Dance with the Devil: Chapter 3

It’s a fairly short first day with only two sessions—one of which is led by Dr. Kincaid. I run around attempting to ensure his mic works, that his suit is smoothed out, that his slides are working properly. I don’t really understand the things he’s talking about, but I know enough about him to know that he’s passionate about sleep disorders and how sleep (or lack thereof) affects the brain psychologically. Watching him command the room with his knowledge and expertise is more alluring than I expect, so of course I have to keep myself in check for the duration of the session. Once it’s over, we have the rest of the afternoon free. As the two of us walk to the elevators, he turns to face me.

“I’ll be getting dinner at my favorite restaurant tonight. Would you like to join me?”

Dinner? With the devil?

“I’ll probably just grab something quick up the street,” I tell him. “Thank you for the invitation.”

“The place I’m going is just up the street,” he adds casually. “Thirteen minutes away.”

“That’s oddly specific.” His lips twitch, and God I want to see him smile. But he maintains his serious expression, even as I let my eyes wander over his face. I realize with a start that he might want me to join him. I mean… he’s probably lonely in that underground demonic cave he must live in. “Fine. But just so you know, I didn’t bring any fancy dinner things to wear.”

“What you’re wearing is fine.”

I look down at my dark gray, fitted shift dress and black heels. I didn’t exactly have time to go shopping, so this outfit is at least five years old and hardly appropriate for whatever fancy place he’s going to take me.

“I have some colleagues to speak to. I’ll meet you back in the room at seven. Do you still have the key?”

I pat my small purse. “Yep.”

He leans forward and presses the UP button on the private elevator for me before taking a step back. “Have a good afternoon, Francesca.” He turns and walks away, his shoes clacking against the marble floor. I watch him go, admiring the muscles in his back contract with every step—and the way his ass fills out his pants. If he wasn’t such an asshole, I’d be in deep trouble.

Of course he’d be hot.

I’d been dealing with his bad temperament for two years, and I loathed him in more ways than one. Why did he have to be so attractive, too? It’s confusing and frankly, not fair.

Why are all the pretty faces wasted on assholes like him?

He gets farther and farther away. It’s not until I hear the elevator ding that I come out of my stupor.

I go up to the room and answer some of Dr. Kincaid’s emails for the next few hours, responding to most of them and putting the ones I’m unsure of in a separate folder. Just before seven, the door to the room beeps and the devil himself walks in with a glowering expression.

“Have you been working this whole time?” he asks.

“Hello to you, too,” I say glumly, closing my laptop and stepping back into my heels. I’d kicked them off while working.

“It’s nearly seven,” he says, putting his hands in the pockets of his pants.

I blink rapidly. “I’m confused… are you angry that I’m working?” I’m unable to hide my irritation after the long day. It feels good to bite back for once. I’d much rather hash things out in person. My words always get jumbled via email. And in terms of reasons he’s been annoyed with me, this is a new one.

“I pay you a reasonable salary,” he says evenly. “But I hope I’ve never given you the impression that I expect you to work long after five o’clock.”

I bite my tongue, because my first instinct is to laugh and say, What about all of those late-night emails?

He takes a step closer. “And if I have, I apologize.”

I shrug. “You do email me quite late at night.”

His lips twitch with that almost smile again. “I never expect you to respond to those immediately, Francesca. Unless it’s an emergency, of course. Sometimes I think you’re too good at your job,” he mumbles, running a hand over his face.

I bark out a laugh. “Doubtful. I’m surprised you haven’t fired me.”

He cocks his head and a crease forms between his brows. “Fired you? Why do you think I’ve given you so many raises? Because you’re incredibly good at your job.”

A blush works its way over my cheeks, and I look down at my sore feet. “Thank you.”

He stops right in front of me, and damn those pants for fitting his thighs so well, because that’s what I’m choosing to focus on at this moment.

“No, thank you,” he murmurs.

I look up at him and he’s watching me with an almost tortured expression. My stomach flips over and I instantly jump up, because there’s something in his eyes that makes me feel like his prey, and though I shouldn’t like it, I do.

“I’m just going to use the restroom and then we can go.”

I don’t look up at him as I walk to our shared bathroom. Once I’m done washing my hands, I look at my reflection for a few seconds, willing myself to act calm and professional. I pull my long, brown hair out of the bun it’s been in all day and run my fingers through it, detangling the bleached ends. I’d unpacked my toiletries and set them near the second sink earlier, so I quickly swish some mouthwash and reapply my cream blush and lipstick. My skin is tan and sun-kissed from utilizing the beach in San Diego most weekends, and though I’m exhausted, my large gray eyes are bright and clear.

