s known his entire life, someone he absolutely trusts. It’s...unexpected. By the time I’ve recovered, the look is gone, replaced by his standard suspicion and disdain.
“I couldn’t wake you,” I say briskly, rising to my feet. “I made you some lunch.”
“Lunch?” he asks, placing his head in his hands as he tries to rouse himself.
“Yes, it’s a form of sustenance taken midday, one universal through cultures across the world.”
“I don’t eat lunch,” he says.
“Come on. It’ll help you get through the rest of the day,” I tell him, going to the refrigerator to get the salad I made him.
Hayes shrugs on his button-down as he walks to the counter, briefly revealing a wedge of taut stomach. “You sound like a mother. Not mine, obviously, but the good kind who doesn’t outsource all her parenting.”
A Deal With The Devil: A Steamy Enemies-to-Lovers Romance Page 5