The Devil Gets His Due Excerpt
I’ve developed an image of Graham in my head after spending six straight weeks bickering with him by phone, so I know he is bald and tiny and looks two decades older than Ben somehow—though he’s actually two years younger. He carries an abacus or encyclopedia with him everywhere he goes and uses them to discuss things no one but him cares about. Like taxes or healthcare or politics.
Therefore, the broad-shouldered guy with the bone structure of a young superhero and wearing the hell out of a very nice suit can’t possibly be Graham.
Can I picture this guy with an abacus? No. Can I see this guy with an encyclopedia? Yes, but only in a kinky way. Like maybe he’s about to fuck you in the back of the library and doesn’t bother to sweep the books off the table before he pins you there.
He is not Graham. Except he does look a lot like Ben, and Gemma is currently saying “two nemesises come face to face” in a British accent as if she’s narrating a nature documentary.
“I think the plural is nemeses,” the guy who can’t be Graham says with the ghost of a smirk on his face. “I looked it up in anticipation of this meeting.”
I recognize his low, gravelly voice—even sexier now that I’m seeing the face that goes with it. I also recognize the corresponding desire to punch him.
Ugh. It is Graham. I suppose that means any moment now he’ll be asking me how much these margaritas were and deducting them from his share of the costs.
What a waste. You could sharpen a knife on that jawline. Alas.
His eyes meet mine, though I don’t miss the way they went to my cleavage first. Good. I bought this dress hoping to make the most of my assets, and if even boring Graham is looking, Six Bailey is in the bag.
“Well, well, well,” I say. “Look who put down the actuarial tables long enough to show up at the party.”
“I don’t use actuarial tables in my work. I—”
“I’m already bored, so clearly you’re Graham.” I extend a hand.
“And you’re rude and drunk at noon, so you must be Keeley,” he replies with a smirk. His hand swallows mine in a firm handshake, and I briefly imagine him consuming me, that massive body of his pushing me deep into a mattress. I’m not sure why the idea isn’t as dry-heave-inducing as it should be. Maybe I should slow down with the margaritas.
I glance over at Gemma, hoping she finally sees how terrible he is, which I’ve been discussing at length for weeks, but she’s paying no attention whatsoever. Her arms are draped around Ben’s neck, and the two of them are all whisper whisper whisper while they smile at each other, lips a hair’s breadth apart.
“Jesus Christ,” Graham groans, just as I whisper, “gross.”
He raises a brow. “I imagine that’s the first and last thing we’ll ever agree on.”
I turn toward the bar and he follows. “Ideally we won’t need to agree or disagree because I very much want you to stay away from me this weekend.”
“Have I somehow given you the impression I want you to stay close? If so, I apologize. Nothing could be further from the truth.”
I give the bartender my most beguiling smile. “I’m going to need several more of these,” I say in a stage whisper, lifting my drink. “It’s the only way I’ll survive today.”
“If you not surviving today is somehow an option—” Graham points at the bottle of whiskey in the bartender’s hand. “—it would probably save me some money.”
Pre-order your copy today!
Amazon: https://amzn.to/3NJkhHP
Amazon Worldwide: https://mybook.to/TheDevilGHD
Therefore, the broad-shouldered guy with the bone structure of a young superhero and wearing the hell out of a very nice suit can’t possibly be Graham.
Can I picture this guy with an abacus? No. Can I see this guy with an encyclopedia? Yes, but only in a kinky way. Like maybe he’s about to fuck you in the back of the library and doesn’t bother to sweep the books off the table before he pins you there.
He is not Graham. Except he does look a lot like Ben, and Gemma is currently saying “two nemesises come face to face” in a British accent as if she’s narrating a nature documentary.
“I think the plural is nemeses,” the guy who can’t be Graham says with the ghost of a smirk on his face. “I looked it up in anticipation of this meeting.”
I recognize his low, gravelly voice—even sexier now that I’m seeing the face that goes with it. I also recognize the corresponding desire to punch him.
Ugh. It is Graham. I suppose that means any moment now he’ll be asking me how much these margaritas were and deducting them from his share of the costs.
What a waste. You could sharpen a knife on that jawline. Alas.
His eyes meet mine, though I don’t miss the way they went to my cleavage first. Good. I bought this dress hoping to make the most of my assets, and if even boring Graham is looking, Six Bailey is in the bag.
“Well, well, well,” I say. “Look who put down the actuarial tables long enough to show up at the party.”
“I don’t use actuarial tables in my work. I—”
“I’m already bored, so clearly you’re Graham.” I extend a hand.
“And you’re rude and drunk at noon, so you must be Keeley,” he replies with a smirk. His hand swallows mine in a firm handshake, and I briefly imagine him consuming me, that massive body of his pushing me deep into a mattress. I’m not sure why the idea isn’t as dry-heave-inducing as it should be. Maybe I should slow down with the margaritas.
I glance over at Gemma, hoping she finally sees how terrible he is, which I’ve been discussing at length for weeks, but she’s paying no attention whatsoever. Her arms are draped around Ben’s neck, and the two of them are all whisper whisper whisper while they smile at each other, lips a hair’s breadth apart.
“Jesus Christ,” Graham groans, just as I whisper, “gross.”
He raises a brow. “I imagine that’s the first and last thing we’ll ever agree on.”
I turn toward the bar and he follows. “Ideally we won’t need to agree or disagree because I very much want you to stay away from me this weekend.”
“Have I somehow given you the impression I want you to stay close? If so, I apologize. Nothing could be further from the truth.”
I give the bartender my most beguiling smile. “I’m going to need several more of these,” I say in a stage whisper, lifting my drink. “It’s the only way I’ll survive today.”
“If you not surviving today is somehow an option—” Graham points at the bottle of whiskey in the bartender’s hand. “—it would probably save me some money.”
Pre-order your copy today!
Amazon: https://amzn.to/3NJkhHP
Amazon Worldwide: https://mybook.to/TheDevilGHD
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