Page 20 of A Deal with the Devil

He hesitates, which means that yes, Hayes is doing all this shit intentionally, and it hurts. I sort of thought he was past wanting me to quit.

“Sometimes Hayes wants you to believe the worst of him,” Jonathan says, “and it’s not at all for the reason you think.”

I sit in the sand, hugging my knees to my chest. There are a few guys in the water surfing. It’s the kind of thing I thought I’d do a lot more of, living in California. But then, I also didn’t think I’d be here alone. “What do you mean?”

He sighs. “Do you remember how annoyed I was with Hayes last summer? We were upset that we kept getting passed up on the adoption list, and he always seemed so ambivalent about it?”

I do remember, mostly because I was surprised Jonathan expected anything of Hayes in the first place. Ambivalence about an employee from Hayes seemed par for the course.

“Hayes gave them a hundred grand. That’s why our adoption finally came through. The letter thanking him was submitted with his taxes. I’m not even supposed to know.”

My throat swells. I’ve barely cried at all over the past year, and here I am about to cry for the second time in one morning—and over Hayes, no less. “That’s...nice.”

“It’s more than nice. We’d still be sitting on the list if it weren’t for him.”

I clear my throat. “I guess I’ll give him a pass for most of his nonsense. But he still shouldn’t be texting in the middle of the night.”

Jonathan hmmms quietly. “Weird.”

“What’s weird? Aside from the obvious fact that an employer shouldn’t drunk-text his staff in the middle of the night.”

“What’s weird,” he replies, “is that he’s never once drunk-texted me.”

13

During the one year I was with Matt after he got really famous, there was a specific role I was supposed to play at events—the sexy-yet-sweet girlfriend. I was subtly informed that any sign of my brain or personality would be considered a turn-off to the general public. I went along with it, trying to be supportive. It was only after our relationship ended that I admitted how deeply I’d resented it, how sexist I found it and how much it hurt that Matt never objected on my behalf.

If bonfires were legal on the beach, I’d probably have burned the entire hot, dumb girlfriend wardrobe from those events by now. Instead, I’ve shoved it all to the back of my closet, buried like a shameful secret…until today. I can’t keep cycling through the same four outfits every week.

I throw all the clothes on the bed, desperate to wear something different, and choose a cream-colored dress, crafted of a stretchy fabric that skims my figure without clinging to it, hinting at curves I normally keep hidden. It’s sexier than I’d like, but beggars can’t be choosers.

I tell myself, as I wait for Hayes to come downstairs, that I don’t care what he thinks. But anticipation whispers over my skin as I hear him approach, and he doesn’t fail me. It only lasts a second, but I see it: the way he comes to a momentary stop in the middle of the kitchen, his gaze predatory before he blinks it away.

I like it far more than I should.

He picks up the small, clear pill I’ve placed beside his coffee, and he holds it to the light, frowning. “You realize if you successfully poison me, you no longer get paid, yes?”

“There are things in this world more satisfying than money,” I reply. “It’s Vitamin D.”

He eyes it with suspicion a bit longer, then swallows it. “What did you do this weekend?”

I turn from the Vitamix to him. “This feels like a trick. Was I supposed to have done something for you and forgot?”

His mouth curves. His eyes are the color of autumn leaves in sunlight. “Is it that astonishing when I ask a friendly question?”

My answer is to stay silent and continue staring at him. Because yes, yes it is.

“And your reluctance to answer leads me to believe it was something illegal or controversial,” he continues. “If you have a sex webcam, I’d like to be made aware of it posthaste.” His tone is entirely too casual for someone who practically asked to see me naked.

“No, I do not have a webcam. I was, uh, working on something.”

Something I do not want to discuss with him. Saying you’re writing a book is like saying you want to be a rock star. You can plainly see the other person’s desire to pat you on the head and tell you not to quit your day job. I turn on the blender, grateful the noise prevents meaningful conversation.

“It’s worse than a webcam?” he asks the moment I turn off the blender. I should have known he wouldn’t let it go. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Everyone winds up getting fisted on Pornhub eventually.”

“Everyone? Your dating history may have skewed your ideas of normal sexual behavior.”

“Ah,” he says, leaning back in his seat. “God, it’s even worse, isn’t it? Was it sex with a family member?”