Turning to the side, I wince when I realize I was at least twenty pounds lighter when I bought this dress, because despite always being a curvy girl, I’d gained weight over the last three years. I wasn’t firm and flat—I had large hips, a big ass, and boobs I wish I could tape down most days. The dress is flattering, but it does pull across my fluffy tummy.

Too late to change, I think.

I take a deep breath and exit the bathroom, and Doctor Devil is pulling on a casual leather jacket over his white button-up.

So help me God…

“You might want a jacket,” he says sternly, his eyes briefly skimming over my long hair.

“I’ll grab one.”

I walk into the bedroom and dig through my suitcase for my tan trench coat, pulling it on as I walk out. I can barely hide my wince as the blisters on my feet rub against the patent leather of my heels, but I half grimace as Dr. Kincaid holds the door open for me.

The elevator ride down is tense and quiet, and I look down at my feet the entire time. We walk out of the Four Seasons, and we’re immediately in downtown San Francisco. I follow Dr. Kincaid across Market Street, smiling when I see a vintage streetcar rolling down past us. It’s dusk, so the sky is a light pink color, and the tree-lined main street is serene yet bustling at the same time. Turning right almost immediately, he leads us down Kearny Street. I can’t help but love everything about the city—from the Peet’s coffee bars, the businessmen rushing home, and the commuters waiting for the bus.

It’s not until three blocks later that I begin to limp.

Dr. Kincaid doesn’t notice at first, but when I whimper in pain after nearly twisting my ankle, he spins around mid-intersection.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, a crease forming between his brows.

I shake my head and limp to the other side of the street. “It’s nothing. I’m just getting blisters from these shoes,” I tell him, sticking one patent-leather-clad foot out to show him.

His nostrils flare when he glances down at them, and at first I think he’s going to reprimand me, but instead he looks over my shoulder.

“Wait here,” he says, walking back out into the intersection.

I think he’s going to hail a taxi, but instead he disappears into a small clothing boutique. A minute later, he’s walking out with a brown paper bag, and my mouth drops open when he hands it to me.

“I had to guess your size,” he says matter-of-factly. “But they should fit.”

I look inside and see an UGG shoe box. Pulling the top off, my heart flutters when I see a snuggly pair of fur-lined boots.

“This is… these are expensive,” I tell him quickly, handing the box back to him.

He pushes it back to me. “Wear them, Francesca. It’ll get cold later, anyway.”

I open and close my mouth in surprise. Pulling them out—size eight, which is my exact size, by the way—I groan as my swollen and sore feet are met with soft, warm fur.

“Oh my god,” I whisper, closing my eyes once both feet are inside the boots. “So much better. Thank you.”

He nods, but he doesn’t smile. I put my heels inside the bag, and to my utter surprise, Dr. Kincaid takes it from me so that I don’t have to carry it.

I can’t help but blush as we continue our walk to dinner.

Downtown soon evolves from a bougie financial district to something much more lived-in, and soon we’re walking past delicious-smelling dim sum restaurants, as well as Vietnamese and Cantonese establishments. My mouth waters as we pass a fancy-looking place with white tablecloths and I get a whiff of something fried. When Dr. Kincaid guides me through a nondescript door, I assume he must be mistaken. There are a couple of chefs in the kitchen chopping vegetables, and a pulley carrying food up to the next story. A set of very narrow stairs comes into view up ahead, and my boss—one of the most pretentious men I know—starts to speak to the chefs in Mandarin.

“Up, up!” a female server yells at us, gesturing to the stairs. “You look hungry,” she says, giving him a brief smile before patting his arm with a frown. “Nice to see you, Dante.”

I laugh as Dr. Kincaid quickly moves up the stairs, which look more like a ladder than anything, and then we go up another, even more narrow staircase. But not before I see the five or six tables full of people laughing, yelling, and gesturing wildly. It’s loud and chaotic, and way more casual than I expected. This almost feels like someone’s house, and I absolutely love it.

He grabs us a table near an old factory-looking window and takes our coats, hanging them over the back of his chair. As soon as I sit down, the female server from earlier in the kitchen comes sauntering over to our table.

“Drinks?” she asks impatiently.

