Page 50 of A Deal with the Devil

“Just stay,” he says, resuming his place on the couch. “I’ve canceled my plans already, and you’re still too weak to take care of yourself.”

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to take him up on the offer. If I said I didn’t want to remain here for hours, days, weeks, with him looking at me the way he is now, as if I’m someone he worries about, someone he wants around.

“Having me here will probably get in the way of your sexy time,” I warn. “And you’ve already gone a few nights without it.”

“I appreciate your unwavering consideration of my sexual needs,” he says, eyes narrowed, “but I haven’t been doing much of that lately anyhow.”

Hmmm. I’d noticed there weren’t any signs of women here. I just assumed he was doing it somewhere else. I suppose I mostly didn’t want to think about it. “What’s up with that?”

He runs a thumb over the arch of his eyebrow. “Maybe it’s simply that it went hand in hand with the drinking, which a small, shrill voice has been nagging me about.”

The words strike me. He corrected course when I nagged him, seemingly without difficulty, though my opinion shouldn’t have mattered. But my mother can’t do the same, even when my sister’s welfare depends on it. Maybe Dr. Shriner had a point.

“So that’s it?” I ask. “The bad boy’s reign of terror is over?”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” he mutters, looking away. “It just hasn’t appealed lately.”

“I know a doctor who can probably give you some pills for that,” I reply with a smirk, taking a bite of my toast. Mmm, buttery goodness.

He runs a hand through his hair and closes his eyes. “I’m not having that kind of problem. I’m just...going through a phase.”

Interesting. “What kind of phase?”

“Not the kind of phase I want to discuss with a twenty-five-year-old who hasn’t dated in a year, that’s for sure,” he replies with a scowl.

It’s a strange, unexpected conversation. But the strangest part is he can’t seem to meet my eye during any of it.

25

I leave Sunday morning and am recovered enough to grab dinner with Drew that evening. She tells me about her trip, and I decide there is no saving Six—he’s an awful human being.

I want to talk about Hayes, but find that I just can’t. My thoughts about the past few days with him are…jumbled, not ready to be said aloud. Because once upon a time, he was simply a charming degenerate I wanted to take care of and now he’s more. There’s this small, warm thing unfurling in my chest when I think of him. I feel like a lighter, sunnier version of myself, a hopeful version I almost forgot existed. And I’m not sure if that thrills or terrifies me.

I arrive at Hayes’s house the next day fully recovered and strangely eager to see him. When he enters the kitchen—his gaze sliding over me, top to bottom—it’s as if I’m a little more complete than I was before he walked in. As if he, of all people, is my home, my safe place to land.

I hand him his coffee. “I didn’t spit in it today. To thank you for taking care of me.”

He laughs. “You’ve made that joke enough times that I’m forced to assume there’s some truth to it.”

I pull his schedule off the printer. He had to squeeze this weekend’s patients into every free hour this week. “No lunch at home today,” I say. There’s a regrettable hint of sadness in my voice.

His dimple tucks in, just for a moment. He clears his throat. “Do you think you could meet me downtown once I’m done?” he asks. “Just to go over the monthly schedule?”

There is no real reason for us to meet. We could discuss everything by phone in five minutes, plus I’ve got my non-date with Sam tonight.

Yet I’ve never agreed to anything more eagerly.

* * *

I drive to the bar, swearing to myself I won’t have a drink. I want my wits about me when I meet up with Sam, for one thing. Plus, I already know how it goes with Hayes. Get a single ounce of liquor in my system and I start looking at him differently. My eyes will linger on the curves of his face, on his perfect mouth, on his broad shoulders and the way he wears his clothes, as if he’s constantly restraining himself from removing them. Which is not what eyes are supposed to do when you hang out with a friend, or a boss.

He's already waiting when I arrive. His jacket is off, his shirt slightly unbuttoned, and I find my eyes dipping to the hint of skin beneath his collarbone. My memories from being sick are blurred and dreamlike, but I remember the way he moved as he pulled off his shirt…testosterone-fueled and careless. I remember his smooth skin, his arms, those surprising abs.

He’s got a margarita waiting for me. I decide a drink is called for, after all…I need to cool off.

“How would you feel about coming up to San Francisco with me in a few weeks?” he asks.

I blink. It takes me a moment to remember he’s got a conference there, but I still wonder if he’s asking me to come as his assistant or something else. I’d probably say yes either way.