by Amelia Wilde
“Brandon—” I said with a crack in my voice.
“Don’t worry about it, Skylar,” he said, reaching out to wipe another tear from my face with his thumb. “I know, Red. I get it. I just couldn’t let that be our goodbye.”
His fingers traced the edge of my cheekbone and down the edge of my jaw as he held me still with his sad blue gaze.
“Do you think…do you think I could kiss you one more time before you’re gone?” Brandon asked. “Do you think your family would freak out?”
I smiled through my tears. “Probably,” I said. I took a deep breath and leaned into the hand still cupping my face. “But I think you should do it anyway.”
He cupped my other cheek with his other hand and tipped my face up to meet his.
“I’ll always be glad I met you, Skylar Crosby,” he whispered. “You brought me back to life, and I’ll always love you for it.”
Before I could answer, Brandon leaned down and touched his lips to mine, pressing softly and slowly as if to savor my scent and taste for as long as he could. I opened easily for him, savoring him back—too briefly!—before he pulled away. With his thumbs, he tenderly brushed away the new streaks of tears before releasing me with another brief kiss on my head.
“See you, Red,” he murmured and turned to leave.
I watched his tall form disappear through the crowd while I did my best to breathe. In and out. In and out. It was only once I could no longer distinguish his figure from the rest of the people that I finally turned back to my father and grandmother, prepared to deflect their questions. Then I had to figure out, once again, how to be happy now that I had truly said goodbye to Brandon Sterling.
“We’ll be in the car, all right?”
I nodded at my dad, who rolled my last suitcase into the back of his old station wagon while I did a final survey of the apartment and said goodbye to Jane. We had spent the first part of the afternoon celebrating commencement with Jane and her parents, which was mostly my dad and me deflecting Bubbe’s intrusive commentary about Jane’s gothic style, her parents’ interracial marriage, and the crime rates in Chicago. After Jane’s parents had left for their hotel, Jane and I had gone back to the apartment with my family to wait for the movers and load up the station wagon.
“Hey, Skylar?” Jane called from her room. “Do you have any tampons? I seem to have run out.”
“I think so,” I said, walking back to her room and sitting on her bed to rifle through my purse. “I always kept a couple in here, and I don’t remember packing them.”
She waited patiently while I dug through, searching unsuccessfully.
“Damn, I’m out,” I muttered irritably. “I haven’t bought any since…”
I trailed off as I remembered the last time my period had come. I looked up at Jane, who turned from where she was looking through her bedside table and froze at my expression.
“It’s been six weeks,” I croaked, suddenly unable to speak coherently. “I’m late, Jane. It’s been six weeks.”
Jane flipped around on the bed so she was facing me with crossed legs, and reached out to take my hands and force me to face her as well. “Okay,” she said. “It’s probably not that. I mean, you haven’t slept with anyone since your period, right?”
“Just after,” I said. “The day before I did, that last night with Brandon. And I…shit…we didn’t use protection, Jane.” I looked up, panicked and wide-eyed. “Jane, I forgot to get my birth control refilled on time, and we didn’t use protection!”
“Calm down.” Jane’s voice was eerily calm herself as she took my hand. Briefly, I wondered if she’d ever found herself in a similar situation. “My cousin is an OBGYN, Skylar. She assured me that it’s nearly impossible to get pregnant the day before your period since almost no one actually ovulates on that day. Unless you’re irregular or the bleeding was unusually light, there’s no way you’re pregnant.”
The look on my face must have told her that both of those conditions were true. My heart felt like it stopped. Jane took a deep breath, as if breathing for us both.
“Shh,” she soothed, albeit ineffectually as she rubbed my hand with hers. “It’s going to be all right, Sky. It’s probably stress. I’ve seen you the last few months—you’ve been miserable and freaked out about graduation and jobs and that shit with your dad. Plus, you’ve been swimming like crazy too. You probably just skipped one, you know?”
I leaned down and pressed my face into her comforter. “Oh, God,” I mumbled into the cotton fabric. “Fuck! How could I have been so stupid!”
“Skylar, stop!” Jane twisted around, grabbed something from her nightstand drawer, and threw it into my lap.
“Take the test,” she ordered. “Then you can freak out if you really need to.”
