Page 34 of A Deal with the Devil

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Hayes’s smoothie is waiting when he joins me in the kitchen the next morning. He’s slick and pressed and perfect as ever, but his gaze is just a little more piercing than normal. I wonder if I was weird yesterday. Of course I was weird, and I’m still being weird. I can’t seem to shake the desire for more of his attention, for the feeling of his hands on my skin and his eyes on my face the way they were in his office.

I picture him cornering me in the kitchen, his hard body pressing my back to the cabinet, invading my space. His thumb on my mouth before his lips seek mine, his hands falling low, to slide over my hips, to tug up my skirt.

The mere thought makes me feel winded. I can’t imagine what the reality would do.

“I have a party tonight,” he says, shattering the fantasy. “I may need your help.”

I hope he can’t tell that my head was somewhere else entirely. I close my eyes for a moment and calm my breathing. Get it together. This is what he does: he makes women feel like they’re special and then he moves on.

“As far as I can tell, you don’t need any help at parties.” It comes out sounding more bitter than I’d intended.

“It’s an industry thing,” he says with a glib smile, putting his keys in his pocket and grabbing his coffee. “Every actress or female producer I talk to is going to wind up deciding she wants a little touch of something. Besides, you’re clearly good advertising. Everyone who sees you assumes I did your work and wants the exact same thing.”

I have no desire to stand by his side while he flirts with beautiful women all night. If only I actually had plans so I could refuse. “What should I wear?” I ask, my shoulders sagging.

He glances at me, his eyes falling to my mouth, soft as a snowflake, before they jerk away. “Every eye will be on you,” he says, “no matter what you wear.”

He sounds as if he regrets it.

* * *

I choose a dress I bought right after Matt got his first big part—black and silky, draped low in the front, no back whatsoever.

Matt called it my Fuck This Party We’re Staying Home dress. I flinch at the memory as I slide it on. He made me feel so desirable back then, and the thing is, I still believe he meant it. He just didn’t mean it enough, and how do you ever know when someone does?

I pair the dress with sky-high strappy black sandals that will still only bring me to Hayes’s collarbone. My hair is down, curling softly over my shoulders, along with a smoky eye and a hint of nude lipstick to play up the lips he seemed to appreciate yesterday. Some distant part of my brain asks why I’m making the effort and shies away from the answer.

The event is held at Black Swan, a massive new bar in the center of Beverly Hills. By the time I arrive, the place is packed. Everywhere I look, I see beautiful women and vaguely familiar faces. It’s the kind of event Matt would have sold his soul to attend, back when we first got to LA.

I’d forgotten, until now, how much I hated attending these things with him. The way people would treat him as if he was superhuman and would treat me like the lucky but replaceable straggler along for the ride.

And sometimes I got the feeling he agreed with them. That’s what I hated most of all.

I’ve spent so long telling myself Matt and I were perfectly happy, but as I stand here taking in the crowd, it seems I remember more bad memories than good.

I give my name to the doorman inside and text Hayes to say I’m here. Only moments later, I see him moving toward me. He’s in a black shirt, partly unbuttoned, and looking at me in a way I enjoy far too much. Like I’m the only thing in the entire bar, the entire city, he can see.

“Jesus,” he says, blowing out a breath. “Half the men in this room are old, Tali. And now I’m going to have to defibrillate all of them.”

I blush, struggling to remember why I’m here. I’m sure there was something, but all I want is for him to keep saying sweet things and looking at me the way he is.

“So, what is it you need me to do tonight?” I ask, glancing around us.

He hands me a drink. “Relax, first of all. It’s a party. I’m not going to ask you to perform open-heart surgery. Just help me with scheduling and save me if I get trapped by someone.”

I roll my eyes. “How will I know whether you’re trapped or talking her into something she’ll definitely regret?”

His gaze flickers over my dress once more. It feels as if we are the only people in the room. “I assure you, she wouldn’t regret it. But there won’t be any of that tonight.”

In truth, it seems like there hasn’t been any of that for a while. He still occasionally gets texts from women he’s seen in the past, but he ignores them, and there have been no new dates, no naked women in his bed the next day.

As I’m thinking this, though, he turns toward a group of women who immediately start flirting, gripping his biceps, smiling too widely. Maybe he’s just finally learned how to be discreet.

I’m forced to take a step back as the group closes in around him, and those memories of being replaceable seep back in. I lift the glass in my hand and swallow half of it in one go, hoping it will dull my nerves and quiet my thoughts a little.

“You are way too pretty to be standing here alone,” says a voice behind me. I look over my shoulder to find a generically attractive guy not much older than me. His smile is confident, then sheepish in turn. “Sorry, that was cheesy. I was gonna offer to buy you a drink but it’s an open bar.”