A Deal With The Devil: A Steamy Enemies-to-Lovers Romance

by Elizabeth O'Roark

  Hudson runs to the table and grabs his hand. “Hayes!” she cries. “Come ride the elephant with me!”

  He grins at her. “I’m not sure it can support both our weights. You’ve gotten quite large.” She giggles, and he allows himself to be led to the line. I watch as this beautiful man walks off holding his sister’s hand, still completely stunned by his admission.

  “He’s back,” his grandmother says, pulling my attention away from Hayes. “I was worried Ella had ruined his faith in women forever, but he clearly adores you. It’s such a relief.”

  I squirm with discomfort. Even if we are pulling this off better than I ever dreamed, it’s all a lie. And while I don’t mind lying to Ella and his dad until I’m blue in the face, I don’t want to lie to this nice old woman.

  “You must ignore Ella, whatever she says. The woman’s a parasite,” his grandmother continues, “the kind that mutates to best attack its host. She met Michael and suddenly became a producer’s wife. When she leaves him for someone else, she’ll become an equestrian or a go-go dancer or whatever it is her next victim requires.”

  I shouldn’t be prying, but I can’t seem to help myself. “Who was she with Hayes?”

  “A bit like you—down-to-earth, open. But she didn’t pull it off quite as well.”

  I’m not sure if she’s placating me. I only know I want it to be true. And I know I want to avoid Ella all afternoon, if possible, but when I help Hayes’s grandmother up the hill and stop by the bar on my way back, she suddenly appears by my side. I doubt it’s by accident.

  “He still drinks this, does he?” Ella asks, lifting the scotch I got for Hayes and giving it a sniff. “You should have seen him at Cambridge, choking it down, trying to impress me.”

  “That was so long ago,” I reply, preparing to walk away. “I’m fairly certain he’s not drinking it to impress anyone now.”

  Her head tips to the side as she studies me. “He’s not cut out for commitment, you know.”

  I stiffen. A part of me assumed she must regret her decision—how could you not regret leaving Hayes? But I thought she’d at least be subtle about it. Instead, she’s openly trying to destroy what he’s found in her wake.

  “He’s charming, and he’s obviously smitten with you.” She waves a hand as if all this is meaningless. “Just don’t start believing it’s going to last. One thing goes wrong in his life, and you’ll find yourself shut out completely.”

  I have no idea what the one thing was that went wrong, but it also doesn’t matter. This bitch was never the right person for him. Never. “Maybe you just weren’t someone he felt he could turn to.”

  Her eyes narrow. “You’re delusional if you think he’s going to choose you.”

  I laugh. She is jealous and so painfully obvious about it. “What’s worse, Ella? Knowing you made a poor choice, or knowing that every person here thinks Hayes dodged a bullet when you left?”

  I grab the scotch from her hand and leave her standing there, red-faced and tight-lipped, and return to the table, where Hayes now waits.

  He rises, and because I know Ella is still watching, I reach up and make a show of running my fingers through his hair. His eyes go hooded and feral as he observes me, swallowing as his gaze lands on my lips. “You’re extremely committed to this role,” he says hoarsely. His hands, already on my hips, tighten.

  “Ella’s watching,” I tell him.

  He pulls my palm to his mouth, pressing a gentle kiss to it before he pulls me down to the chair beside his. “I told you I wasn’t trying to make her jealous.”

  “Yeah, I know,” I say, “but I am. Because she sucks. I can’t imagine why you ever proposed to her.”

  He prods his cheek with his tongue. “I never actually proposed,” he admits reluctantly. “She pulled me into a jewelry store one day and told me it was time. After staying together so long, it seemed like the right thing to do. In retrospect, I think she hoped getting engaged would change me in a way it didn’t—the whole thing about making me love her as much as I love myself.”

  His voice is flat and factual, as if he’s accepted her ugly, bitter take on what went wrong. “Hayes, you sound as if you believe her, and you shouldn’t.”

