He climbs to his feet. “I’m still hoping that law gets changed.”
He then leaves, having dropped this bomb on me, but he takes the smoothie with him. I find I’m unable to be as irritated as I’d like.
The next few days seem to occur at warp speed. I allocate most of the planning to an event company, but answering questions about trivial crap still eats up every free second—Chilean sea bass (endangered but tasty) or tilapia? Ecru linens or taupe? Curved spindles on the chairs or straight?
I find myself texting Hayes often, and though he tells me I’m a nuisance and frequently threatens to fire me for asking too many questions, he’s the one who sneaks in irrelevant texts. Asking questions about my book, wanting to know more about Julian, suggesting various sexual positions Aisling might enjoy. I reply with links to websites about sexual harassment in the workplace, but the truth is those texts are the best part of my day.
By night, I’m still working on adding Julian to the book. I think I’ve almost got it when Sam calls with a new suggestion.
“You know,” he says. “I don’t love Naida.”
Naida—the woodland nymph who teaches Aisling to wield magic—is vital to the plot. It’s not as if Aisling can storm a castle full of dark magic without a weapon of her own.
“It would be a lot more interesting,” he says, “if she had an evil motive or wanted something in return, something complicated.”
“You want me to make sweet little Naida—who wants nothing more than to own her bakery outright and earn the love of a water nymph—evil?”
“Sure. Like maybe she’s trying to lead a zombie uprising and needs Aisling to lower the wards on the castle so she can attack.”
Sam always did want to add zombies to everything. I’d forgotten that about him.
Yet he’s not wrong. Those scenes with Naida bore me too. And it might be fun if Aisling had to work with someone bad in order to get what she wanted.
I think of Hayes’s latest suggestion: that Aisling could sleep with Julian to get information about the queen. He really doesn’t seem to grasp the concept of a young adult novel. (“I’m not suggesting you describe a graphic bondage scene,” Hayes argued. “Just, you know, allude to one.”) While I don’t intend to have my teenage heroine take up prostitution to save her boyfriend, I can admit he may be on to something. Working with Julian is like making a deal with the devil. In order to get what she needs, she’ll have to risk everything.
Me: You win. Julian is going to help Aisling break into the castle.
Hayes: Which she’ll pay for ON HER BACK. Don’t argue, just go with it.
Hayes: BTW, that would be a good line for Julian to use on Aisling in bed.
I arrive on Friday morning clad in shorts and running shoes, ready for the long hours ahead. The work trucks pull up to the house right behind me, and the next twenty minutes are a flurry of directions and unlocking doors and answering placement questions. When I finally get back inside, Hayes is sitting at the counter.
His eyes run over me, head to toe and back to my legs. His slow perusal makes me shiver, in a good way. “Have we changed the dress code, then?” he asks, his voice lower than normal.
“I’m not running around here in heels all day. I have my dress for tonight in the car.”
“I’m sure the workmen are enjoying this look.” His mouth flattens. “I’ll barely need to tip when they’re done.”
I roll my eyes and slide him his schedule while I look over my own. For once, I think I’m the busier of the two of us.
“So,” he says, “I guess there’s no smoothie today?”
I glance up. “Do you want one?” I feel like a Disney heroine who’s just discovered she’s got a secret power.
He runs a hand through his hair, which is what Hayes does when he feels even the tiniest pinch of vulnerability. “Only if you have time.”
I don’t. But it’s an admission, even if he doesn’t realize it: He likes to feel cared for. He likes that someone in his life wants things for him aside from what he does for them in return.
“Of course,” I say, placing his vitamin D next to his coffee with an additional supplement. “But only if you take your vitamins like a good boy. And I’m not trying to poison you. The new one is zinc. It’s good for the immune system.”
He pops it into his mouth. “And sperm production,” he adds.
The day passes in a haze of decisions and dilemmas and petty squabbles between vendors. I’m just praying it’s not a complete disaster. The biggest party I’ve ever thrown until now involved pizza for twenty, and even that didn’t go so well.
