A Deal With The Devil: A Grumpy Boss Romance (The Grumpy Devils Book 1)

Drew texts the day of the luncheon to see if I want to meet up. She’s just back from Spain, where she was visiting Six. I know from her sporadic messages he was both wonderful and terrible. That he alternated between telling her he can see a future with her and then commenting on the size of her thighs. I don’t know why she doesn’t see through him when she’s so clever about everything else.

I tell her I need to take a rain check because the luncheon is consuming every waking minute. And today, when I have to be at my sharpest, I feel like I barely have the energy to push myself into the shower. I’ve gotten by on Hayes-levels of sleep for days on end, continuing to do my job while setting up the three-ring circus Hayes wants in his backyard: catered lunch, aesthetic services, favors, open bar, valet…the list is endless. There is so much to do today, and I only want to collapse in bed, which means there’s no way this thing is going to work out as seamlessly as he’d like.

I arrive at his house with my ridiculously expensive beige dress, my toiletries, and a pair of sky-high heels in one bag, the last of the party favors in another.

Hayes is already downstairs, looking so pressed and perfect and alert that I can’t help but resent him for it.

“You look like death warmed over,” he says.

I let both bags drop to the floor. I feel like I don’t even have the energy to respond this morning.

“What?” he asks. “I’m just wondering how you can look so bad when I know you spent yet another night in, watching Jane Austen movies and dreaming about marriage.”

I lean back against the counter, scraping my hair off my face and re-gathering my ponytail. I’m going to be a disaster by eleven AM when the guests arrive. “So that’s what you think I do?”

He shrugs. “Mostly, I picture you at home vigorously masturbating.”

I pretend to gag, and today I’m not entirely faking it. I wonder if it was the deli sushi I grabbed on the way home last night. I knew I should have stuck with ramen. It might not be the healthiest food, but pre-packaged ramen never gave anyone food poisoning.

It’s cool in the house but I’m already sweating and the smell of Hayes’s coffee is making my stomach churn. I head outside into the too-bright-morning to discuss table placement with the caterer, and the heat makes my head swim. I have to brace myself against a pillar to keep from swaying as she speaks.

I get through the next two hours, but by the time the linens are down and I’ve set the place cards out, I’m wondering how I’ll survive until the end. The fumes from the chafing dishes alone have me staggering inside to get away.

Hayes is there, looking like a cool dream in a black button down and suit pants while he tinkers with the set-up for aesthetic services. I want to lean my head against his chest, which would be inappropriate and would also destroy his shirt since I can’t stop sweating.

“You really are very quiet today,” he says. “I don’t think you’ve nagged me once in the past fifteen minutes, which is certainly a record. What did you do last night?”

My eyes fall closed. God, what I would give to lie down right now. “I vigorously masturbated while watching Jane Austen movies.”

“Well done,” he says. “I’ve never gotten an erection and had it killed in the space of one sentence before.”

I force my eyes open, force my shoulders back. I’m not going to be sick right now because I can’t afford to be sick right now. “I didn’t do anything last night. I stayed up until midnight putting together gift bags, and then I went to bed. I’m just a little tired.”

He’s silent for once. His mouth is pressed tight, his jaw locked. Which is his worried face but also his angry face, and I’m not sure which I’m seeing now.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

The air conditioning felt so good when I walked in, but now even that’s not enough. I’ve been less sweaty walking out of spin class.

“I’m fine,” I reply, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I promise your little luncheon will be spectacular, and you’ll have more new patients than you know what to do with.”

“I know I’m a demanding asshole,” he says, “but is it so insane to imagine I might be worried about you?” He’s angry, but even worse…he sounds hurt.

My eyes sting, and I close them before he can see. Jesus, what’s wrong with me today? Crying over some tiny indication of Hayes’s care has got to be a sign of personal apocalypse. “No,” I say. “Sorry. You were making your mad face. I just assumed.”

He pulls me toward him. “If you need to go home today, that’s fine.”

