Page 73 of A Deal with the Devil

I smile. “Just this once?”

“Yes, we seem to do a lot of things just once, so why not add this to the list?” He places a hand at the small of my back. “Come on. Let’s have a drink on the terrace. A shrill little person I know has been insisting I need more sunlight.”

I’m ushered through the house and out back, where he pours me a glass of red, watching me carefully, still concerned. Because he puts me first, even when he’s pretending he isn’t.

Matt breezes through life on his sweet smile, and people take him at face value, no matter how petty and selfish he is. Hayes goes through life wearing this mask of indifference, of smug certainty and hauteur. People take that at face value, too, never noticing the ways he is gentle. Never quite seeing he’s also the same man who pushes an adoption through for an assistant, who jumps on a trampoline with his half-sister, and rushes out of his office to defend an employee.

“Matt’s been having you followed,” I tell him. “I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

“Me?” He freezes, the bottle of wine held in midair. “Why?”

“I think he was looking for evidence you were ‘cheating’ on me. I guess we’re lucky he didn’t catch Miss It’s So Big here.”

“Still calling her that, are we?” he asks, sinking into the seat next to mine. “I rather thought you’d stop, having said something similar.”

I release a shaky laugh. “It sounded cooler when I said it.”

Our eyes meet and the air between us seems to heat. It feels as if we are back there—the weight of his body pressing me into the lounge chair, him thick inside me, struggling not to come. I look away as I try to scrape the image from my head. It feels like I can’t get a full breath.

“About this coming weekend,” he says. His voice is gravelly, less certain than normal. “If you’re uncomfortable...”

“I’m not,” I reply, too quickly. “I want to come. Go, I mean. I want to go.”

Awkward.

Our eyes meet again, and I wonder if we will ever get back to normal.

And I wonder if I want us to.

30

Five days later, I’m flying business class for the first time in my life. Any awkwardness between us is briefly overcome by the sheer pleasure of it.

“It’s a bed, Hayes,” I whisper. He’s been working steadily since we got on board, while I’ve done nothing but mess with the seat, play with all the buttons to see what each one does, and unwrap all the complimentary goodies they gave us—once again making it amply apparent why one of us is wealthy and one of us is...me. “My God. Why don’t I have this at home?”

He raises a brow. “You don’t have a bed?”

“Of course I do. But I don’t have a seat that transforms into one.” I push the button until I can lie flat. “No wonder so many people try to join the mile-high club. These seats are made for it.”

His eyes flicker over me. I wait for him to make a lewd offer and instead he returns to his laptop. I hate that there’s no sly grin, no innuendo. All signs indicate he got it out of his system last weekend, while for me it’s like a virus that’s replicating in every cell.

I wish I hadn’t run off last weekend. I wish I’d kept him up all night long.

I wish I was brave enough to tell him I want more.

* * *

The conference planner has placed us in a two-bedroom suite. It’s a romantic room, with a shared balcony overlooking the Bay of Alcatraz. Hayes appears as surprised as I am by the configuration, so I guess that means he didn’t suggest it.

My phone flashes, a reminder of the voice mail my mother left while we were in the air, which I’m ignoring until Hayes leaves. I confirm that all the handouts made it safely, change clothes, and then the two of us walk back into the elevator—him, pressed and perfect in a designer suit; me, in shorts and an oversized college sweatshirt, looking like someone’s kid.

“Are you sure you don’t need me to do anything today?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “As long as the handouts are here, I’m fine. What do you have planned?” He’s speaking to me like a polite stranger, one who isn’t really interested in the question he’s asked. I catch his eyes flickering down to my sneakers and back in the mirrored door.

I hand him my map, highlighted in advance with everything I want to see.

“I’ll be back in time for dinner,” I tell him, and then silently curse myself. Maybe he doesn’t want to have dinner with me. Maybe he’s eating with colleagues and now will feel compelled to bring his lame, underdressed assistant along. “I mean, unless you have other plans.”