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

by Elizabeth O'Roark

  He shakes his head. “No. You?”

  “Matt and I had this goal to visit all of California’s beaches someday. We passed through, but I can’t remember if we stopped.”

  His lip curls at the mention of my ex. “You’re telling me, then, that you had sex on most of California’s beaches.”

  A shocked laugh burbles from my throat. “God, no.”

  “Why not? I’d have tried, were I him.”

  Of course you would. I squeeze my thighs together and try not to picture sex on the beach with Hayes. Sex on every single beach in the state with Hayes. “He’d have never...forget it.”

  “Oh, no,” he says. “You can’t start a sentence like that and not finish it. He’d have never what?”

  “We would never have made sex the focus of a trip. He’d be moody for days after, if we did.” A blush crawls up my neck. “He always…finished quickly and it made things, uh, anticlimactic.”

  I stare out the window again, hoping we’re done with this topic. Yes, sex with Matt was anticlimactic more often than it wasn’t, but that didn’t matter so much. We had other things—friendship and history, a common language. If I suspected I was giving a few things up, they didn’t bother me at the time.

  “I don’t understand why you stayed with him,” he says, suddenly irritated. “Is he really that attractive?”

  “It was more than his looks. He’s a really good guy most of the time, and he’s kind to everyone, no matter where they are on the totem pole. He did a bad thing, but nobody’s perfect.”

  Hayes’s lips press together. “You sound like you’ve forgiven him.”

  “I’m getting there, or at least I’m trying to. Holding a grudge takes too much energy.”

  It’s a very mature response. I’m not sure why Hayes looks so unhappy with it.

  It’s just after six, the sky a symphony of muted rose and gold and dusky blue, when we arrive at the bungalow in Laguna.

  I’m so smitten from the minute we walk in that I want to spin in place, like I’m some ecstatic Disney princess singing with woodland creatures.

  The cathedral ceiling is walnut hardwood crossed with exposed beams. The back wall is glass, with nothing but water as far as the eye can see. It has a darling shiplap white kitchen and a glorious deck with a hot tub. I couldn’t even have dreamed up anything quite so perfect.

  His smile is soft. “I’ve never seen you so in awe of a place.”

  “Can you imagine living like this? Waking up here every freaking day?” I run a loving hand over the marble countertop. “Forget about your mattress. I’m marrying this house instead.”

  There are two nearly identical master bedrooms with wall-to-ceiling windows and bleached hardwood. I take the one on the left and stare at the huge bed, covered with a fluffy duvet and pillows. It’s hard not to picture a romantic trip here with a bed like that one. But not with Matt, or even Sam. Not with someone soft and safe, but with someone whose nostrils will flare when I’m beneath him, like an animal about to devour prey. Someone who would pin me there for hours, days, weeks…

  “You’re staring at that bed like it’s done something to you,” Hayes says, behind me.

  I glance back at him. He’s leaning against the doorframe with his arms folded, all square-jawed beauty and bulging biceps, radiating dominance.

  His nostrils would flare. I bet he’d use his teeth.

  My knees wobble with how much I’d like see that for myself. I have to get him out of this room before I do something insane.

  “We need to go to the store.” My voice is breathy and uncertain.

  “That does not sound relaxing at all. You’re terrible at this.”

  “Come on,” I say, grabbing my purse and charging past him toward the door. “It’ll be fun.”

  I say this, knowing there is nothing fun about going to the grocery store. And Hayes bitches most of the way there, driving while I navigate. But when we walk in—hit by a rush of cold air and the smell of baked goods—his face lights up like a child’s and he makes a beeline for the display of pies in front.

  “I think we need some, don’t you?” he asks.

  “Pie?”

  He’s already got two in hand. “It’s a combination of fruit and crust. Quite tasty.”

  I struggle not to smile. I’ve seen Hayes’s enthusiasm for triple-cask-matured whiskey. I can’t believe he’s just as excited about shitty store-bought desserts. “I know what pie is, but I’m not sure why you’re getting two. We won’t even be here forty-eight hours.”

  He hitches a shoulder. “I can eat a lot of pie in forty-eight hours.”