“I don’t, but thank you. I’ll be fresh as a daisy by the time your thing starts.” A daisy plucked several weeks prior and now dead, but still.

I go up to a guest room to change. The pillowcase on the bed looks so crisp and cool that I’d give almost anything to lie down right now and sleep until this was done. I sway at the very idea of it.

I get downstairs just as the first guests arrive, and from then on, it’s a blur of people and questions and requests and lost place cards. Lunch is served in the backyard without issue, but I’m almost too out of it to care. Hayes is behind a curtain, doing free filler, thank God. He’d have something to say if he saw me looking like this.

I find the caterer to request a vegan, gluten-free dessert option for a guest who wants something other than fruit. I have to lean against the wall to stay upright as we speak. Lovely wall. You’re my favorite thing in the world right now.

“Who the hell doesn’t like fruit?” the caterer asks me. Her face begins to blur. “I have no idea what I could serve her.”

I’m struggling to put my thoughts together. “Water?” I suggest weakly. “A dessert made of water and air.”

I hear the caterer giggle as a wave of nausea washes over me. I take a deep breath through my nostrils and close my eyes.

“You might want to slow down with the champagne,” she whispers.

I lurch five feet forward, but I’ve forgotten what I was walking toward, and I’m suddenly so unbelievably hot. I go back to the wall, gripping it tight to remain upright, and seconds later Hayes is looming over me with his hand on my forehead.

“You’re burning up,” he says. “For fuck’s sake, Tali, how long have you been like this?” I’m definitely seeing his angry face.

“Not until the party,” I whisper. “I’ll be fine. It’s food poisoning. I just need to sit for a minute.”

“What you need is to go to bed and stay there for three days,” he hisses.

And before I can argue, I am airborne, scooped up in his arms like a bride being carried over the threshold or—based on the difference in our respective sizes—a child being carried up to bed by her father.

I know I need to argue, but honestly, it feels so good not to stand up. Hayes’s shirt is crisp beneath my cheek. I time my breaths with the hard beat of his heart.

“Put me down,” I whisper. “S’embarrassing.”

“Yes, I know,” he says. “And you’re absolutely fine and just need to sit. I’d like to put you over my knee right now.”

You’d always like that, I try to say, but the words are slurred.

“You’re so sick you can’t even speak and you’re still trying to one-up me,” he says with a soft laugh.

I am too sleepy now to reply, but I think maybe I smile a little. I breathe him in. He smells like the ocean and sunlight. I guess not all smells make me gag. The smell of him makes me feel hopeful, as if everything is going to be alright.

At some point, I wake to discover myself in an unfamiliar room. It’s dark out, and Hayes is there beside me, stripped down to his pants and undershirt.

My stomach lurches. “Bathroom,” I beg, rolling out of bed on unsteady legs. I run toward what I pray is a bathroom and not a closet, vaguely realizing I’m only in my bra and panties as I collapse on the tile floor. The contents of my stomach fly out of my mouth, half in the toilet and half out, and Hayes grabs my hair but it’s too late by then. I’ve got it everywhere, and I don’t even care. I collapse on the deliciously cool tile floor. I think I’d like to just stay here.

“Come on, Tali,” he says softly, trying to pull me up, “let’s get you to bed.”

I shake my head. “Go away,” I beg. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”

“Worried I’ll respect you less?” he asks, but there’s a sweetness to his voice that isn’t normally there. “And I’ve already seen you like this. You’ve been sick repeatedly.”

“I need to shower,” I whisper. “Please.”

He pauses. “Fine,” he says with a sigh. “I’ll wait outside. Please don’t take off any more clothes until the door shuts.”

Which would indicate I’m the one who removed my dress earlier. God.

I turn on the water and somehow manage to remove my bra and panties before I crawl into the tub. Even those small actions deplete the little energy I had, however, so I just sit here with my knees tucked to my chest, letting the water hit me. As exhausted as I am, I still have the energy to be humiliated by all of this. He had to carry me out of the party. He’s pretty much seen me naked, and God only knows what I said to him…plus he’s now watched me vomit.