  He shrugs. “A part of me was relieved when she left, which seems to support her point.”

  Before I can argue, Hudson appears, begging him to go into the trampoline with her. His smile makes my heart ache for him. His own child with Ella might have looked just the same. He must, occasionally, think about it too.

  He rises. “Come on,” he says, holding out a hand for me.

  “You don’t seriously expect me to jump in this dress?”

  There’s a filthy smile on his face. “I’m commanding you to jump in that dress.”

  I should ignore him, but I follow them to the trampoline. I have to hitch my dress up to nearly my crotch in order to climb the ladder after them.

  “My plan is working swimmingly so far,” he says, his voice low and dirty.

  “Enjoy the view while you can, big boy.” With a chuckle, he holds out his hand to help me balance as I climb in.

  My foot sinks into the floor of the trampoline and I fall forward, into his chest.

  He catches me easily. I allow myself a quick inhale—he smells like soap and clean air and him, and I want to huff him like glue. I force myself to step away, and we begin to jump in a circle, higher and higher.

  In another life, he’d have been a good father, and kids would give him some of that meaning he seems to lack. Maybe he’d have gotten into a different job, or at least not allowed the one he has to take over his life. I wonder if it’s still possible for him, somehow.

  Hudson falls, and I trip gracelessly in an effort to avoid landing on her. We all end up on our backs laughing and he swings her high in the air overhead. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look quite so peaceful as he does now: smiling wide, his body loose and relaxed.

  When we depart the trampoline, he lifts me so I don’t have to descend the ladder—large hands spanning my waist as he lowers me lightly in front of him, sliding me down his body as he does. The contact is not obvious to onlookers, but has us both sucking in a breath. My feet are on the ground but his hands linger, his gaze drifting over my face. It no longer feels as he’s playing a part, and I know I’m not. Nothing feels more natural than my hand in his, my head pressing to his shoulder. And I wonder if we are both getting a little lost in playing this role.

  I go inside, to a bathroom that’s larger than my apartment, wondering how I’ll stand to return to a world where his hand isn’t on the small of my back or his arm isn’t around my waist. I wish I could hoard all these moments and somehow savor them throughout the year.

  As I exit, I come face-to-face with his father. I don’t think he was waiting for me, but his timing here is odd and there’s something eager in his eyes.

  “So, you and my son,” he says, his voice a little too jovial.

  I smile stiffly, unsure where this is heading. Hayes seems to have forgiven his father, but I have not. Because who does that? He’s a good-looking man with plenty of money. He could easily have found a woman other than his son’s fiancée.

  “Yes,” I reply.

  “I’m glad he’s finally found someone,” he says, and then he sighs. “He and Ella...I guess he told you.”

  “He did,” I say, my voice flat. If he’s looking for a pat on the shoulder, I hope he’s not holding his breath.

  “You know, they’d never have worked out,” he says. “He needs more than her.”

  My head jerks upward. What a shitty thing to say about his own wife, even if it’s true.

  “I’m not saying Ella is lacking anything,” he continues. “She’s perfect for me. But Hayes—he needs a firecracker, someone as strong as he is, as smart as he is, an equal. And whether he’d ever admit it or not, she never was.”

  I raise my chin. “What an unusual thing to say about your own wife.”

  He runs a hand thr
ough his hair. It’s far cuter when Hayes does it. “I know. And you’re possibly the only woman at this party with the balls to call me on it, so you just might work.”

  If any of this was real, I’d suspect…he might be right. Even based on our limited interaction, I know someone like Ella could never be enough for Hayes, could never challenge him and keep him on his toes the way I would. But me? I could make him happy, and I’d take care of him. For the briefest moment I am staggered by my desire to do exactly that.

  Hayes walks in the French doors and stiffens at the sight of us, his eyes going dark.

  “I was just telling Tali here what a nice couple you are,” his father says, swishing the ice in his empty glass. “She’s perfect for you.”