“Uh…” I look down at the menu that says Sam Wo Restaurant, and my eyes go wide when I realize it was established in 1906.

“Quickly!” the server says, and when I look up at Dr. Kincaid, he’s doing that lip twitch thing again.

“I’ll have a beer,” he says evenly.

“I’ll have the same thing,” I tell her quickly.

She turns before I’m done speaking, and as she verbally assaults the next table over, I look back at my boss in astonishment.

“What kind of beer did I just order?”

He shrugs. “It’s a surprise.”

“Do you come here often?”

“Whenever I’m in the city. I did my undergrad at UCSF, so she remembers me as a scrawny, broke student.”

“You speak Mandarin?”

Two opened beer bottles are plopped on our table roughly, and I barely get a glimpse of the server as she walks over to the food elevator, ignoring us with a scowl.

“Not really,” he answers. “Just enough to say hello.”

“You learned for them?” I ask, my voice soft.

He shrugs and his lips tug into a frown. “I try to memorize a few things in every language just in case. What if I’m ever stuck in Brazil or Thailand without knowing how to say please and thank you?”

I smile as I take a sip of my beer. “Are you often stuck in foreign countries without a phone translator?”

He shakes his head and looks genuinely annoyed. I can’t help but be captivated by his grumpy demeanor—I want to dig deeper. I want to know why he looks so unhappy so much of the time, and I also want to know why he’s still single. For over a year I assumed he had a family, but on a Zoom call a few months ago, he mentioned living alone.

And right now, with his white button-up clinging to his chest, and the sleeves pushed up to his elbows showing off those tattoos…

I take another large sip of beer to quell the arousal coursing through me.

This is so wrong. He’s the actual Devil.

“You young people rely on your phone too much.”

I scoff. “I can’t be that much younger than you.”

He arches a brow and his eyes flick over my face. “Fifteen years.”

After another sip of beer, I’m suddenly feeling warm and possibly too comfortable, because I blurt out my next sentence without much thought.

“There’s no way you’re fifteen years older than me,” I say, completely aghast.

His lips quirk, but still no smile. “Are you sure? I happen to know how old you are.”

“How?”

He leans forward slightly, and my breath catches. The beer is starting to make me feel tingly and flushed, and those eyes pierce into mine.

“It was on your résumé,” he replies simply. I press my lips together. Duh. “And I know I’m fifteen years older than you.”

I shake my head as I quickly do the math. I’m twenty-eight, which means he’s… forty-three.

“You’re lying,” I blurt, checking his face for wrinkles. There’s not a single gray hair on his head—and I know that because I’d been admiring the artfully messy way it’s longer on the top. His scruff, too, is fully brown. No gray hairs in sight. “You have good genes,” I add, taking a swig from my beer. I realize I’m almost finished with it, and I vow to go slower so that I don’t get too drunk.

“My grandparents are Italian,” he says quickly, and before I can ask about them, the server comes back over to take our orders. “Two chicken chow mein and two orders of the spring rolls, please,” he says, ordering for me. “And two more beers.”

She snatches the menus off the table without writing anything down or answering, and I chuckle as she barks at another table.

“How do you know I’m not a vegetarian?” I ask, finishing off my beer.

He rolls his eyes. The man rolls his eyes, and it’s really fucking hot.

Clasping his hands together on the table, he leans forward again. My left hand is resting on the table, and he’s inches from me—yet I can feel his body heat radiating from his hand.

“Are you?” he asks, his eyes imploring.

I sit back and cross my arms, and then my lips tug into a small smile. “No.”

His mouth twitches, and I want to scream, Just laugh! Smile for once in your damn life!

Before I can, he shrugs and takes a sip of his new beer. I do the same, not caring about saying the wrong thing. Fuck it. He’s been nice enough, and he said I was too good at my job. I feel like that gives me a small amount of grace and leeway. Just as I’m about to make another comment about his grumpy demeanor, he speaks.

“Has the weather been nice in San Diego?” he asks, tilting his head slightly.

I nod. “It’s almost always nice.” Just as he opens his mouth to ask another question, my phone begins to ring. I reach for it and see that it’s Ari calling me. I look up at Dr. Kincaid, and he gestures for me to answer it.

“Go ahead. You’re off the clock,” he adds, eyes sharp and assessing.

“Thanks. It’s my best friend and I just want to be sure she’s okay.”

Standing up quickly, I press the green Answer button just as I step into the smallest bathroom to ever exist and lock the door.

“Hey,” I whisper.

