Dance with the Devil: A Dark Standalone Romance (The Midnight Series Book 1)
Dance with the Devil: Chapter 1

Frankie

My pulse spikes when I hear the email come in after hours. It’s the same reaction I have every time—an aghast sort of horror that my virtual boss would even consider emailing me after hours. Somehow, I’m surprised every time it happens, which is enough to piss me off, and yet not enough to push me away completely.

I should quit, but I know I won’t.

Can’t.

Francesca,

I would like you to accompany me on the trip next week. This is nonnegotiable. In your email, you’ll replace your airline ticket as well as the accommodation details. See you Monday.

Regards,

Dr. Dante Kincaid

I groan and throw my phone down on my coffee table just as Ari saunters back in with two full glasses of wine. My cheeks are hot with fury, and as Ari hands my glass to me, I don’t even attempt to mask the anger simmering just under my skin. I gulp down the entire glass of wine in seven large sips, and when I set the empty glass down, Ari is watching me with a cautious expression.

“Either you really like the wine, or something is seriously wrong,” she says, brow furrowed. “And by the way your eyes are doing that murderous glint thing, I’m going to guess something’s wrong, so what’s up?”

“Take a guess,” I mumble, leaning back and rubbing my eyes with the backs of my hands. It’s only Friday but my stomach sours with dread, and the heavy feeling settles over me despite the wine working through my system. Leave it to him to ruin my weekend before it’s even begun.

“Oh no. Doctor Devil?”

“Yup. He wants me to come with him to the conference in San Francisco next week. I was really looking forward to not hearing from him as much for a whole week, and now I’ll have to endure his presence in person for ten days straight.”

She scoffs. “That’s bullshit. He needs to get over himself. I mean, of course he wants you there. He’d be completely lost without you. After all, who would manage his temper? Who would smooth things over when he inevitably pisses off a colleague? Who would get him back into his email system in the middle of the night without you dropping everything to cater to his every whim and need? You should just quit. Seriously,” she adds, sipping her wine. “He’s an asshole.”

“I can’t. I need the money. It would be stupid to leave.”

Ari raises her eyebrows. “It is good money,” she muses, sipping her wine. “It’s like you’re between the devil and the deep blue sea,” she muses, smirking. “Oh, wait.”

“Har har har,” I retort, rolling my eyes.

“No, really. Your boss is an arrogant asshat, yet he pays you four times as much as a typical virtual assistant. How is that fair?”

I groan and the wine threatens to come back up. “He’s already discussing another performance bonus.”

“Really? Didn’t you just have one?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. Between insults and bossing me around, he mentioned something about how I’m coming up on two years working with him on our last phone call. Not that I’m complaining.”

She barks a laugh. “Maybe he’s in love with you.”

Now I’m the one laughing. “Yeah fucking right. He’s a grumpy, reclusive doctor and I doubt he’s ever loved anyone in his sad, sorry life,” I bite back, feeling angry that I’ll be spending my weekend getting ready for a ten-day work trip up north instead of buying more plants and sewing more blankets. “I doubt he’s even capable of love, to be honest. You have to have a heart for that.”

“Ouch.”

“I’m serious, Ari. My hatred for him scares me sometimes. You know I’m not a hateful person, but his emails send me into a blind rage. It’s like he knows exactly what to say to infuriate me. And he smooths it all over every few months by throwing more money at me. It’s not like I can say no, either—I do need it.”

“I know, sweetie,” she says softly, reaching out for my hand as she comes to sit next to me on the couch. “See how this work trip goes. I mean, you’ll only see him some of the time, so the other times, it’s basically like a free trip to San Fran.”

“That’s true.”

“Maybe it’ll be overtime. Which means more money, and that means finally hiring out your Etsy shop.”

“I don’t want to hire out. I like making the blankets,” I whine, picking at a thread on one of said blankets laid over the couch. “Every single blanket is special. Making them brings me joy. Do you know what doesn’t bring me joy?”

Ari snorts as I continue.

“Make sure you call into the meeting on time, Francesca. Don’t forget to check in with me about your progress on the patient follow-ups, Francesca. Let me know what Blue Cross says about those billing issues last week. We don’t want to make that mistake again, Francesca.”

“Please, God, tell me he doesn’t actually sound that nasally.”

I huff a laugh. “No. He has a normal voice, but he does sound like a pompous ass most of the time.”

“Hold on. What does Doctor Devil look like? Is he old with a giant wart on his nose? Because I’m envisioning a wart.”

“Unfortunately, no. He’s decent-looking⁠—”

Ari is already typing something on her phone, and more dread fills me as her eyes go wide.

“Holy fuck, Frankie! You never told me Doctor Devil is a hottie!” she squeals, shoving her phone in my face.

The picture she’s holding up is of Dr. Dante Kincaid—one of the most renowned psychiatrists in the world. He runs his own practice in Santa Barbara out of his large, Victorian home set back in the woods just outside of the sleepy, coastal town. Single and youngish, with dark hair, dark scuff, and the most annoyingly stunning green eyes. The objective part of my brain knows he’s attractive. Very attractive. In the picture Ari is referencing, he’s speaking at a conference a few years ago, and he’s wearing a tailored, dark gray suit that fits him like a glove.

