Page 67 of The Devil You Know

“Mom would never accept that.”

He shrugs. “She’d never have to know. I’ll tell her I realized I was wrong. You’ll forgive me and come to the firm. It makes absolute sense.”

My mother won’t take a penny from me, but she’d take that money. And he’s right. She’d never even have to know. All I’d be giving up is nearly everything I care about. And God I hate him for asking it of me.

“You’re doing it again,” I tell him, opening the door. “You’re incapable of giving without getting something in return.”

I walk out. But I’m already wondering if not considering it makes me every bit as selfish as him.

35

I text Ben the minute I land. I’ve spent the past six hours thinking about what my father said and how that money would change my mother’s life. I’ve never wanted to turn down an offer more, and I’m not sure how I can, especially if I don’t make partner.

Weirdly, it’s the idea of leaving Ben that bothers me most.

He’s waiting outside my apartment when I arrive, wearing jeans and deeply in need of a shave. And here I thought he couldn’t get better looking.

I pull him inside the door. He grabs the suitcase I’ve forgotten in the hallway.

“I get the feeling you missed me,” he says as I slide to my knees.

“You wish.” I slip the belt loose. His lids lower and he runs a hand through my hair.

He’s hard as steel as I pull him free from his boxers, groaning when I take him in my mouth. “You don’t have to admit it,” he says. “But I will. I missed you.”

I pretend I haven’t heard him. One part of me wants him to stop talking and one part wants him to say it all again.

“Fuck,” Ben groans. He arches against me, his fingers pressing to my hair, that subtle pressure begging for more. I don’t give it to him. Instead, I savor him, like he’s ice cream in a time of famine. Using my hands, my tongue, and the back of my throat on occasion, I don’t stop until his inhales grow sharp, and come fast.

“You’re killing me,” he rasps. He sinks to the floor and has me flat on my back in seconds. “I need to be inside you.”

I missed this, I think, as he pulls off my jeans. I suppose I sort of missed him too.

The days between Christmas and New Year’s Eve are quiet. Most of the staff have taken the week off, and even Ben and I aren’t working our normal hours. In the morning we take our time, sharing the paper and sipping our coffee, my feet entwined with his beneath the table. We leave work each night at a reasonable hour. The little Christmas tree is still flourishing, which is either a miracle or Ben’s watering it.

We’re in bed when he mentions New Year’s Eve.

“We should go away this weekend,” he says.

I roll toward him. Suggesting a weekend away seems like a big step for someone who won’t even invite me to his house.

“I’m surprised Drew isn’t hosting some magnificent gala on a yacht or flying you all to a private island somewhere.”

He grins. “She is, but I’d prefer to spend it with you.”

He’s missing out on a night with his friends because I’m the asshole who won’t go to HR. I refuse to feel guilty about that. He’s never even invited me into his home. I tip my chin up to look at him. “You know where we could go? Your place.”

“It’s a disaster,” he says, though he could have built an entirely new house in the amount of time it’s taken. “How about one night? We’ll go somewhere nearby for New Year’s Eve and come back the next morning. Catalina, maybe.”

My breath stutters. Kyle booked us a room on Catalina Island for my twenty-third birthday. We’d already chosen a ring by then—I assumed he was going to propose and spent money I didn’t have on a new dress. Then Josie flaked out, as always, and he canceled. I’d seen so little of my friends by then that going out with them wasn’t even an option. I spent my birthday sitting in my apartment alone.

“I’m not really a fan of Catalina,” I reply.

His tongue glides along his bottom lip for a moment, observing me, as if he knows there’s more here. I’m scared he’s going to ask for details, and the time is coming when he will. Eventually he’ll push a little harder to know what happened at Stadler and why I’m prickly about so many things. “I’ll figure something out,” he says, and I’m so relieved I don’t even argue.

We leave work on Saturday just after lunch and drive up the coast to a cottage in Santa Barbara. A porter unlocks the door for us, and while Ben sees him out, I just…stare. I’d expected he’d choose something nice— king-sized bed, room service—but this is another level entirely. It’s got two rooms, both with French-glass doors that open wide to a terrace larger than my apartment. A fire blazes in the hearth already, several bottles of wine waiting for us on the mantel. I step outside, passing a pergola to my left, and go to the railing, staring out at the Pacific, ethereal in the distance.

“It’s where John and Jackie Kennedy spent their honeymoon,” Ben says, walking up behind me and pulling my back to his chest. “It seemed like the kind of thing you’d like.”