Page 12 of The Devil You Know

I winced. “Sorry. Your door was open and—”

He gave me a reluctant smile. “It’s okay. My ex and I are…things are a little tense right now.”

“Well, that answers the office’s biggest mystery,” I replied. “Everyone has been wondering if you’re single.”

He laughed then shook his head again. “It’s not common knowledge. We’re trying to keep it quiet until the divorce is finalized.”

“I won’t say anything,” I told him.

His eyes held mine. “I know you won’t.”

It killed me, but I somehow kept it to myself. I still texted and gossiped with Meg and Kirsten. I still played the do you think he’s married? game with them, as if I knew nothing. I didn’t tell them a single thing he’d said.

I guess that was my first mistake.

8

“You have not updated your Pinterest board in ages,” Keeley informs me before she’s even said hello. Based on her tone, failing to update Pinterest is the moral equivalent of failing to pay taxes.

“I don’t have time,” I reply, though it’s not entirely true. Years ago, I was addicted to Pinterest. I had a house page, a fashion page, a travel page, a books-to-read page. It was my own version of a vision board: here’s what my house will look like when I’m different, these are the trips I will take and the books I will read. I’ve given up on most of them. I’m too busy to read or travel. I’ve lost the desire for a cute cottage near the ocean with an herb garden out front—God knows where I’d find the time to take care of it. I still add to the fashion page, but these days it’s mostly just clothes for work. I suppose this means I’ve given up on most of that future Gemma. Keeley and my mom are the only ones who refuse to give up with me.

“Is that why you’re calling me on a Saturday afternoon?” I ask. “My Pinterest page?”

She scoffs. “Of course not. I’m calling because someone is covering my shift tonight, so you and I are going out.”

“I’ve got to go to Miami tomorrow, Keels. And I’ll be out of the office all day Monday. I really need to work.”

Twenty-four hours with Ben Tate. I picture his slightly broken nose, his crooked smile. Him saying, “Gemma, I promise there’s nothing small or weak about me.”

Every time I remember it, it gets a little filthier.

“Are you seriously telling me you have to work on a Saturday night because you also have to work on a Sunday night?” she demands, proving why she’s my only remaining friend in LA—because she refuses to take no for an answer. “You’ve got to make yourself leave on occasion. And you’ll never meet anyone if you don’t try something new once in a while.”

I suppose she has a point, and exclusively seeking out Hallmark men has not panned out for me so far. LA is not rich in farmers, small-town veterinarians or widowed bar owners. Besides, the firm’s retreat is in early November, and I’ll need a date. Someone smarter than Ben, preferably, and taller than Ben. Though Ben’s really tall and relatively intelligent, which narrows the field substantially.

I leave the office at 7:30, painfully early for me, even on a Saturday. I’m not at all surprised to find Keeley is already at the bar when I arrive and already surrounded. She’s like a tiny bottle of champagne someone shook up. Every man who meets her wants to pop the cork.

She charges across the room when she sees me. “Thank God you’re here. I couldn’t get away from those two.”

I raise a brow. “You didn’t look all that troubled. If I’d shown up five minutes later, you’d probably be inviting them over.”

She shakes her head. “Never. They’re lawyers, therefore too boring to be serious about, no offense.”

I shrug. “None taken. You know my stance.”

“Ah, right.” She hands me her drink. “You only want a guy who lives in a small town and wears winter clothing year-round.”

“The winter clothing isn’t a demand. More of a preference.”

“My friend Mark wears like fifteen layers.” She’s referring to the homeless guy who lives outside her building, the one she brings her Wall Street Journal to every morning and from whom she often seeks financial advice. “I’ll make an introduction.”

“I’m going to respectfully pass,” I tell her, but she’s already on to the next thing, dragging me back to the bar and winking at some athlete in the corner before she smiles brightly at the bartender and holds up two fingers. He smiles back like he’s won the lottery. He will now make two of every drink he knows in order to please the pretty blond.

“Speaking of FMG,” she says, turning to me, “what happened with Fields’ announcement? Did they make you partner? You never said.”

My laugh is a trifle bitter. “They made an announcement to tell us they’ll be announcing it later.”

She rolls her eyes. She’s been on me to leave for a while now. Like, ever since we met. “And what happens if they don’t give it to you?”