Page 31 of The Devil Goes to Washington

“You want me to lie to him?”

“To protect him from feeling rejected by one more person? Yes!”

“What about you?”

“I will spend time with the two of you as needed to get things rolling. But you’ll be fine, no matter how nervous the two of you are at the idea.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then you’ll have to be more explicit.”

“What about you and me?”

“What about us? We exist on paper only. You made that very clear.”

“We have amazing chemistry still.”

“It wasn’t enough the first time.”

“We’re different people now. You said so yourself.”

“Yes, in a conversation where you accused me of lying, yet again.”

“And what if I pay all of his medical bills?”

“Why would you do that? We made an arrangement. Micah and I are happy to have a warm place to sleep and plenty of food to eat. We don’t need or want any more from anyone. I won’t be indebted to you or anyone else.”

“But technically, you are my wife. I want to take care of you and Micah.”

“That’s a sweet sentiment but it’s about eight years too late.”

Chapter 9

Micah froze wide-eyed, a spoonful of porridge halfway to his mouth dripping onto the elegant dining table. He stared over Evelyn’s shoulder at whatever had captured his attention.

“Good morning Evie and Micah! May I join you, or am I too late again?” Michael’s smooth voice caressed her ears and jarred her mind.

She watched him enter the room, contemplating if the simple request had more meaning behind it. He was dressed casually in a button-down shirt and well-fitted jeans that highlighted his assets.

“Morning!” came a garbled greeting from Micah, shoveling in another mouthful.

“Anyone willing to give it another try deserves a chance.” She replied, hoping he understood her subtext.

“What’s for breakfast today?” Taking the seat next to Micah, Michael grimaced when he peered into Micah’s bowl.

Michael’s father had demanded the head of the table because that was the place of respect like the rest of them were his underlings. She was curious if Michael had intentionally chosen the chair next to Micah, or if he was just used to a subservient position to his father.

“We have oatmeal every day,” her son beamed.

“Mr. Harding!” Banner exclaimed, placing toast on the table. He sounded as shocked as she was to see Michael.

“Good morning, Banner. Can I have some of what they’re eating? And coffee?”

“Certainly, sir.” Banner’s reply sounded more like a question as he left the room.

“I’m more of a pancake guy, myself,” Michael said returning to the conversation, draping a napkin across his lap and straightening his silverware.

“Is it your birthday?” Micah sputtered through his food.