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

by Elizabeth O'Roark

Maybe no one in LA is straight out of a Hallmark movie, but I can no longer deny I’m deeply in lust with Ben Tate, and no one knows better than I do that’s a recipe for disaster.

“You wouldn’t know what to do with me.” I am throwing down a gauntlet I know he can’t pick up. His gaze sharpens. And then he rises from his chair. “What did you just say?” My breath skitters over my lips while I contemplate repeating it, but I’ve done this before, and it didn’t end well for me. “Nothing.” His steps glide over the carpeted floor—slowly, purposefully—until he is directly in front of me. My pulse triples. “No, I want you to say it again.” His eyes dip to my mouth, and I find words emerging from my throat, words I don’t approve of. “Fine. You. Wouldn’t. Know. What. To—” His hands slide through my hair, gripping it tight, and then his mouth is on mine. His lovely, full mouth. I shiver at the perfection of it. Kissing him is like sinking into a warm bath when you’re freezing cold.

“Are you really going to pretend you didn’t kiss me back?” I kissed him back. I ran my hands into his hair, and I’m pretty sure I gasped. Denying it, at this point, is illogical. “You took me by surprise.” “I should have fucked you then, too,” he says, eyes flashing, “just to see how else surprise makes you yield.”

His weight falls atop mine, and we are as close as we could possibly be, both of us gasping for breath. I turn my nose toward his neck and breathe him in, the smell of his soap mingling with his sweat. I wish we could stay like this forever. 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.

“You’re impossible.” I laugh. “Oh, is this the part where you act like a dick and make it out to be my fault? We’ve managed to move through all the stages of a relationship without actually having one. Impressive.”

I fidget, hoisting the bag farther onto my shoulder. “We don’t tell each other things like that.” His brows draw together, as if he is considering his next words. “Maybe we should start.” He’s close enough now for me to see the pale bruise under his eye. He got into an actual fistfight on my behalf, in public. I’m drawn to that small mark on his cheek, as if it has value, as if it means more to me than all my possessions combined.

“Gemma,” he growls. “Come here.” It’s a demand, not a request. It should hasten my exit from his room, but instead my feet are moving toward him. When I reach his side, he pulls me down to the bed, on top of him, as if he can’t wait the extra few seconds it would have taken me to get there on my own. I stare at him in shock, and his gaze locks with mine as he winds his fingers through my hair. I expect him to smirk, to look irritatingly victorious, but instead…he’s relieved. As ridiculously overconfident as he appears, he flew across the country and drove to Ojai for this, for me, with no idea at all if it would work. And he wanted it to work—from the feel of him, hard as steel beneath me—he really wanted it to work.

“You,” he says, the words timed with his thrusts, “are so fucking mouthy.” “You love it,” I gasp as he seats himself inside me again. And it’s only after I’ve said the words that I realize how true they are. He does love it. No matter what I do to keep him at arm’s length, he keeps coming back for me.

“I want to be someone you trust enough to invite home, Gemma. And I’m willing to wait for it.”

“Is it so hard to admit you sort of like me?” He runs a hand over my hip, asking me to pay attention. “Do you really need me to admit it when we just had sex repeatedly?” “Yeah,” he says softly. “I sort of do.”

His hand comes up, curving around the corner of my jaw, pulling my gaze to his, our mouths inches apart. “You drink two cups of coffee every morning, always with milk, not cream, and a ridiculous amount of sugar. You’ll eat an acai bowl at any hour of the day, and you’re the only person alive who prefers strawberries to donuts, which is why I’ve been buying them for staff meetings for the past year.”

“I’ve never brought a woman home for Thanksgiving. And you sound jealous.” “You wish.” “Yeah,” he says, “I guess I do.”

“You want to burn the whole world to ash, just to make sure every path she walks is cleared for her. I know the feeling.”

“I’m crazy about you, Gemma,” he whispers against the top of my head. “I don’t want to be, but I am.”

“You want the truth?” I demand. “He was a farmer, and sweet, and he should have been perfect for me. But I was bored out of my fucking mind. So you were right. Are you happy now?” “Did. He. Kiss. You?” he demands. “Of course not!” I shout. “Why are you so obsess—” His mouth comes down on mine, hard and fast. Angry, demanding.

“I’m, uh, seeing someone,” I reply. “And even he’d tell you I’m no one you’d want to set up with your son.” Walter smiles to himself. “Bet you keep him on his toes.”

“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.”

When we get off the phone, I lock the office door then sit with my face in my hands, trying not to cry. I love him. I love him so fucking much it terrifies me.

And yes, of course I’d leave. You only stayed because you had something to prove, and I only stayed because I was in love with this woman there who loathed me.” “You love me?” I ask. His thumb swipes a tear off my cheek. “This can’t be a surprise to you. I’ve been in love with you for two years straight. You were the only reason I interviewed there in the first place.”

“I love you,” I whisper. “And I wanted to make partner, but for the past two years, you were the reason I stayed there too.” He laughs as he presses his lips to mine. “I know,” he says quietly. “But I’m glad you finally figured it out.”

“But…imagine how much more of our money you could blow on shoes if you lived here instead of your apartment.”