“You haven’t answered any of my texts! I thought Doctor Devil kidnapped and skinned you as a flesh blanket or something.”

I huff a laugh. “I’m fine.”

“Why is your voice all low and whisper-y?”

“Because I’m out at dinner.”

She gasps. “With Doctor Devil? Is it, like… a work dinner? Are there other people?”

I bite my lower lip. It’s going to sound way more scandalous when I tell her the truth, and I just know she’s not going to let me live it down.

“Um, no. I mean, yes. It is a work dinner. But it’s just the two of us.”

“How many drinks have you had?” she grills.

“I’m on my second beer. Calm down, mom.”

“Okay, that is not a work dinner. Don’t you know the rules? One drink is fine, two drinks means it’s not a work meal. I mean, technically you can’t even write off more than one drink unless you provide a very good reason for doing so⁠—”

“Just because you’re a CPA now doesn’t mean you’re an expert⁠—”

“Actually, bestie… it does. But you have fun on your date, okay? I want to hear everything!”

There’s a click and yet I still let out a frustrated groan as if she can hear me. While I’m in the bathroom, I pee quickly and wash my hands. When I look at myself in the mirror, I’m surprised to see that my cheeks are pink and my eyes are bright and jovial. It’s hot in here, but instead of looking sweaty, I look dewy… and I don’t hate it. Exiting the bathroom, I walk back over to Dr. Kincaid, who is waiting patiently with our food.

“Sorry,” I mutter, sitting down quickly and putting my phone back in my purse. “I should’ve told you to start without me.”

“Everything okay?” he asks, pushing a plate of spring rolls and a large bowl of chicken chow mein in front of me.

“She’s fine. She’s just worried because I wasn’t answering my texts.”

“The two of you are close?”

I nod as I take another sip of beer. The food is steaming, so I know it’s probably too hot to eat immediately.

“She’s like a sister. I’m an only child,” I explain. “Ari and I have been friends for most of our lives. We actually lived together after my fiancé—” I clamp my mouth shut, realizing I’ve said too much.

Dr. Kincaid’s eyebrows shoot up. “Fiancé?”

Fuck.

“Ex-fiancé,” I explain, grabbing the chopsticks and shoveling a massive amount of chow mein into my mouth so I don’t have to elaborate.

“Ah. I see.”

I finish chewing a minute later, and we eat in near silence after that, despite me wanting to ask about a potential significant other. I mean, he looks like that. There’s no way he doesn’t date or have women lined up around-the-clock.

The food is delicious. Greasy but not too overwhelming. Seasoned but not too salty. It’s the best damn chow mein I’ve ever had.

After finishing my second beer, Doctor Devil doesn’t offer to get me another one, which is a good thing. When he runs to the bathroom after finishing his food, I send a quick text to Ari.

This is MOST DEFINITELY not a date, FYI.

She responds almost immediately.

Ari

Mmmhmm. Whatever you say. How’s the room, by the way?

Shit.

There was a mix-up with the reservation so we’re sharing a suite. And just so we’re clear, it’s the presidential suite. You could fit my entire house in the bedroom alone—which I’m occupying ALONE. He’s sleeping in a cot in the other room.

Ari

…

WHAT?

Ari

Nothing.

Tell me.

Ari

Hot, grumpy millionaire doctor. One room. Seemingly endless amounts of alcohol. Single, hot younger woman. Lots of… tension…

Shut up.

Ari

Keep me updated! That’s all I’m saying. Every. Detail.

I hate you.

Ari

All I heard was ‘hate sex.’

I’m just about to reply when I feel Dr. Kincaid’s hand on my back. I jump and my phone clatters to the ground. He bends down and picks it up, and fortunately, the screen appears to be locked. However, there is an older email from him on the lock screen… with the sender labeled as DOCTOR DEVIL. I wince as I look up at him, but his expression is neutral. I don’t think he sees it, thank God.

“Ready?” he asks, throwing a large wad of cash down onto the table. All hundreds.

“Yep,” I say quickly, pulling my jacket on and taking the bag with my heels. “Thanks again for the shoes. Please let me pay you back.”

He scowls at me over his shoulder as we head downstairs, and he’s quiet the entire walk back to the hotel. It’s significantly colder now, and I wrap my arms around my body as we arrive at the Four Seasons.

“Thanks for dinner,” I tell him as we walk to the elevators.

“You’re welcome.”

