The Devil's in the Details (20 page)

My sisters were there too. Tracey, Jill, and Camille. All older than me. All a million times more obnoxious. Tracey loved talking about herself. Jill loved talking about everyone else. And Camille encouraged both. Which explained why I spent my time hiding out in the kitchen, refilling the brownie platters and trying not to think about Cutter and the kiss and his parting words—darn it.

I scooped up the brownie that had fallen from my trembling fingers and tossed it at the nearest trash can.

I wasn’t going to think about him. Or what he said. Or what he did. Or what I
wanted
him to do. I wasn’t—

“What’s taking you so long? We need more brownies,” Monique called out when she ducked her head in the doorway. “Stat.”

Ugh. Demanding demons.

Speaking of which, I checked my phone for the twentieth time to find yet another text from my mother asking about some wedding detail or another. Not that I was complaining. I much preferred a text to a one-on-one, particularly after the run-in with Cutter the night before. My mother had a way of noticing things…rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes and why, oh, why did he have to kiss so good?

You’re deprived. You could have kissed a monkey and it would have been good.

That’s what I was telling myself.

I just wasn’t so sure I believed it.

I punched in a quick response about the menu—plenty of raw meat and lots of Bloody Marys (literally)—and slid the phone back into my purse. The only saving grace of the entire afternoon was that my mother had been too busy doing a remodel on a wealthy banker’s condo to make the event. Instead she’d sent a six-foot basket overflowing with onesies and blankets. Pink onesies and blankets.

What can I say? My ma had never been much of an optimist.

I pushed all thoughts of Cutter from my head, or at least I tried, and finished piling the brownies.

I walked out with the mountain of chocolate goodies just as my cousin Devinah screamed, “Baby Bingo!” and waved a blue bingo card. “It’s me. I win!”

I hauled butt straight to the dessert table, careful to keep a low profile and avoid making eye contact with my sisters.

“She won again?” I heard my sister Jill say as I set out the overflowing platter and picked up several empty ones. “She probably cheated. You know, I heard she cheated last year on her significant other with a third-tier demon from Down Under…”

Jill rattled on while Monique spent the next ten seconds checking Devinah’s numbers to make sure she hadn’t fudged before handing over a baby bottle filled with powder-blue M&M’s.

“It’s time to move on.” Monique held up a stack of index cards and a handful of pencils, and I started for the kitchen. “Next we’re going to play a guessing game.”

I know what you’re thinking. Guess the number of M&M’s in the bottle. Guess the baby’s weight. Guess the number of stretch marks.
Wrong.

We’re demons, remember? So it came as no surprise when Monique shouted, “Guess the number of limbs!”

Okay, here’s the down-low on demon procreation. Spirits can’t just multiply on their own. We need a human body for that. When a demon mates with a human, no problem. Human genes are dominant when it comes to physical traits, so the baby looks like any other adorable bundle of human joy. But when a possessed human—aka a demon—mates with another possessed human—aka a demon—the result is a pure demon child.

In other words, anything was possible. An eye in the middle of the forehead. A tail. A forked tongue. An overabundance of junk in the trunk.

You didn’t think Kim Kardashian came by that ass on her own, did you?

“I say three,” cousin Portia chimed in.

“Five.”

“Nineteen.”

“Great answers, people. But you have to write them down.” Monique started dealing out cards and pencils. “And when you’re done”—she waved an ultrasound pic—“I’ve got the proof right here. Everyone who guesses the right answer will go into a drawing for the big prize.” She beamed. “A yearly membership to the Cheesecake of the Month club!”

I paused an inch shy of the kitchen, slid into a nearby chair, and grabbed a card and pencil.

What? We’re talking
cheesecake
.

I didn’t win the membership. To make matters worse, I got stuck talking with Jill and Tracey and Camille. And I’d been forced to refill Aunt Bella’s glass of AB negative not once, but four times.
And
we ran out of brownies. And petits fours. And cupcakes. And truffles.

The latter thanks to Cutter Owens and his seductive promise that had me so worked up, so desperate for another kiss, that I’d been hell-bent on drowning my sorrow in lots and lots of sugar.

Unfortunately, instead of forgetting Cutter, I’d found myself replaying our encounter over and over every time one of my relatives asked me when I was going to squeeze out a little demon of my own. Needless to say, I was worked up and extremely turned on by the time I pulled into the driveway of my duplex later that evening.

It was already dark out and I damned myself for again forgetting to leave a light on. I gathered my purse and the empty platters I’d used for the brownies and climbed from behind the wheel. I was just about to mount the stairs when the hair on the back of my neck prickled.

Here we go again.

I smelled the overpowering scent of Chanel No. 5 and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, a telltale sign that there was a demon on my heels.

Awareness skittered up the back of my neck, and my hands squeezed the platters.

Because this wasn’t just any demon.

No, this was the most evil, most vile demon to ever walk the face of the earth and ruin my one and only slumber party while growing up.

Yep, that’s right. We’re talking my oldest sister, Camille.

“Camille,” I said as I turned. “What a nice surprise.”
Not.