At seven, I rush into one of the upstairs bathrooms and twist up my hair before I climb into the shower. The fancy body wash on the lip of the tub smells like Hayes—like a summer night on a beach somewhere glamorous. I stand for a moment inhaling the scent before I realize how weird that is and get on with it, washing quickly and drying off before I slip into the green silk dress I brought.
My normal makeup is lip balm and mascara, but tonight I do the full deal: I’m not half-assing things at an event full of the city’s most beautiful women.
I slide on my heels and fluff my hair before I head downstairs to find Hayes wandering aimlessly, looking a little lost. He stops in place when he sees me.
“I didn’t recognize you for a moment,” he says, clearing his throat. “You made an effort for once.”
It’s not the most effusive praise I’ve ever received, but I shouldn’t have been hoping for praise in the first place.
“It’s going to be hard enough standing next to a bunch of actresses and models. I figured some makeup was necessary.”
His eyes flicker over my face. “You’re prettier than any of them even without makeup,” he says gruffly.
I blink in surprise, my jaw unhinged. I’ve heard Hayes spew flattery before, but this is different. Almost as if he said it by accident. As if it was something he didn’t want me to know.
“Thank you,” I whisper, but I’m not sure he even hears it as he turns on his heel and walks away. I watch him go, and something begins to flutter in my chest. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think it was hope.
The party is every bit as lavish and insane as Hayes wanted it to be. There’s a tequila luge in the shape of a woman’s face, a chocolate fountain, and one full table loaded with more tiny desserts than I’ve ever seen in one place. Massive silver balloons and Chinese lanterns sway in the breeze, and servers pass neon green drinks on trays, narrowly dodging attendees dancing to the music that booms from the sound system.
I’m running for several hours straight, dealing with obnoxious guests demanding special food and trying to lift the tequila luge while someone’s drunk spouse is snatching a bottle of Patron off the bar for a private party he wants to hold in a cabana. It’s only when someone asks me where Hayes is that I stop long enough to realize I haven’t seen him in a long time.
I search the lawn and then the house, eventually finding him sitting alone on one of the upstairs balconies. It’s so quiet here, it would be easy to forget there’s a party going on at all.
His mouth hitches up slightly, a failed attempt to smile. “You did a good job,” he says. “No. Let me correct that. You did an amazing job. It would appear, therefore, that you are good at something other than writing, contrary to your claims.”
I wonder, for a half second, if he threw this entire ridiculous party simply to prove that to me before I dismiss the idea. He’s not that selfless.
“If it’s amazing, why are you up here? Shouldn’t you be choosing the eighteen women you’re going to let stay over tonight?”
He leans back in his seat, a glass of wine held to his chest. “That would be thoughtless of me, since it would mean making you get eighteen women out of my house in the morning.”
“The thoughtless part would be bringing that many women up in the first place. No way you’d satisfy all of them.”
His mouth hitches up to one side. “That s
ounds like a challenge.”
I picture him attempting it, which leaves me both irritated and titillated at once. I turn to head back downstairs and his hand encircles my wrist.
Such a small point of contact and yet, for a moment, it’s all I can notice.
“Sit,” he says. “You’ve done enough tonight, and your car’s blocked in.”
I take the chair across from him. It’s my first time off my feet all night and I groan in relief as I sink into the cushions. He reaches across the table and pours me a glass of Malbec. I take a sip, letting it roll around in my mouth. I’d forgotten what a pleasure good wine could be. A warm breeze carries the scent of night-blooming jasmine from his side yard and I breathe deep, resting my head against the chair’s soft back. He must, at some level, think a massive party like this one is fun, even if he’s not enjoying it tonight. For me, the wine in my hand and him sitting across from me is enough.
“So, if you’re up here alone,” I say. “I can only assume that means you’re busy thinking dark thoughts about the emptiness of your life.”
