Page 55 of The Devil You Know

“Don’t get married,” Sophia says. “At least not to an LA guy.”

I blink, as if I’ve been caught at something. “I don’t intend to,” I reply.

Ben walks into my office at dinnertime, looking scruffy and slightly day-weary: tie loosened, some serious five o’clock shadow along his jaw.

I rise and walk around to the other side of my desk. I want to tell him I’m busy but I just can’t. “Shut the door.”

His eyes flicker over me, head to heels. His hand goes to his belt and his mouth opens slightly as he considers it, but then he winces, and his hand falls away. “Let’s go, Gemma.”

He’s obviously going to be tedious about this. “I need to work.”

“On what?”

“I—”

His tongue taps his upper lip, and I lose my train of thought. God, I love when he does that.

“Stuff,” I conclude.

He gives a low laugh. “Stuff? Must be important. I’ll be at your place in thirty minutes.”

I have every intention of saying, “that was a one-time thing”, but I’m already shutting down my laptop.

I’m at my apartment when he arrives with takeout in hand. I glance at it, wondering if this is the point where we start acting like boring grown-ups who eat dinner, watch TV, and fall asleep too fast.

He drops the bag on the floor and pushes me against the wall. So I guess we’re not that boring.

“These outfits of yours are going to end me,” he groans, tugging up my skirt as he kicks the door shut behind him.

My hand is already on his belt. I get his pants down, and he steps out of them while he moves me back toward the bedroom. We land on the bed together.

“Admit you’re glad I came over,” he says, as I roll him onto his back.

“Whatever.”

He pushes inside me, and I gasp at the feel of it.

“I’m pretty sure that was a yes,” he says.

An hour later, we’re sitting at the little table in my breakfast area. He’s only in boxers, and I’m wearing his t-shirt, which hangs to mid-thigh. It’s bizarre that I’m sleeping with the terrible Ben Tate, but it’s even more bizarre that we’re sitting at my table together half naked, like an actual couple, and I’m completely comfortable with it.

My phone, sitting next to the rice, lights up with a Zillow notification. Having no respect for boundaries whatsoever, he lifts it to read. “Why are you hunting for houses in…” He squints, “Manassas, Virginia?”

I frown. “I’m not. It was for my mom.”

“She’s moving?”

I suppose this is where normal people open up, divulge a bit about themselves. I could tell him about the situation with my mother—about the shithole apartment complex she lives in and how I tried to convince her I wanted to buy a house there as an investment property, which all backfired on me when she said she wouldn’t move—but the further you open yourself to someone, the harder it is to shut it off later, when it all goes to hell.

“No,” I tell him. “She decided against it.”

His gaze flickers to my face for a half-second. It’s as if he’s always assessing to see if I’m lying, and that’s smart because a lot of the time I am. Whatever he concludes, he opts not to pry any further.

He places a dollop of wasabi on my plate. “Isn’t this better than having sex on your desk?”

I lift my chopsticks. “If you think sushi is better than sex on my desk, I’m worse at it than I thought.”

He frowns at me and I give in with a sigh. “Fine, it’s better. But…just so we’re clear, I’ve never wanted to date a lawyer and I’m not planning to date a lawyer. I have my future all set, and it doesn’t look like this.”