The Devil You Know (The Grumpy Devils, #3)

by Elizabeth O'Roark

He’s the type of guy who’s experienced a bit of success and let it go to his head. I guarantee he cheats at everything—marriage, taxes, corporate expenditures—and rationalizes all of it. I know men like this well.

Thanks to both books and Hallmark movies, I fully expect the clerk to tell me there’s been a mix-up when I finally reach the front desk. You and Mr. Tate will have to share a room, she’ll say. It has a twin bed, is only lit by romantic candlelight, and there’s nothing else available in the entire state. You’ll be sleeping in his t-shirt, and he will be completely nude.

Ah, there’s the dose of cold water I needed. “But of course, sir,” I snap in response, and I swear to God his nostrils flare, as if he liked it. Which lines right up with the handcuff fantasy.

“Really?” he asks, his mouth twitching. He closes his eyes, pressing his fingers to his temples like he’s a psychic. “So, I see you in a room, and…wow, you really want me to put my tongue there? I mean, I don’t know. I’ve never done that before.”

I’ve noticed, which must be her husband’s name. It’s a rookie mistake. When I write a book about marriage, it will focus on making the whole thing easier to dissolve when it’s done. I’ll hand it out to the newly engaged and stop getting invited to weddings and showers. Win-win.

It’s a bizarre thing to think, clearly the product of oxytocin, a hormone known to cause stupidity, but I feel lost when he finally pulls away.

But why should I have to be a better person when no one else is?

before attempting day-to-night makeup, which I read about unnecessarily often as a teen, given how little I’ve needed to do it.

“FMG will,” she says, and her certainty shakes me a little. Does she know something I don’t? “Come talk to me when you get tired of the boys’ club there.”

Knew it

If I’m being honest, it was sort of Hallmark-worthy, the way he intervened when Webber grabbed me. It’s the exact kind of toxic masculine bullshit I’m not supposed to like but thought about for hours last night anyway.

Men in upper management everywhere go out of their way to keep the circle closed, just like Fiducia has, hoping the women who want in will just give up. Fuck that.”

Maybe he’s actually on a romantic weekend away, just him and a blond named Lotus who is extremely flexible and thinks 9-11 was a conspiracy because she wasn’t born when it happened.

The note says It’s as much for me as for you; therefore, not a gift.

Stop being so forgiving, I want to scream. Stop letting people walk on you. And stop assuming the best of others when no one will extend that same courtesy to you. I’m angry at her. I’m angry on her behalf. I’m so angry, and I’m so tired of being angry all the time.

“You think you can see the future, but all you’re really doing is choosing it for yourself in advance. And I wish you’d stop choosing the things that can’t make you happy.”