Daring Devlin (Lost Boys #1) - Jessica Lemmon Page 0,38

he’d be jealous if he knew the truth. There was no reason for Devlin to be jealous. I had as much interest in Barney as I had in poking myself in the eye with a fork. Alas. My masochism extended only as far as the man on whose lap I sat.

“After dinner, then,” he said.

“By then it’ll be too late to have a section.”

“No section.” He fiddled with the ends of my ponytail. “I need you to pick up an envelope for me.”

My fingers stilled in his hair. Was this why he’d gone down on me? So that he could convince me to collect his bookie money? God. I was an idiot. I pushed away from him but before I could stand his arms tightened around my waist.

“Rena.”

He had an ulterior motive this whole time. He didn’t really want me, he just wanted me to do something for him. That was why he’d turned me inside out. Why he was snuggling me now.

“Sunday has nothing to do with now,” he said, reading my mind.

“Oh, you weren’t trying to convince me to say yes?”

“I was trying to make you say ‘Yes, Devlin’ over and over and over again.” His lips tilted into a tempting curve.

My hands returned to his hair. That might have been the sexiest thing anyone had ever said to me.

“Sadly, we’ll have to try again later,” he said, his eyebrows jumping, “since it didn’t work.”

Damn. He was good. Only he wasn’t. There was nothing good about him.

He stood and put me on my feet, and then used his knuckle to tip my chin. “Tomorrow?”

I blew out a breath of defeat. “Tomorrow.”

He left the office first, and then exited the restaurant via the back door. I fetched my coat and purse from the storeroom, realizing that Devlin had left once again without kissing me.

Without a kiss above the waist, anyway.

Mom’s kitchen smelled like pie, which would be good if she could bake something other than scones. She’d failed at every attempt at pie over the course of my lifetime. It didn’t stop her from trying though, which was admirable.

“Apple?” I guessed as I hung my coat in the hall closet.

“Rhubarb!” she said, bent over the oven.

I cringed. I had no idea what rhubarb was or why she’d attempted to put it into a pastry. “Oh.”

She slid the pie onto the stovetop. She was wearing the apron I bought her for Christmas that had a cartoon bottle of wine and read: i pour better than i cook.

“It’s raw in the middle,” she announced. We both frowned at the sunken layer of dough.

Yet the edges were black. Amazing. Maybe instead of being a horrible baker, she was an incredible baker—who else could mess up pie one hundred percent of the time?

“Do you think I should call Roy and ask him to pick one up from Kenzie’s Bakery?”

Yes, I thought. But instead, I said, “Um, I probably won’t stay for dessert. I have to go in to work after all.”

Her face fell. “Rena!”

“I’m staying for dinner.” I held up my palms. “My boss said I had to come in…” Or else, he’ll stop inflicting orgasms on me. I managed not to smile. Barely. I was truly shameless.

“You have to stay for dessert. Don’t make Barney and Roy eat this by themselves.”

Our gazes strayed to the puffy, burned-on-the-outside, pale-on-the-inside pastry.

“Um. Okay.” I resented being forced into a pseudo-date. I didn’t want an “appropriate” or law-abiding guy. I wanted Devlin, who was most certainly inappropriate and law-unabiding… or whatever the word was.

I set the table as my mother placed the questionably cooked pie next to a casserole dish. She’d played it safe with dinner. There were potatoes and cheese under that glass dome. She carried in a plate of sliced ham—baked by the supermarket so all she’d had to do was heat it in the oven.

“I forgot to make the green beans! Shoot.” She ran for the freezer, announcing, “They’ll only take six minutes in the microwave.”

Just then the front door popped open and Roy’s voice sounded down the hallway. Which made me think of my hallway and blush furiously. Would nothing take my mind off Devlin? I downed half the water I’d just poured into a glass.

“Probably heard us comin’ from halfway down the street!” I heard Roy say. “Barney roared in next to me in that hot rod of his like he was revving up for the Indy Five Hundred.”

“Uncle Roy, do not start.” The new voice was deep, male, and laced