Page 45 of Only the Devil

The words hang in the air between us, heavy as humidity. Jake’s fork pauses halfway to his mouth, and I can hear my pulse in my ears, louder than the rumbling of engines on the street below. The taste of beer turns metallic on my tongue.

“Nothing can happen.” He holds my gaze a beat too long, then looks down at his steak. “Got it.”

There’s no animosity in his words. He doesn’t seem like he cares that much one way or the other. It’s all me. I’m the one who is twisting things and being a ninny. He probably just saw Phillip and I went and read into the situation.

“You gonna sit?”

“Yeah.” I pull out the chair and sit, feeling better having that out of the way, and yet not necessarily feeling better at all.

Chapter 15

Jake

It’s Thursday morning, the first day of my security job for Sterling Financial, and I’m discovering that avoiding Daisy isn’t nearly as easy when we’re sharing a bathroom and need to be out the door around the same time.

After that awkward brush-off earlier in the week, I’ve spent my nights back on the sofa outside the bedroom. My shoulder’s screaming from the lack of support, and my back’s not thanking me either, but on the plus side, sleeping light means I’m up and out for my pre-dawn run without disturbing her.

This morning, I key in as quietly as I can, but I’m back earlier than normal on account of the security job, and she’s still here. Wordlessly, I grab my gear and head for a quick shower, leaving her in the kitchen. As I’m toweling off, I hear her voice through the thin walls.

“Shit, shit, shit.”

I crack the bathroom door. “Everything okay?”

“Coffee maker’s broken.” Her voice carries that edge it gets when technology fails her—which, given her profession, probably happens less often to her than to others. “And I have exactly twelve minutes to get ready or I’ll be late.”

I step out, still buttoning my shirt. She’s standing at the kitchen counter in a skirt that hangs low on her hips and shows a sliver of skin between her cropped tee and the shiny silk skirt.

Focus, Ryder.

“We’ll grab coffee on the way,” I say, forcing my eyes to stay north of her collarbone.

She turns, and the movement pulls the fabric more tightly across her ass. I’ve seen plenty of women in less, but something about Daisy—maybe it’s the fierce concentration on her face, maybe it’s the way she’s completely unconscious of how she looks, maybe it’s the kiss she never wants to repeat—hits different.

“Why’d it have to break today? It’s your first day at work. You need your caffeine fix, too.”

“I’ll survive.” The words come out rough and for a split second I wonder if she can tell coffee’s not top of mind.

Her eyes meet mine, and for a second, something passes between us. Heat. Recognition. The acknowledgment that we’re playing house and maybe we’re playing at something else too.

Then she blinks and steps back. “Right. Twelve minutes.”

She disappears upstairs, and I spend those twelve minutes reminding myself why tangling in the sheets with the woman I’m supposed to be protecting is a bad idea.

Fifteen minutes later, we’re both sporting damp hair and her lips are glossy as we walk into the coffee shop. My black suit fits well—tight across the shoulders, and a touch boxy at the waist. The holster sits snug against my ribs, concealed but accessible.

The morning crowd moves with practiced efficiency; everyone locked into their routines. I catalog exits, sightlines, and uncover zero likely threats. The barista with the neck tattoos keeps glancing at the register—skimming tips or planning something bigger? The guy in the corner booth nurses a coffee, laptop closed, watching the door.

“You’re doing it again,” Daisy murmurs as we wait in line.

“Doing what?”

“That thing where you scan everyone like they might draw a gun.”

She’s not wrong. “Occupational hazard.”

“Which occupation? The military one or the security one?”

“Both.”