  Within ten minutes, our cart also holds cinnamon-flavored soda, banana-flavored Oreos, truffle potato chips. It feels as if we are an actual couple, albeit one well on the way to insulin resistance. I want to lean into the experience as much as I want to lean away from it.

  “I had no idea these even existed,” he says, throwing maple Pop-Tarts in the cart. “Did you?”

  “It’s been several years since I carefully scrutinized the Pop-Tart section of a store.”

  “And look at these,” he says, holding up something claiming to be a healthy breakfast food that looks a lot like a Snickers bar. “Perhaps normal life isn’t so bad.”

  “Normal people probably don’t leave a store with seventeen boxes of Pop-Tarts,” I reply, pushing our cart toward the register.

  The checkout girl eyes Hayes, then gives me a look that says don’t let this one go, my friend. It fills me with completely undeserved pride, and I have to check myself.

  Remembering it’s not real is vital.

  We make dinner together when we get back. I’ve never pictured him as the dad who works the grill and helps with the dishes. It was safer to see him as the kind of guy who’s not going to offer the life I want—and he won’t—but it’s getting harder to remember. Domestic bliss comes naturally to him…and it seems to make him happy.

  We eat on the deck in a double chaise lounge, our plates resting in our laps. To my right, a bottle of shiraz sits on a small round table with two glasses. A light breeze blows as the surf pounds the shore and the sky turns from hazy violet to ink blue. Long after dinner is over, the two of us remain right where we are. This is what he should be doing every night. What would his life have been like if Ella hadn’t left? Would he be tucking a child into bed right now? Would it all have gone wrong anyway, or did it really just hinge on that single event, the one that had him questioning his career and pulling away from her?

  I bite my lip. “Can I ask you something?” I wait for his wary nod before I proceed. “Ella said something the other day…about how one thing would go wrong and you’d shut me out. What happened? Between you two, I mean?”

  He stares off at the ocean, looking so tired and sad I wish I hadn’t asked.

  “I had a patient, Dylan. He was thirteen. He had a congenital abnormality that made his lower jaw severely asymmetrical,” he begins.

  He reaches for the wine and refills my glass and then his. “He’d spent his entire life being bullied and ridiculed, and this oral surgeon and I thought we were going to sweep in and fix everything.” He flashes me his trademark smirk, only this time, I just see pain in it, and self-hatred.

  “I guess…it didn’t work out?” I pick up my glass and take a sip, simply to give him the space to answer. My heart is in my throat as I wait.

  He swallows. “No,” he says. “He died. Not on the table, but later that night after I was gone. His airway collapsed.”

  My chest tightens as a lump starts to form in my throat. I look away for a moment, blinking back tears. “Was the airway even your part of the surgery?” I ask, my voice muted, slightly hoarse.

  “It doesn’t matter. He was my patient, and I told him he’d be fine. I was so fucking sure of myself.” He flinches, as if it’s just happened, the hand closest to me curling into a fist.

  Even if he’d never ask for it, he needs something right now. He needs to be reminded he isn’t alo
ne, that not everyone loathes him the way he seems to loathe himself. I scoot closer, until my arm presses to his, and rest my head on his shoulder. His closed fist relaxes. “And you left?”

  “I stuck it out a few more months, completed a training at the Cleveland Clinic as planned. Then Ella left and I just…called it. It’s all for the best. I make ten times what I would in pediatrics.”

  I hate Ella more than ever now. How could she have done that to him? Did she really not understand how guilty he must have felt? All she had to do was be patient, and she couldn’t even give him that.

  It makes sense to me that he’d choose a more painless path. What I don’t understand is why he went so very far in the other direction.

  “If you don’t want Ella back, does the money really matter that much?” I ask softly.

  He glances at me and away. “I suppose not. But I had a certain future ahead of me, and suddenly it was gone…I needed a new goal.”

  Except he chose a goal that will never make him happy. I wonder if he realizes it. I wonder if it’s ever occurred to him that he could have a life like this one with someone: waves crashing in the darkness a few yards away, a woman with whom he can share things, one who wants to give him everything.