Camille Damon looked like a life-size Barbie. She was taller than me, her blonde hair longer and silkier, her boobs bigger, her waist smaller, her smile brighter.
Perfect.

And, of course, she had well-manicured nails to go with the rest of her perfection.

I balled my chewed nubs—shorter than ever thanks to my escalated anxiety level—and tried for a smile. “What brings you here?”

“I never got a chance to talk to you at the shower.” She pointed an accusing finger at me. “You snuck out right in the middle of the gifts.”

We’d run out of brownies and I’d wanted to miss the inevitable World War Three when everyone found out. That and I’d been really desperate for a candy bar. “I had a work emergency. I’ve got a vow renewal this weekend.”

“And here I thought you ran out early to miss the catfight when Charlotte and Hes threw down over the last brownie.”

Big Brother had nothing on Big Sister.

“They ran out of brownies? Why, I thought we had plenty. So, um, what is it that you need?”

“I wanted to know if you want to go in on the group gift for Mother. Everyone knows how much she loves Mexico, so Tracey, Jill, and I thought we’d give her a mariachi band for the wedding.”

“But I’ve already booked the music.” I’d gone with the gloomy organ despite my instincts, which screamed for a harpist.
Dark and sinister
, I reminded myself.
Otherwise your mom is going to be pissed.

“No, silly, we’re not hiring them to perform, we’re
giving
her a mariachi band.” She held up a blue bound contract with several signatures in vivid red. “Five souls. Signed, sealed, and delivered. So should I add your name to the card?”

“I’m actually already getting her something for the reception. I do it for all my brides. But thanks for asking.”

“Have it your way.” She shrugged. “But don’t get all sulky when she likes our gift better.”

I thought of the ice sculpture that I’d had Agarth make for last week’s couple and the fierce heat in my ma’s eyes whenever she got really mad. “On second thought, I’m in.” I was this close to eternal damnation as it was. I needed all the help I could get.

Help with a capital H, I realized when Burke called an hour later while I was trying to relax despite Snooki and her barking.

“Promise you won’t freak,” he said the minute I picked up the phone.

This was so
not
good.

“I won’t freak.”

“Yes, you will. You’ll freak sideways when you hear this.”

“Then why are you making me promise?”

“Because I can’t just blurt it out without warning you first.”

“Just get it out.”

“Maybe you should mix up a margarita first.”

“I don’t need a margarita.” I had Oreos. ’Nuff said.

“What about a piña colada?”

“
Tell
,” I growled around a mouthful of cookie.

He paused as if trying to find the words, and then the dam broke and everything spilled over in a mad rush of frantic syllables. “The cooler went out at the florist and we lost the two hundred violets for Saturday’s reception, not to mention the centerpieces for the rehearsal dinner tomorrow night and the bridesmaids’ bouquets and the bridal bouquet and—”

“Maybe a margarita wasn’t such a bad idea.”

“Told you so.” He paused to take a breath. “This is bad, isn’t it? Sort of like the first hit of the
Titanic
. It was all downhill from there.”

“This is not the
Titanic
. That was a lost cause. We can fix this.” While my ma wasn’t much in the optimism department, I kept coming back for more. “Maybe we’ll find a florist with two hundred violets sitting in a cooler somewhere and it’ll turn into the best three days of our lives.”

“And Brad Pitt just knocked at my door. This is a disaster,” he moaned.

“Calm down. We can work it out if we stay calm, cool, and collected.”

“This sucks. My life sucks. I ate four doughnuts.”

“There, there. It’s not the end of the world. Just go an extra hour on the treadmill.”

“That was four doughnuts earlier before I got the news. I’ve had three more since.”

I made a mental note to make sure Burke wasn’t possessed by one of my fellow brethren. “So you do three or four hours on the treadmill. Or take a few extra spinning classes.”

“I should have seen this coming,” he wailed. “I knew when I opened that fortune cookie at lunch today that something was going to go wrong. I had the noodles, and Martin—he’s this cutie that lives in my apartment building—had the fried rice. His fortune was fabulous, but mine said that hard times were ahead. What kind of fortune cookie predicts hard times?”

“Eat another doughnut and call me in the morning.”

“You think that will help?”

“It can’t hurt.” Besides, I needed to get off the phone in the worst way. I killed the connection. I’d had enough pessimism for one night. I’d dealt with wedding calamities before and I could deal with this one.

Holding tight to the positive reinforcement, I prayed for a big hole to swallow Snooki, who barked madly from the next room.

“You’re just lucky I haven’t had time to take you to the shelter,” I told her when I saw her prancing behind the doggie door that separated the bathroom from my bedroom. “Just as soon as things calm down, you’re history.”

But with the next three days not looking so good and my mom’s wedding right on its heels, I had the uneasy feeling that I was the one who was going to be history. My career over. My dream of a happily-ever-after gone in a puff of smoke.

And my dream of kissing Cutter again?

Well, that wasn’t a dream so much as a fantasy that haunted me the rest of the night as I tossed and turned and tried to forget the intense attraction between us and the fact that I liked his smile and the sound of his voice almost as much as his magical lips.

Uh-oh.