  Hayes’s arm wraps around my waist, pulling me tight to his body. “Glad you approve, Dad.” His voice is dry as the Sahara and he stares his father down, as if this moment is about something more. It’s only when his father walks away that he turns me toward him. His hand slides to my hip, even though we’re the only ones in here. “What was that about?”

  “He asked me to have a drink with him later tonight, once everyone’s gone.” I wait just long enough for his jaw to drop before I laugh. “Kidding. He told me it was for the best that you and Ella never worked out because she isn’t your equal.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  I shake my head. In retrospect, it’s all pretty appalling. “You won’t be surprised to learn I made my disapproval clear.”

  He laughs, looking younger and freer than he has looked even once, during all the time I’ve known him. “Of course you did. You about ready to go?”

  I nod, though I’m not really ready for all this to end. He takes my hand, and we walk back outside to say goodbye to everyone. Ella hugs us both, barely touching me while she lingers with Hayes, pressed up against him. Everyone watches it happen, and I’m furious all over again with his father. What a horrible situation to put your son in for the rest of his life. I don’t care if he did Hayes a favor. He’s a garbage human being, and he got the wife he deserves.

  I sink into the sun-warmed leather seat of his BMW with a relieved sigh, realizing only now how much my feet ache.

  “If we happen to pass any bonfires on the way back to my apartment, pull over so I can throw these shoes in.”

  He glances over at me as we wait for the gates to open. “That you managed to wear them all day was above and beyond the call of duty.”

  “For real,” I agree. “And now that I’ve done a favor for you, I need you to do something for me.”

  He smirks. “You’re not in much of a bargaining position now that the afternoon is over, but proceed.”

  I bite my lip. “Take next weekend off. I never filled it in.”

  We discussed the idea weeks ago. It’s possible I simply ignored him when he said he wasn’t interested.

  His nostrils flare. “Tell me you’re joking.”

  “Come on,” I wheedle. “What’s two days?”

  He sighs heavily. “Do I really have to tell you how much money I can make?”

  I throw out my hands. “Think of how much you have, Hayes! For God’s sake, what are you working so hard for if you can’t even enjoy it?”

  He turns up the music as if the conversation is over. “Fill in the days.”

  “You’re just scared,” I say, turning the music down again. “You’re scared of what happens when there’s nothing to do. You fill every free moment with work. That’s no way to live.”

  “I seem to be filling an increasing number of moments with shrill nagging from my assistant,” he replies. “I’m not scared of time off. I just don’t need it.”

  “Then prove it,” I insist. “Take two whole days off and show me you’re not scared. I found a little house you can rent, right on the beach. Swim and nap and read. What could be better?”

  “Making ten grand in a day would be better,” he replies. “Which would happen if you weren’t so averse to doing your job.”

  That’s the last word we exchange on the matter until he pulls in front of my apartment.

  “I’ll walk you up,” he says.

  I shake my head. I’d rather he not see how I live—how far apart our worlds actually are. “No, don’t. You’ll get towed.”

  Our eyes meet, and butterflies take flight in my stomach. I haven’t been in this situation often in my life, but I know what it is: It’s when you realize you like someone, and he might like you too. It’s the moment when we’d kiss, if things were different.

  “Thank you for doing this,” he says. “I don’t think a single person thought it was fake.”

  It’s an opening. It didn’t feel fake to me either, I could tell him. Except the very thought of that conversation turns those butterflies into a flock of birds, scattering at the sound of a gunshot, wings flapping, feathers flying loose.

  “Surely they realize you’re going to pull a George Clooney and not settle down until you’re fifty. I’m way too old for you.”

  “True. Jonathan’s daughter is probably a better fit, age-wise,” he replies.

  I laugh, and then it fades. I don’t actually see him pulling a George Clooney. I see him growing a little more alone each year, and I have so little time left to fix it.

  “What do I need to do to get you to go away next weekend?” I ask. “I’ll work a week for free. Name your price.”

  He glances at me and swallows. “Fine,” he says. “Come with me.”