“Is that what I’m doing?” he asks, swirling the wine in his glass.
“I don’t know,” I reply. “Are you?”
“Maybe.” He glances at me with a rueful smile. “There’s nothing like inviting over every single person you know to make you realize you don’t like any of them much.”
I ache for him. His life could be so much fuller if he’d just allow it to be.
“You probably need a few people you’re willing to talk to sober,” I say softly, curling up in my chair.
He stares into his wine glass. “At the moment, I guess that’s mostly Ben and you.”
My heart gives a single hard beat. I never thought I’d see the day Hayes would admit I’m something more than his less-than-stellar assistant. “I thought I might have met Ben tonight, actually.”
Hayes looks toward the sea of people in the yard. “He’s out of town but he wouldn’t haven’t approved of all this. He’s nearly as judgmental as you.”
I smile. “So, he’s a good influence, then. I was picturing a Hayes clone.”
He tips back in his chair. “It’s a sad day when we agree you’re a good influence. How did you spend the entire advance, anyway? Based on your clothes and your car, I’d assume you aren’t much of a spender.”
I suppress the desire to laugh. Only Hayes would take my sad, shameful admission and insult me with it. “My younger sister needed inpatient treatment after my dad died, and I’ve been helping my mom out with money. Apparently, my parents’ finances were in worse shape than anyone knew, even my mom.”
“You take care of everyone, don’t you?” he asks. His eyes are soft as velvet. When he looks at me like that, it’s hard to breathe. I find I can’t maintain eye contact.
“Not all that well, it would seem.” Liddie and I haven’t spoken or even texted in a week, Charlotte still seems miserable, and the last time I called home my mother was drunk. It feels like I’m failing, but no one can tell me how to turn things around.
The party below us has quieted to a dull roar. It’s probably time to send the caterers home. I rise, reluctantly slipping my shoes back on.
“I’ll pay it,” he says. “Your debt. I’ll pay it. If you ever make it big, you can pay me back. Otherwise, consider it a gift.”
My eyes sting, and suddenly I feel fragile and uncertain. Under that beautiful, careless exterior of his lies a heart far larger than anyone out back realizes, and it’s been a very long time since someone has offered to take care of me, hasn’t simply assumed I’d figure it out. I’m not sure why it makes me so happy and sad at once that he’s the exception.
“Thank you.” It comes out as a whisper, barely audible around the lump in my throat. God, am I really about to cry over this? “I can’t accept, but thank you.”
His nostrils flare. “Why the fuck not?” he demands. “I can make all your problems disappear in the blink of an eye, with very little effort. Why not let me?”
Why not indeed? That money is nothing to him. He could earn it back in a week, while it would take me years, if not for this job.
“Because,” I say, unable to meet his eyes, “everyone in your life seems to take something from you, and that’s not what friends do. I guess I’d rather be your friend.”
It feels too intimate, too earnest. I want to make a joke, find a way to lighten things up. But I see something in his face that hasn’t been there before—as if he really sees me, as if he might even trust me—and I can’t stand to ruin it. For once, I keep all the awkward jokes inside me. And then I walk away, wishing, more than anything, I could stay.
I wake at noon. It was four in the morning by the time I left, and I was relieved to see Hayes had rejoined the party, smiling his lopsided grin and charming the shit out of everyone. I assume he found some lovely, willing young model and took her upstairs with him eventually.
I need to get started on the next section of the book, but I don’t know where it should go. Julian has told Aisling he’ll help her, but he’s not the kind of guy who’s going to give away his assistance for free. He’ll demand something of her—the question is what he’d even want, other than sex. He already has far more money, power, and clout than she does.
I go for a run, hoping the answer will come to me. It’s a beautiful day; the sky tinted rosy-gold, the ocean so blue against the white sand it seems more like a photo than real life.