Again, he doesn’t speak as we make our way up to the suite. Once we get inside, he turns the deadbolt on the door, as well as the chain lock.

“Scared of someone breaking in?” I tease, kicking the new boots off my feet.

His back stiffens as he finishes locking up, and when he turns around, his pupils are darker and more intense.

“Not exactly,” he murmurs, cocking his head. “Good night, Francesca.”

“Oh, um, g-good night,” I stutter.

“Feel free to use the restroom first. I’ll be in the other room getting some work done,” he says, gesturing to the formal dining room just off the main living room.

His tone isn’t cold, but whatever warmth I sensed at dinner is gone.

“Okay.”

I walk into the bedroom and get my toiletries before heading into the shared bathroom. Locking the door, I lean back against it and take a few steadying breaths.

Not that I wanted anything to happen, but my god, Ari was completely wrong about tonight. I chuckle as I take my dress and underwear off, and once I’m completely naked, I start the shower. I’ve always loved taking a shower before bed, because it means I can climb into bed feeling fresh and warm. I take an extra-long shower, because it’s been an extra-long day. Once I’m done, I go through my nighttime routine and dry my long hair. Slipping into one of the robes hung on the back of the door, I gather my clothes and walk out.

The sound of typing comes from within the dining room, but I can’t see Dr. Kincaid.

Not wanting to chance interrupting him, I walk into the bedroom and close the door. My phone beeps with a new email, and as I set my clothes in the foldable laundry hamper I brought, I walk over to my purse and pull it out, brows scrunched as I realize Doctor Devil emailed me from the other room.

Francesca,

The panel tomorrow morning doesn’t require your attendance. Please feel free to sleep in and order breakfast to the room. I do have a talk I’d like to attend at 10:30, so please be ready to take notes.

Don’t forget to lock your door.

-Doctor Devil

My heart jumps into my throat, and I have to read his sign-off at least fifteen times before I can breathe again.

Setting my phone down, I open the bedroom door and pad to the dining room without thinking about the fact that I’m only wearing a robe. When I see Dr. Kincaid sitting in the near dark with the light of his laptop screen highlighting just how chiseled his jaw is, I nearly stop breathing again.

“Have you always been a fan of alliteration, Francesca?” he asks without looking up.

“W-what?” I ask, heart racing. “I’m so, so sorry⁠—”

He pushes back from the dining table and places his hands behind his neck, and when he flicks those green eyes to me, my pulse spikes even further. His irises bloom and his jaw tics as his eyes drag down my body. He seems… angry? And yet, his lips tic up almost imperceptibly, as if he’s amused.

“It’s a clever nickname. I can’t fault you for your creativity.”

“You were never supposed to see it. I swear it was only a joke.”

He tilts his head as his eyes bore into mine. “No matter.” Standing up, he closes his laptop. “I should get to bed.”

“Okay,” I whisper, unsure of whether I’m in trouble, or if he really just doesn’t care that his assistant gave him a rude nickname.

He walks over to where I’m standing, and I swear I see something shadowy pass behind his eyes. My skin pebbles as he brushes my shoulder, passing me and exiting the dining room. I follow him out. The hotel must’ve delivered the extra cot while I was showering because it’s set up next to the couch in front of the large-screen TV. It’s tiny—and it certainly won’t fit him comfortably.

“We should switch. That bed is so small, and you paid for the room⁠—”

“I’ll be fine, Francesca,” he says, stopping in front of it and crossing his arms. “Besides, demons don’t sleep.”

It takes me a second to realize he’s joking.

He made a joke.

I smile. “Right. How could I forget?” My eyes flit over to the bed again. “Still, you should take the bedroom⁠—”

“The lock only works on the inside of the bedroom,” he explains, eyes narrowing. “Not the other way around.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “Should I be locking my bedroom door?” I think back to the locked main door and his email sign-off. Don’t forget to lock your door. “What should I be afraid of?” I ask. To my dismay, my voice breaks slightly.

I see a hand curl around his bicep. “I’m an active sleeper,” he says, his voice low. “I tend to sleepwalk.”

“So? A lot of people do.”

His jaw tenses. “Just keep your door locked, Francesca.”

I stare at him for a few more seconds, but he’s distracted by something next to the couch—or avoiding eye contact for some reason.

“Fine. Good night, Dr. Kincaid.”

“Call me Dante,” he mutters.

“Only if you call me Frankie,” I retort, and then I walk to the bedroom, close the door, and turn the lock.