  Our bare calves brush against each other—smooth to less smooth. I picture sliding my legs over his, glancing up at him to gauge his reaction. Would his hand land on my hip to pull me into his lap? Would he roll me beneath him, his weight pressing me hard to the seat?

  Would we ruin everything?

  I set my wine on the table and climb to my feet. “I should get to bed. Big day tomorrow.”

  His eyes travel over me for one long moment, climbing from hips to breasts and settling, finally, on my mouth. “Ah, yes, the line at Starbucks. I can see where you’d want to rest up for that.”

  I scurry back to my room, certain I’ve narrowly avoided making the worst mistake of my life. But then I lie awake, twisting in the sheets, wishing that, just once, I could stop being so fucking responsible.

  28

  Light is filtering through the windows when I wake. I push the hair out of my face and roll to look at the clock on the nightstand.

  8:32.

  It’s a punch to the stomach, remembering. A year ago, nearly to the minute, my father was in the car with Charlotte on the way to get donuts. It was his idea, of course—he’d use any excuse to get his hands on junk food—but he said it was to get Charlotte more practice behind the wheel.

  I picture his heart attack from her vantage point, again and again: panicked and inexperienced, with no idea how to help him and unable to find a place to pull over. She hasn’t been behind the wheel since.

  I assume there will come a time when I can think of my father without imagining his last moments. When I can remember him and feel happy instead of lost. But it’s probably a long way off.

  I release a single slow breath, waiting for the grief to lessen, and then I throw off the covers and force myself to move on with my day. I rinse off quickly before donning a T-shirt and shorts and brushing my teeth. My hair remains unruly and I refuse to do a thing about it…I’m on vacation after all. Plus, I secretly suspect Hayes is the sort who likes things a little untamed.

  “Rise and shine, pumpkin!” I call as I venture into the living room. “It’s time for Starbucks!”

  He wanders out in shorts and a T-shirt, hair rumpled and deeply in need of a shave, sweetly sleepy-eyed. He yawns, stretching his arms over his head, and I picture waking up to him just the way he looks now, though in my imagination both the shorts and shirt are entirely absent.

  Great. It’s not even nine AM and I already need another shower. As cold as possible, this time.

  “I was sort of hoping you’d surprise me by getting the coffee before I woke,” he says, taking a seat at the counter. “I really hope Starbucks isn’t the extent of today’s plans.”

  I roll my eyes. “You know this is supposed to be my weekend off. Maybe I figured you’d entertain yourself.”

  “I did that last night in the shower. Now I want you to entertain me.”

  I laugh, unwillingly, but not before I picture it in all its hard, wet, soapy detail.

  Whoa. Down, brain.

  Hayes jerking off in the shower is not where I need my thoughts focused today. “Fine. We’re going surfing. I know you’ll claim you’re not interested, but Matt and I went a few times and I think you’ll like it.”

  “I suppose Matt was extremely good at surfing,” he says, his lip curling.

  “He was kind of good at everything,” I reply as I head to the door. Except it no longer feels true. I’m mostly saying it to annoy Hayes…which it does.

  “I can think of one or two things he wasn’t so good at,” Hayes mutters from behind me.

  At Starbucks, the line takes longer than it should, thanks to the woman taking ninety minutes to choose a cake pop.

  We get our drinks, and he stirs in his very own sugar like a big boy. “So,” he says, glancing at the door, “we’re about to experience the magic of walking outside. Will it feel like absolute inner peace or more like an orgasm that lasts and lasts?”

  My shoulders sag. I’d hoped to make Hayes see the value in time off, but how can I when he’s hell-bent on proving me wrong? “I knew you’d be an asshole about it.”

  I walk out without him and turn my face to the sun. The air smells like scrub oak and primrose, the weather is perfect and I have a day at the beach ahead of me. It will have to be enough, whether Hayes is grousing the entire time or not.

  He comes up beside me, and his arm brushes mine.

  “I’m having fun, Tali,” he says softly. “For some reason complaining to you about things I don’t actually mind is just my favorite thing to do.”

  It’s not an apology, but it’s close enough and something inside me warms a little.

