Chapter 11: A Deal With The Devil: Chapter 11

I’m bent over the dishwasher when Hayes enters the kitchen the next morning. I glance up in time to catch his eyes on my ass, and there’s something so dirty, so deeply male in that look, that I feel a stab of unwelcome desire in response.

I close the dishwasher and go to the Vitamix, pouring the contents into a glass, which I place before him.

He stares at it. “This is the worst-looking daiquiri I’ve ever seen.”

“They’re called vegetables. I’m surprised you didn’t hear about them in medical school, but I guess that would have taken valuable time away from learning about breast implants.”

“I was actually aware of vegetables before medical school,” he says, lifting the glass and regarding it with suspicion. “I was precocious in that way. I just don’t know why you’re giving them to me.”

“Because you eat like shit, you drink like a fish, and you get almost no sunlight, You’re like a vampire, only one who’s ambivalent about his survival.” I turn to rinse the blender. “And speaking of bad habits, someone named Angela texted and asked if you’re still on for dinner.”

“Angela?” he repeats blankly. The name clearly does not ring a bell. “Go through the texts. Is there a photo of her? I need to know what I’m getting into.”

My eyes roll so hard I’m scared they’ll get stuck that way. I dry my hands but don’t reach for the phone. “Do you actually want me to scroll through your exchange with Angela to find out? Because I’m worried there will be dick pics.”

“I seriously doubt Angela sent me a dick pic, but if she did, you can go ahead and cancel.”

My mouth twitches. “I meant your dick, Hayes.”

“Mine? You should be so lucky.” He reaches across the counter and grabs the phone for himself, thank God.

“You know,” I say, wiping down the counter while he swipes through texts, “a great deal of what you need me for could be solved by not drinking yourself into a stupor.”

“Please, by all means, keep telling me ways to make your job easier.” He stops swiping—I assume he’s found her picture—and then returns the phone to me with an especially weary sigh. “Get us a reservation at Perch at seven and let her know for me?”

I grab the phone and pretend to type. “Top o’ the morning, Angela!” I say aloud. “Bloody good show, getting a free meal out of our exchange of bodily fluids. I normally just buy ladies a drink and wait for the roofies to kick in. Toodles, for now!” I look up to see if he finds me as amusing as I find myself.

“Honestly, the hangover is bad, but your British accent is now the most painful thing about my day.”

Then, despite his hangover, he smiles, and it feels as if the sun’s just come out after a long winter. It makes me far happier than it should.

I’m in bed that night, answering a question Sam asked about the book and ready for sleep, when Hayes’s name appears on my phone. I try to summon some indignation but can’t find it.

Hayes: What was the expression you used the other day when you were pretending to be British but sounded like a chimney sweep from Mary Poppins? I’m telling the girls about it.

I roll my eyes. Girls, plural. I assume that means I’ll be taking them both to breakfast in the morning. And why is he texting me when he has what must be far more entertaining company?

Me: Was it “go the fuck to sleep”?

Hayes: No. Keep trying.

Me: Was it “this is inappropriate workplace behavior”?

Hayes: That line must be from the off-Broadway rendition of Mary Poppins. Definitely not from the movie. Also, someone didn’t read her employment contract carefully.

Me: Yeah, that someone is your lawyer. There’s no way that contract would hold up in court.

Hayes: Ah. Always good to know an employee is *already* contemplating the feasibility of a lawsuit.

I laugh as I set down the phone. If men were placed on a continuum from ideal to disastrous, Sam would fall on one end and Hayes precisely the other. So why is it Hayes, of the two, I wish would text again?

“So, what happened?” I ask when he arrives in the kitchen the next morning, unusually cranky, even for him. The last text I received—at one in the morning, I might add—said the girls, plural, were tedious and I could probably skip the flowers. “What did your lady friends do wrong?”

“Your concern for my sexual needs is appreciated, but unnecessary,” he growls. “The night ended just fine.”

His mood—and the fact that neither of them is here—leads me to think otherwise.

And the strangest part is that he seems to resent me for it.