Page 13 of The Devil You Know

My heart sinks. If they don’t give it to me, it would be such a slap in the face I couldn’t possibly remain. Yet, I’ve staked every single ambition on making it at FMG—at taking their obnoxious old-boys network and turning it on its head. I refuse to contemplate any other possibility. “They’ve got to give it to me.”

“They’re assholes, Gemma,” she chides softly. “They’ve always been assholes. I’m not sure anything is a given over there.”

I could tell her about Margaret Lawson’s case, the way it will probably seal the deal for me. But that would involve mentioning Ben Tate, and I’m reluctant to do so. She’s heard plenty about Ben over the past two years, and he’s no less awful than he ever was. But there’s this piece of me remembering the wrong things about him at the moment: the concern on his face when he asked about my wrist, his decency to Margaret, his mouth, shaping the words there’s nothing small or weak about me. I know Keeley—she’ll read those conflicted emotions before I’ve even sorted them out myself.

I guess that’s why, when I discuss the Miami trip, I leave out the fact that I’m not going alone.

9

I arrive at LAX on Sunday afternoon, flustered and cranky. We could probably have handled the settlement conference over Zoom, but Fiducia’s headquarters is in Miami where another disgruntled former employee resides, so it made sense to talk to her in person before we meet opposing counsel.

It made sense at the time, anyway. Now the former employee has canceled and I’m stuck with Ben for the next twenty-four hours, a prospect I’m unreasonably nervous about.

I’ve traveled with other colleagues before, but not him. And though I’d like to believe I will discover something I can use against him later on, something to damage his impeccable reputation, I’m not especially optimistic. The odds that he’ll turn out to be the guy who gets drunk on free airplane booze are slim.

He’s waiting for me near security, wearing jeans, a t-shirt…and an unbuttoned flannel shirt, with the sleeves pushed up.

We’re about to spend six hours on a plane and won’t meet opposing counsel until tomorrow, so it’s not as if he needed to wear a three-piece suit. But I’ve never seen him in casual clothes before, and Ben in jeans and a t-shirt is brain-scrambling: flat stomach, trim hips, nice forearms.

Internally, I search for my ever-present chant of we hate him, we hate him, but it’s feeling a little forced today. My steps falter as I get closer, taking in his unshaved jaw and cocky smile.

“See something you like?” he asks.

I feel pinned by his gaze. “No.” I clear my throat. “I just expected more scales and open sores.”

“We’ll save that reveal for the pool,” he says with a smirk, waving me in front of him.

The pool. Ben, half naked. I get a sudden image of nicely chiseled abs, trunks hanging low, a happy trail. The penis that’s apparently neither small nor weak, though based on my knowledge of the law I’d suggest he shouldn’t be revealing it in public.

Thank God we won’t be staying that long.

I ignore him all the way to the plane. I definitely do not stop to watch him threading his belt through his jeans with agile, practiced fingers after we get through security. Nor do I notice the way he blocks people from shoving us in line with his broad shoulders, or how he moves me in front of him as our boarding passes are scanned, his hand on the small of my back, as if I’m someone who needs protection.

My phone rings and I answer gratefully when I see Keeley’s name. Ben’s currently lifting my carry-on into the overhead bin as if it’s nothing—a toy car, a paper plate. I could use a distraction.

“I’m at Saks,” she says. “Looking at those shoes you wanted. Will you be mad if I buy them for myself?”

I reach down to fish my laptop from my purse. “The yellow ones? Of course not. I’m probably not buying them anyway. What am I—or you—going to wear with yellow shoes?”

“Easy – the yellow wardrobe I’ll buy to go with them,” she says. “You, of course, will wear them with a boring black suit.”

I laugh. “Good plan. This is why I love you. It’s also why you’ve got so much credit card debt.”

Ben has settled into his seat, clearly listening in, and he’s not even trying to hide it. I stare hard at him. The universal signal for mind your own business.

Instead of respectfully opening a magazine or looking away, his mouth tilts into a shadow of a smug smile.

“If time is dragging while you eavesdrop, Tate,” I hiss, “maybe you should find some other way to occupy yourself.” I return to my phone call. “Sorry, Keeley.”

“Did you just say Tate? As in, the terrible Ben Tate?”

I sigh. “I did.”

“How curious,” she says, sounding far too amused, “that you never mentioned your trip to Miami was with the terrible Ben Tate. And he must be hot if I’ve never heard you malign him physically even once, because you know you would.”

“I’m not that bad,” I mutter. It’s difficult to defend myself with Ben listening.

“You ended a date early because you didn’t like the way a guy’s hair looked from behind.”