However, the rational part of my brain knows he’s single because he’s rude and condescending—but also because he alluded to it a few months ago.

I mean, who makes someone work while they’re on vacation? Doctor Devil, apparently. I was so mad after he made me check in multiple times a day last year when I went to Cancún with some friends that I’d officially changed his name in my phone to DOCTOR DEVIL, hence the nickname.

“The package might look good, but I can assure you, the contents are rotten,” referring to my boss’s personality.

“Maybe he just doesn’t come across well over email and video calls? You’ve never met him, so maybe he’s perfectly pleasant in person.”

“Ugh. The last thing I want is to be graced with his smug expression in person. When we do our monthly calls, it’s just twenty minutes of him staring off-screen at something and rattling off a to-do list for me.”

“Listen, if you’re this unhappy, just quit. The money isn’t worth the mental turmoil. You’ve been through so much, you know? Maybe it’s not worth it.”

“I should. I really should quit. Pull an Anne Hathaway in The Devil Wears Prada and throw my stupid work phone into a Parisian fountain.”

“Hell yeah,” Ari says, chuckling. “On that note, I’m going to get us some more wine from the fridge. When I come back, we’re going to brainstorm how to quit. Yes?”

I nod resolutely. “Yes.”

Once she leaves the living room, I lean back and pick my phone back up again. I stare at his email, wondering why he bothers me so much. It’s like ever since I started working for him, I’ve found more ways to hate him, and more reasons to dread all notifications from him. It’s just the way he talks to me—as if he’s trying to be an asshole.

I’m grateful for the money, though. I get an insane salary that more than covers the mortgage for a small bungalow in San Diego. The employee package also covers a company car, premium health insurance, and pays for all of my utilities because I’m remote. After the loss I experienced three years ago, I’d latched on to Dr. Kincaid’s generosity. I was vulnerable and grieving a life and a future that disappeared overnight. I was and still am grateful for him for hiring me with almost no experience.

I felt beholden to him.

Plus, I’d grown accustomed to my life of leisure.

“Well, we killed that bottle,” Ari says in a singsong voice as she saunters back into the living room.

“I’m going to need so much alcohol over the next two weeks,” I grumble, taking three large sips.

“You’ll be near wine country. Maybe Doctor Devil will allow you to take a day trip next weekend?”

“Maybe.”

“Or maybe he’ll tag along with you, get drunk, and confess his love for you.”

I pretend to gag. “No, thank you.”

“Crazier things have happened,” she adds, sipping and giving me a mischievous smile.

“Trust me, he barely tolerates my presence. I’m almost positive the only reason he’s having me go with him next week is because he knows I won’t say no.” Ari narrows her eyes at me. “What?” I ask slowly, not loving the look she’s giving me.

“Nothing. It’s just interesting that the only time I see you get fired up about something is when you talk about him.”

I open and close my mouth. “Yeah, because I hate him!”

“Look, enjoy San Francisco. Ride a cable car, eat a penis cookie, go to Fisherman’s Tarf⁠—”

“It’s Fisherman’s Wharf,” I tell her.

“Whatever. You know what I’m trying to say. Only spend as much time with Doctor Devil as you need to, and then book it back to your hotel room. Tell him you have period cramps if you need to, or turn your phone off after six. If the devil needs anything, he’s a big boy and I’m sure he can figure it out.”

I giggle. “He can’t even remember the password to his email, Ari. I’m his literal lifeline.”

“That’s sad.”

“It is sad. And again, probably why he’s single.”

She sets her empty glass down on the coffee table and turns to face me. “I bet he smells good, though. All that money, that intense expression on his face, those thick eyebrows⁠—”

“Ugh, stop. I’m going to throw up.”

She laughs. “Okay, I’m going to order the enchiladas now.”

I roll my eyes. “Why are enchiladas your answer for everything?”

She feigns outrage. “That’s a stupid question, Frankie.”

Before I can reply, she’s calling her favorite restaurant and ordering us a late dinner. To distract myself, I read over Doctor Devil’s email one last time before responding with my usual reply.

Sounds good. See you Monday.

Easy-breezy… hate your fucking guts, I think.

I click over to my inbox and see the airline ticket. First class. Leaves at ten in the morning on Monday from San Diego airport. I sniff once and click out of it, still mad that he’s demanding I accompany him. One first-class ticket won’t make up for that, even if it does mean I can drink champagne in the sky.

I’m still fuming when Ari says goodbye and grabs a taxi home. By the time I climb into bed, I’ve created a list of distractions to help me mitigate Doctor Devil over the ten-day work trip. I’m going to need a lot of alcohol, and I’m for sure going to utilize my business credit card on some of the best food that San Francisco has to offer.

Maybe this trip won’t be so terrible after all.

I don’t look at the new fabric samples I’d ordered last week that would now sit in boxes for two weeks.

Everything will be fine.

All I have to do is survive ten days with the devil incarnate.