“Just for a few months,” I lamented—more to myself than to him.
It wasn’t like I had anywhere to put a baby in my current apartment anyway.
“Just for a few months,” he repeated, biting my lower lip playfully.
The glint in his eyes said it all.
I’d agreed to be his, even for a little while.
Giving up the thing I held most dear.
Complete freedom.
Four days later, I moved into Devon’s loft.
It was the first time I’d visited his apartment. Throughout our long and chaotic relationship, I was the one calling the shots, so I always demanded he come to see me.
Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
I had no idea what to expect, but somehow, the place fit into my perception of him perfectly.
An extensive chunk of open space with furnishings and colors I would imagine Queen Elizabeth herself favored. The lack of walls and vast hallways surprised me. The place looked like a repurposed warehouse. I’d always imagined Devon in a sprawling, dark manor—cluttered with family portraits and expensive yet stunningly ugly antiques. Then I remembered he didn’t like closed spaces. He was somewhat of a claustrophobic.
It was a real upgrade from my tiny apartment.
I was feeling particularly nice toward Devon that day. He’d made sure to come to my apartment every day since Frankgate and ensured that I came.
On his dick, on his tongue, on his fingers.
You name it, he shoved it in me.
I hadn’t broached the subject of exclusivity, but I made a mental note to let him know that I was not down with him dipping his sausage in every sauce available in the all-you-can-eat Boston dating scene buffet.
I spent the four days leading up to the move trying to convince Persy, Aisling, Sailor, and Ross that I was definitely, definitely not in a relationship with Devon.
Luckily, the Frank story made it easy to explain how we’d become roommates.
Everyone thought Devon was a dreamboat for providing me shelter, and that I was a complete and utter moron not to kiss his feet and beg him to wed me.
Things looked like they were finally settling down.
I would even go as far as to say I was getting comfortable in one of Devon’s spare rooms.
He sneaked into my bedroom every night since I’d moved in, but I always kicked him out to the master bedroom afterward, citing that I would never be able to sleep with a man next to me.
During my time here, I caught glimpses of conversations between him and his mother. She called him frequently, sometimes a few times a day. He always seemed polite and reserved, friendly—even though, it had to be said, Ursula Whitehall sounded like a giant pain in the ass.
“No, Mum, I haven’t changed my mind.”
“No, I don’t know when I’ll come to England next. Is the money I’ve sent you not enough?”
“No. I’ve no desire to speak to her. I’ve apologized. That should be enough.”
This last tidbit made me want to ask questions, but then I reminded myself it was none of my business.
Three days after I moved in with Devon, he went to work and I stayed behind.
I was sitting in front of the alabaster marble nook, enjoying an assortment of exotic fruit and grains—fine, it was Froot Loops. I was eating Froot Loops—minding my own business. I wore nothing but an oversized shirt （Snaccidents Happen）。 Thank you, Etsy, for providing me with a wealth of inspiration and life mantras and my brazen attitude. The doorbell chimed. I went to open it without thinking much of it. I mean, his casa was mi casa now, right?
Besides, what if it were a delivery person bearing more yummy shit? Dudebro had five hundred fancy food box subscriptions.
In front of me stood a tall, stork-like woman with dark locks and a Kate Middleton outfit. She had stilettos, a face full of tasteful makeup, and an irritated look on her face. She smelled like an upscale mall.
And she stared at me like I’d stolen her husband or something.
“Hullo.”
British accent. She must’ve been Devon’s sister. Or maybe his mother with a very （very） good facelift.
“Heya.” I propped my elbow against the doorjamb, thinking to myself, if this is Tiffany, I’m going to give her a five-step head start before I bitch slap her.
“I suppose you’re the stripper he knocked up accidentally who is now standing in his way of his family fortune?”
Hmm … what?
“That’s exactly who I am!” Recovering from the blow, I exclaimed cheerfully, refusing to show an iota of weakness, “And you are …？”
“His fiancée.”