I increase my pace as I pass the pier and all the mansions I’d kill to borrow for a day. My favorite is dark brown, with four levels of decks facing the ocean. I’ve never once seen a sign of life there. I imagine the owner is some Hollywood exec, working slavishly toward goals that will prove empty in the end, just like Hayes. He’ll be an old man before he ever steps outside to appreciate this view he’s had all along, and when it happens, he won’t feel proud of what he’s accomplished. He’ll simply realize what it is he missed with his eyes on the wrong prize.
Julian is a bit like that, but there’s lingering humanity there too. Maybe the beauty of him is that he’s good in ways he’d prefer no one see, ways he almost won’t acknowledge to himself.
As my feet pound against the pavement, I ponder once more the tasks Julian’s sending Aisling on, and then I think of Hayes last night, saying it would appear you’re good at something other than writing.
And I run all the way home with the answer I needed bursting from me.
Aisling arrives in Julian’s study to discover the wishflower—which she risked her life to acquire—is something he already has in abundance. He tells her she can keep the one she found and she’s enraged.
“Why did you ask me to risk my life if you didn’t even want it?” I demand.
“Perhaps, my sweet, it wasn’t for me at all,” he says. “You think you need your Ewan so desperately, but look what you accomplished entirely on your own.”
I send the new pages to Sam, and he writes back an hour later telling me he loves them. “I actually like Julian a lot more than I like Ewan,” he adds.
That I agree terrifies me.
16
On Monday afternoon, Hayes asks me to meet him at a bar near his office to go over the schedule. “A bar, rather than your office?” I ask. “How professional.”
“I need a stiff drink to handle the inevitable nagging that seems to accompany any conversation with you,” he replies. I smile to myself. I do actually have some nagging in store, it’s true.
I reach the bar just after five. The place is dark and cozy—chestnut paneled walls and wood floors, charcoal velvet chairs, low lighting. I’d think it was romantic if I was meeting someone else.
He watches me as I approach, eyes brushing over me from head to toe like I’m something to eat.
“I got you a gin and tonic,” he says.
I sling my purse over the back of the chair and take a seat. “I’m driving.”
“You appear to be sitting, actually,” he says, his eyes flickering ove
r me once again, “and I didn’t order you a hundred gin and tonics.”
“Maybe I have a date tonight,” I say, though in truth, all I’ve got scheduled for the whole evening is a bowl of cereal and a phone call to my mom. “I know it’s shocking, but I do have some small life outside of serving your every need.”
His tongue taps his lip. “I wouldn’t say you serve every one of my needs,” he counters, his voice low and filthy. I squirm in my seat. “And you don’t have a date because you’re still mooning over Farm Boy.”
“I’m not mooning over anyone,” I argue, squeezing the wedge of lime into my drink. “I’m just licking my wounds, and please don’t make some gross joke about letting someone else lick my wounds…I know that’s where you were headed.”
He sets his drink down. “As a doctor, I doubt I’d suggest either option. But it’s time for your self-pity to stop. Let me make you a Tinder profile.”
He snatches up my phone and I snatch it back. “I can make my own profile, thank you very much. Anything you did would probably reference how many working holes I have.”
His teeth sink into his lip as he tries not to laugh. I picture them sinking into my skin instead and feel goose bumps rise along the back of my arms.
“Okay, well, let me help,” he says. “How about ‘Argumentative redhead seeks—'”
“I’m not a redhead.”
He shakes his head. “Brown is too plain and I can’t believe you’re already arguing with me. As I was saying, ‘Argumentative redhead seeks extremely handsome male to nag. I have three working holes.’”
I smile against my will. “Thanks, that’s perfect. I’ll definitely find Mr. Right with that.”
“I can tell you’re going to be tedious about this. Fine.” He looks over one shoulder and then the other, surveying the room. “Then who here do you find attractive? Aside from me, of course. Obviously, in a perfect world, I’d be your first choice.”
A Deal With The Devil: A Steamy Enemies-to-Lovers Romance Page 8