  My eyes fly open wide. “What?”

  “Never fear, I’m not propositioning you.” He leans back in his seat. “But it would be fun to have you there, and I want someone to handle the grunt work.”

  “What grunt work?” I ask. “It’s a vacation.”

  “I need someone to do all the shit I don’t want to do. Like going to Starbucks in the morning and getting groceries.”

  I frown. It’s not that I’d mind going—I’d sell my liver to go, as short-sighted as that might be, and the book is stalled out again, so I could use a break. But it’s not what I had in mind for him.

  “Hayes, I think maybe…maybe what you’re missing in life is the bad stuff. Maybe what you need is for me not to buffer it all for you.”

  “This sounds like an elaborate excuse to make me take care of myself, something that doesn’t interest me in the least.”

  My smile is weak. I suppose I am asking him to take care of himself, and it’s something I have to think through for a moment before I can explain it to him.

  “It’s not,” I finally say. “But here’s the thing: I don’t like going to Starbucks either. But when I step outside and the sun warms my skin and I take that first sip of my latte, just before I spit in yours, it suddenly feels as if the world is a decent place. You don’t get that. Or any of the other moments like it, so you look for your happiness in things that do more harm than good.”

  His eyes darken. “So much judgment from such a small package.”

  “I’m not judging you. How could I? I’m in debt up to my eyeballs, I’m about to be unemployed, and my ex is now splashed all over the internet with a girl who’s much better looking than me. If I saw an easy fix for any of that, I’d take it, and if your life made you happy, I’d be all for it. It just doesn’t seem to.”

  “She is not better looking than you.”

  I laugh. I can’t believe out of everything I said, that’s the part he heard.

  “I still want you to come,” he says. “I’ll stand in Starbucks with you. Show me what this normal, happy life would be like if you had a weekend off and didn’t work for me.”

  A normal happy life with him if he wasn’t my boss. It’s the kind of thing I don’t even allow myself to imagine, and now he wants me to act it out with him.

  He raises a brow. “Oh, look how reluctant you are now that you’ve got to go. Not so fun anymore, is it?”

  But he’s got it all wrong.

  I’m not worried about showing him what our life would be like toget
her...I’m worried about showing it to myself.

  27

  We leave on Friday for Laguna Beach, about an hour south of LA. As much as I’d like to take in the view—the city giving way to ocean and sand and distant cliffs—I turn toward him instead, my knees pressed to the console.

  We’ve barely left the city and already I can see how some of that tension from work is easing away. His shoulders are relaxed, his mouth soft.

  He has the most glorious profile—a nose that is somehow endlessly masculine and elegant at the same time. What a shame he has no plans to pass those genes on to another generation. He glances at me, and I wonder if my staring unnerves him—but I don’t care enough to stop doing it.

  “You haven’t mentioned your sister in a while,” he says. “Is she doing better?”

  My stomach tightens. Right now, I want to imagine what his children would look like and pretend I never have to leave him. I do not want to think about my family. “Yes. She gets out in August.”

  “And your mom? She’s not going to be an issue?” he asks.

  My mother hasn’t replied to the text I sent a week ago, nor the more demanding ones I’ve sent since. I know what it means, and I know I should tell him the truth. But my friendship with Hayes is like a flower that’s just begun to bloom, and the truth will be a hard freeze, prompting him to cut his losses and back away. And I’m not ready for him to back away yet. “It’ll sort itself out,” I reply.

  I glance out the window, at the sun glinting off the Pacific’s endless blue. Yes, it’ll sort itself out, but only with my help. Only with my salary paying the mortgage and me there to take care of Charlotte and some concession made on my end to Liddie, who no longer tells me about pregnancy attempts or anything else. And it would be worth it all if only the four of us were going to come out of this okay. I just feel increasingly certain we won’t. Me, in particular.

  “Have you been to Laguna Beach before?” I ask. A subject change is necessary. Otherwise, Hayes will drag the whole gruesome truth out of me.