I groan against my knees, wishing I could vanish. I’m not sure how I’ll face him when I get out.

I manage to wash my hair from a seated position and pull myself to standing. With the towel wrapped around me, I open the door but have to lean against the frame as I begin to shake.

“Where’s my dress?” I whisper.

He frowns and then pulls off his undershirt. “Here,” he says, handing it to me. Even in my dazed, sickened state, I am capable of appreciating the absolute work of art he is shirtless. Not an ounce of fat and far more muscular than I’d have guessed.

The shirt falls to mid-thigh and is so loose around the arms that he’d see some side-boob if he wasn’t already looking away. I suppose he’s seen all the semi-nude Tali he’ll ever need to see after the past day. I stagger toward the mattress and collapse in bed on my side, wrestling with the covers but too weak to win the fight. He pulls them from me and lifts them to my chin.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

I open one eye just enough to see my favorite of his smiles. The sweetest one, that dimple of his blinking into existence. “For what?”

“Ruining your party, forcing you to take care of me, undressing in front of you, vomiting…”

“You ruined nothing, and perhaps you’re unaware of this, but I’m actually a doctor. And a human being who gets sick occasionally as well,” he says, resting a hand against my forehead. “You’re still running a fever, but your teeth are chattering. I’m going to get some meds and blankets.”

“Don’t stay here,” I say. “You must have patients, and I’m fine now.”

“Yes, I know. Just like you were fine earlier. You don’t have to do everything alone, you know.”

The words leave an ache in my chest as he leaves. I curl into a ball, pulling the blankets tighter, and the neck of his T-shirt rides up to my nose. I get a whiff of sandalwood, ocean, Hayes. My favorite smells in the entire world. As I doze off, I leave his shirt right there so I can keep breathing him in.

When I wake, the room is sunlit and Hayes is leaning over me, taking my temperature. His hair is messy from sleep, eyes a little hooded. This must be what he looks like when he wakes up—soft and delicious. He catches me looking and that signature smirk pulls at the side of his mouth.

“Good morning, sunshine. Your fever’s gone. How do you feel?”

“Like I was placed in a crane and repeatedly slammed into a brick wall.” And like someone who apparently took off her clothes and vomited in front of her hot boss. I flinch hard at the memory. “Sorry about, um, every single thing I did and said over the past twenty-four hours.”

“You’re pretty cute when you’re sick,” he says, perching on the edge of the bed. “And I do have all the photos of you stripped down to your bra and panties, so it’s not like I got nothing out of the deal.”

I laugh. “You earned them. I’m just glad I don’t remember most of it.”

He bites down on a smile. “You were your normal prickly self for the most part, although you did at one point suggest I smell like heaven. And then you carped at me for calling the trash can a bin and said I need to ‘stop speaking British all the time’ because I’ve been here too long for that.”

I struggle to sit up. He’s got me cocooned in approximately a hundred blankets. “Well, it is sort of ridiculous,” I mutter. “You’ve been here nearly a decade.”

I swing my legs off the side of the bed, careful not to flash him in the process and scurry to the bathroom. I wish very much that Hayes wasn’t sitting ten feet away while I pee. “Why is it so cold in here?” I shout from behind the closed door.

“Because you complained,” he says in a raised voice. “And now you’re complaining again, while urinating, like the refined little lady you are, so I’ll change the temperature once more.” How he manages to make me smile when I’m feeling like crap is a mystery and one I’m not going to think about while I’m half naked in his bathroom.

I wash my hands and brush my teeth with a new toothbrush I find in the medicine cabinet. I still look like garbage, but when I return to the room, he’s not looking at my face…he’s looking at my breasts—well-displayed thanks to the thin T-shirt and arctic temperature in here. His eyes dart away quickly, but two spots of color remain on his cheekbones.

The completely shameless Hayes Flynn is unsettled by headlights. Even in my unwell state, it’s surprisingly thrilling to see I can affect him at all.

I cross the room to my dress, which is draped over a chair.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he demands.

“Going home. I like my neighbors, but not well enough to walk around them in nothing but a T-shirt.”

