Page 51 of A Deal with the Devil

“You’d have your own room, of course,” he adds, “and it’s only for the one night. Fly up Saturday morning, back on Sunday. I just...things go wrong. If the handouts are lost or something needs to be done, it would be good to have you there.”

I feel something sink in my stomach. Disappointment, when there should only be relief. Did I really think for a moment he was inviting me on a trip? Apparently, I did.

I take a long sip of my drink, licking the salt from my lips with relish. His eyes seem to snag on my mouth as I do it. “I’m dying to see San Francisco. Just get me up there and I’ll find a park to sleep in.”

“Excellent,” he says with a smirk. “More money for me to spend on cocaine and souvenirs.”

I hesitate suddenly. As much as I’d love to go to San Francisco, and go there with him especially…what if he reverts to his old ways? I’m not sure I can stand to watch him carrying on with some brilliant, hot doctor while I pathetically wait nearby, notebook in hand. “I won’t be...in your way? I imagine these conferences are like Woodstock for medical geeks.”

He laughs. “You’ve clearly never attended a medical conference.”

“Don’t act as if you’ve never done it,” I mutter. “You’re a walking sexual proposition.”

His tongue goes to his cheek, amused. “You’re saying, then, that my mere existence makes you long for sex?” He leans forward, a seductive tone to his voice. Smirk in place. “That I walk through a room and make you think of all the itches you’d like to scratch?”

Yes.

“No, although occasionally the sight of you makes me wonder if STDs itch, which I suppose is sort of similar.” I glance at my watch. “And on that note, I need to get going.”

He looks at me over his drink. “Is there a Jane Austen marathon tonight I’m unaware of?”

“I’m meeting Sam for dinner,” I tell him. “The guy from home who’s been helping me with the book. It’s not a date. We’re just meeting at Mezcal for a quick meal and his friend will be there.”

A vein throbs in his temple and his grip tightens on his glass. “Right. Your buddy Sam is making you feel comfortable by inviting his friend, but after a few minutes his friend will announce that he can’t stay.” He rolls his eyes, irritated and bored simultaneously. “It’s the oldest trick in the book.”

“You’d know,” I reply, rising. “Fortunately, Sam is nothing like you.”

“He’s unattractive and dull?” Hayes asks lazily, reclining in his seat. “Seems like you shouldn’t be rushing off then.”

“He’s trustworthy,” I reply pointedly.

“And I’m not?” He’s as smug and confident as ever, smirking even now, but I sense some tiny wounded thing beneath it.

“Twenty-four hours of celibacy don’t make you a candidate for sainthood,” I reply. He doesn’t argue, and I leave feeling as if I just took a cheap shot. I guess I was hoping he’d tell me I was wrong.

* * *

The restaurant Sam’s chosen is spacious and bright, with open-air walls, polished wide-plank floors, and an exposed beam ceiling. It seems an expensive choice for a guy living off a school stipend.

I find him sitting on the patio and do a double-take. Holy shit. Sam has gotten seriously hot since the last time I saw him. His hair is down to his shoulders now, and he’s lost that residual bit of childhood softness from his face, revealing a jawline worthy of a superhero. That, plus the nerdy little glasses (which did it for me even before he acquired the jawline), make him absolutely edible. The women behind him have not failed to notice his looks either. Construction workers ogle with more subtlety.

“Hey, stranger,” I say as I reach the table.

“Tali!” He stands, pulling me into a bear hug. He’s added a fair amount of muscle onto his formerly wiry frame. I can’t begin to imagine the swooning that will ensue once he’s a professor.

When I pull away, he gives me a once-over. “I’m digging the whole naughty secretary look.”

I punch his arm. “These are my work clothes, asshole.”

He grins. “I bet your dick of a boss enjoys them, is all I’m saying.”

A hand is thrust toward me. “I’m John,” says his friend. “Not staying long. Just wanted to meet the infamous author, Natalia Bell, who Sam never shuts up about.”

Sam gives me a sheepish smile as we sit. Maybe I spoke too soon about Hayes being slightly worse than most men.

“I read the new pages,” Sam says, pouring me a margarita from the pitcher on the table. “I hate Ewan a little less, now that he’s blameless about turning into a douche.”

I give a sigh of relief. “Thank God. My poor agent is emailing me daily about getting the final first half, and I still have most of the second half to write.”