  “Better than banging three girls at once?” I nudge him with my shoulder.

  He looks around. “Is that an option at the moment? Is that what you meant when you said we’re surfing? Because if so, I’m one hundred percent in.”

  “Sadly, no,” I reply.

  “Alas,” he says. “But yes, this will be fun too.”

  I arranged for the surf instructor to meet us out in front of the property at ten. I slip on my bikini, grab sunscreen, and wander to the deck where Hayes is already waiting.

  His eyes roam over me—face to chest to legs, back to the chest where they remain. My body reacts to his obvious approval—skin tingling, nipples hardening under my bikini top. I try not to squirm, to let him see how his attention affects me. He turns away and I see him adjust his shorts. I like that I affect him too.

  “I kind of figured you for the sporty-swim-shorts-and-tank-top kind of gal,” he says.

  “The surf instructor is bringing us wet suits. Otherwise, you’d be correct.”

  He turns and his eyes flicker over me again, and linger. “Probably for the best. That top looks like a light breeze could send it flying.”

  We walk down a flight of the stairs to the beach, where Gus, our young, shaggy-haired instructor, waits. We struggle into wetsuits and then he makes us practice popping up on the board until he’s deemed us ready to paddle out.

  He nods toward the surf and leads the way, but Hayes hesitates, looking from me to the water. “You’re sure you’re going to be okay? Those don’t look like pygmy-size waves.”

  I fight an affectionate smile as I nod. In every important relationship I’ve ever had—with Matt and with my family—I’ve been the rock, the one who worries, not the one who is worried about. It’s a role I think Hayes would refuse to let me play, and there’s a part of me that is so, so tired of playing it, that wishes badly I could lean on someone the way my family leans on me.

  I catch a few waves while Gus helps Hayes. After several false starts, Hayes manages to stay upright for a solid ten seconds. Within an hour, he’s better at it than I am.

  We’re straddling our boards and s
taring at the horizon, waiting for the next set, when Gus points ahead of us.

  “Whales,” he says, and they emerge not thirty feet from where we sit. Out of nowhere, grief hits. It was a dream of my father’s, to go on a whale-watching tour and for a moment I allow myself to think of him here with me. The sun on his shoulders, the water lapping at his legs, a huge smile on his face as he enjoys the wonder of it all. I pinch my lips together and swallow hard as a sharp pain pierces my heart.

  Hayes says nothing, but he reaches out and pulls my surfboard so we are side by side, knees bumping, as they pass.

  “Are you happy?” I ask quietly.

  His hand rests on my knee, making small circles with his thumb. “Very,” he says. “We should do this again.”

  I glance up at him and his mouth lifts, one dimple blinking to life. It’s a perfect moment at the end of a very imperfect year. I’m not sure my father would approve of Hayes, but if he’s watching, he’s probably smiling despite himself.

  “You’re going to ruin your appetite,” Hayes says with a sigh, eyeing the large slice of apple pie I’ve cut myself. He’s stretched out on the chaise—already irritatingly tan while I’ve been applying SPF 50 every hour this afternoon to keep from burning—and being awfully judgmental for a guy who just bought his weight in baked goods last night.

  “Ruin my appetite for what?” I counter. “I assume we’re eating Pop-Tarts for dinner. At least this has fruit in it.”

  He snatches the fork from my hand and pops its contents in his mouth. “We’ve got dinner in an hour down the street. And the place is nice” —his eyes trail over my bare stomach, lingering on the side tie of my bikini bottoms for a moment —“so you might want to be slightly less naked than you are.”

  He made us a reservation. I stick the pie in his lap and jump to my feet. I have no idea why, as I rush inside to shower, I’m smiling as wide as I am.

  I take my time getting ready before donning a strapless white sundress. I dab my lips with a rose-tinted balm and get a good look at myself in the mirror. The girl who smiles back at me—the one with glowing eyes and sun-warmed cheeks—looks like she’s on the cusp on something big, something exciting. I try to remind her she’s not, but it’s hard not to feel like this is a date when I walk out to find Hayes waiting in the living room, his eyes consuming me as I approach.