“Get your ass back in bed,” he says, making his Very, Very Angry Face and rising to his feet. “You’ve barely eaten or had anything to drink in over a day, and an hour ago, you were sleeping so heavily even Marta cleaning in here didn’t wake you. You’re not going anywhere.”

I’d like to argue, but the truth is, my legs are starting to wobble, I’m freezing cold, and that bed looks like the blissful, lava-hot cocoon of my dreams. I sink into it.

“I love this bed,” I murmur as he takes a seat again. “Would you allow it to marry me? You can take the cost out of my salary.”

He gives me a small smile. “Only if you let me watch the honeymoon.”

“This is the honeymoon, right here.” I pull the covers to my chin. “A perfect one, where I sleep and it cuddles me and doesn’t talk.”

“Once again confirming your boyfriend’s decision to stray was not completely unwarranted.”

I laugh. Weirdly, it doesn’t even hurt. “Go to work. I’ll sleep for a few hours and be on my way.”

“I already canceled everything,” he says.

I can barely get him to take an hour for lunch, but he cancelled an entire day’s appointments for me. Why? He could easily have outsourced this, dragged some poor nurse or resident over here if he was particularly worried. But instead, he watched over me himself.

His unexpected sweetness…is equal parts pleasure and pain for me. Maybe it’s just that it’s in moments like this I realize how lonely I’ve been, how badly I want to feel as if someone cares. But it’s also that there’s this whole side to him that seems to remain hidden. And I wish it wasn’t.

“Why did you decide to become a doctor?” I ask as I turn to my side to face him fully, pulling a soft pillow under my cheek. “Was that always what you wanted to do?”

“I did not come out of the womb aspiring to it, no,” he says. “I spent a few years wanting to play for Manchester United like everyone else.” He rests his hands over his stomach, knees braced apart, thin sleep pants pulling tight over his thighs. Why did I not notice what he was wearing before now?

“But why?” I persist.

He shrugs. “This bird hit the side of our house one day. I put it in a box and decided to care for it. The bird died, but I got it in my head that maybe I could learn how to take care of people instead.” Everything about his voice and expression seems bored, as if none of this matters. I’ve learned with Hayes, that’s usually a sign it does.

“And why plastic surgery?”

“I saw a documentary about Operation Smile,” he says. He leans forward and fixes the top blanket, smoothing it over me. The pressure of his hand, even through three blankets, has me arching into his touch involuntarily. He must notice, because his eyes flick to mine for a brief second. He clears his throat and continues. “They perform cleft palate surgeries on children in third world countries. I was young and idealistic at the time, and it seemed like I could do some good there.”

I picture a younger, less damaged version of Hayes. One before Ella left him for his father, before his world started to fall apart. “But then you decided rich actresses were suffering too.”

His mouth curves. “Yes, exactly that.”

He starts to rise, and I realize I’ve done it again. I felt something when he talked about Operation Smile and had to make a dumb joke to pretend I wasn’t feeling a thing.

“Wait,” I say, reaching out to grab his wrist. “I actually want to know what changed your mind.”

A muscle in his jaw flickers, and his gaze drops to the floor. I hang on the breath of air that passes, hoping he’ll tell me.

“I didn’t want to live in third world countries my entire life,” he says. “And what I do now pays a lot better than performing pediatric surgeries in a hospital setting.” His eyes drop to my hand still holding his wrist. “I’m going to get you some food.” I let go of him.

I know he hasn’t told me the truth, not all of it. I get that there’s a big difference in salary, but that doesn’t explain why he became someone who cared about that difference so much. He has a lavish house he doesn’t use and nice cars he doesn’t drive, and he spends little but works like a man who’s barely staying afloat.

“Is it the Great Gatsby thing?” I ask as he reaches the door. “Are you still trying to win Daisy’s heart?”

I see something melancholy pass over his face, gone as fast as it came, before he grimaces. “If you’re trying to imply that I wish to win my stepmother’s heart, you must be more ill than I thought.”

Deflecting a moment of vulnerability with jokes, I think, as my eyes flutter closed. He’s as good at my tricks as I am.

The warmth of the bed and my continuing exhaustion must have pulled me back to sleep again, because the next time my eyes open, the light in the room has shifted and there’s a note on the nightstand saying he’s downstairs and to call once I’m up. My dress, I notice, is now missing.

I ignore his note and walk downstairs, clad only in his oversized T-shirt. My body is sluggish but I’m mostly over the worst of things.

He’s in the living room, long legs spread on the couch with a medical journal in hand.

“Get back in bed,” he says, his head jerking up.

“I’m fine,” I reply, reaching the bottom of the stairs. “I need to be up and about.”

His eyes linger for half a second on my chest. “Something about you is definitely up and about.” He crosses the room and pushes me into a chair before he drapes a throw blanket over me.

“Thank you for doing all this,” I tell him, snuggling into the blanket as he walks into the kitchen.

“It’s kind of fun,” he says, putting bread in the toaster. “I’m reliving my childhood experience with the broken bird.”

“That bird died.”

“You should probably speak up if you catch me putting you in a box.” He pulls butter out of the fridge and glances over at me—a quick, sheepish glance that darts away almost as fast as it arrived. “I made you custard, if you’d like some. It’s what my housekeeper made me.”

“I can’t believe you knew how to make custard.”

He shrugs. “If I managed to get through med school, I figured I could probably master a recipe online.” He is acting so casual about this but I can’t remember the last time someone took care of me.

What a ridiculous thing to bring me to tears.

I blink them away while he hands me two slices of buttered toast and sets the custard on the end table beside me. Suddenly I’m famished.

“I’m really sorry about all this,” I tell him, avoiding eye contact until I’m sure I have my emotions under control. “Thank you so much for taking care of me.”

“It was the least I could do. I’m sure you caught it from the Westbrooks, which is my fault.”

“No, it was the—”

“Food poisoning doesn’t make anyone that sick for that long,” he says. “It wasn’t the sushi. The Westbrooks all had the flu the day we were there. You caught what they had.”

My shoulders sag. God, I hope I didn’t get all his guests sick. I’m not sure how he’s being so forgiving of the whole thing. “Well, I’ll finish my toast and get out of your hair.”

“Just stay,” he says, resuming his place on the couch. “I’ve canceled my plans already, and you’re still too weak to take care of yourself.”

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to take him up on the offer. If I said I didn’t want to remain here for hours, days, weeks, with him looking at me the way he is now, as if I’m someone he worries about, someone he wants around.

“Having me here will probably get in the way of your sexy time,” I warn. “And you’ve already gone a few nights without it.”

“I appreciate your unwavering consideration of my sexual needs,” he says, eyes narrowed, “but I haven’t been doing much of that lately anyhow.”

Hmmm. I’d noticed there weren’t any signs of women here. I just assumed he was doing it somewhere else. I suppose I mostly didn’t want to think about it. “What’s up with that?”

He runs a thumb over the arch of his eyebrow. “Maybe it’s simply that it went hand in hand with the drinking, which a small, shrill voice has been nagging me about.”

The words strike me. He corrected course when I nagged him, seemingly without difficulty, though my opinion shouldn’t have mattered. But my mother can’t do the same, even when my sister’s welfare depends on it. Maybe Dr. Shriner had a point.

“So that’s it?” I ask. “The bad boy’s reign of terror is over?”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” he mutters, looking away. “It just hasn’t appealed lately.”

“I know a doctor who can probably give you some pills for that,” I reply with a smirk, taking a bite of my toast. Mmm, buttery goodness.

He runs a hand through his hair and closes his eyes. “I’m not having that kind of problem. I’m just…going through a phase.”

Interesting. “What kind of phase?”

“Not the kind of phase I want to discuss with a twenty-five-year-old who hasn’t dated in a year, that’s for sure,” he replies with a scowl.

It’s a strange, unexpected conversation. But the strangest part is he can’t seem to meet my eye during any of it.