I picked up the box and read the label. “Why do you have a pregnancy test, Janey?”
“Hey, we’ve all had false alarms,” she said with a shrug. “I’m sure that’s what this is, so go take it to be sure and save yourself from getting an ulcer. Go!”
Jane shooed me out of the room. I shut the door to the bathroom and read the instructions at least three times before actually sitting on the toilet and peeing on the stick. Then I slipped the plastic cap over the paper strip and laid it carefully on the edge of the sink while I washed my hands. I splashed my face with cold water and let it drizzle down my cheeks before reaching for the paper napkins we were using after packing away our things. I couldn’t be pregnant. I just couldn’t.
Without looking at the stick, which wouldn’t be ready for another two minutes anyway, I walked back into Jane’s room and flopped onto her mattress to stare at the ceiling.
“It’s like a bad sitcom,” I said dryly. “I’m going to be somebody’s baby mama.”
“Well, you’ll probably be able to get a hell of a deal on child support,” Jane joked, cutting off her chuckle when I sent her a sharp glance.
“Gross,” I said. I propped up on my elbows and looked down my torso. “Do I look pregnant? My boobs aren’t sore or anything. Some women start to show early.” I pulled up my t-shirt and glared at my belly. It was flat as ever.
“Yeah, and others don’t show until they’re practically in their third trimester,” Jane said as she swiped at me with her pillow. “But it doesn’t matter because you’re not pregnant, right?”
“Right,” I said, ignoring the sinking feeling that told me otherwise.
The timer on my cell phone went off, signifying that the test was ready.
I pulled Jane’s pillow over my head. “You go look,” I grumbled. “I can’t. Please, Jane?”
She didn’t say anything, but I heard her shuffle to the bathroom. The door opened, and I listened while she paused for a moment, then trudged back. When her footsteps stopped, I pulled the pillow from my eyes, and turned to where she stood in the doorway, holding the pregnancy test gingerly between her index finger and thumb.
“Well?” I sat up, trying desperately to read her face.
She took a deep breath and tapped the test with her fingernail.
“I think…I think you need to make a doctor’s appointment, Mama,” she said sadly as she held out the test for me to see.
“Oh,” I said weakly.
I took the test from her fingers. There they were, two incriminating pink lines indicating the tiny cells now multiplying in my body.
“Oh,” I said again as I leaned back on the mattress. Thank God I’m on a bed, I thought vacantly before the world lost all its color, and I blacked out.
To Be Continued
Thank you so, so much for reading the first book of the Spitfire Trilogy. To continue Skylar and Brandon’s story, go to www.nicolefrenchromance.com/spitfire >
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xo,
Nic
SURVIVAL OF THE RICHEST
Skye Warren
Survival Of The Richest
Skye War
ren
Two billionaires determined to claim her.
And a war fought on the most dangerous battlefield–the heart.
“Skye Warren absolutely owned me with Survival of the Richest. A twisty, raw exploration of money, greed, love, and lust, you’ll be left with your heart in your throat and hooked on the pages to discover what’s coming next! An absolute must-read.” – A.L. Jackson, New York Times & USA Today bestselling author
“What an incredible book! Survival of the Richest has everything — Skye Warren’s beautiful writing, a sexy, compelling story; intricate characters, and a provocative love triangle that will captivate you until the very end.” – Nina Lane, New York Times bestselling author
Part I
Trust Fund
1
Poor Little Rich Girl
I learned early not to trust men or money. Both of them have a way of disappearing when you need them most. There must have been some hope left, though.
Because it’s my stepbrother who breaks me completely.
Salt hits my tongue before the driver opens the door, splashing the sleek leather interior of the limo with watercolor light. This dock homes the most expensive boats in Boston, outfitting them with caviar and champagne before they set sail.
The driver’s face is in shadow, sunshine forming a halo around him, but I already know he’s expressionless. Like that time I sweet-talked my way into the flight attendant’s lounge? He showed up in his black suit and bland smile, having searched the whole airport with security.
Like every part of my father’s life, he’s cold and predictable and expensive.
Gravel shifts beneath my sandals. I have to squint my eyes against the brightness. Seagulls swoop above me as I step onto the long deck, searching for their breakfast, completely oblivious to the thud of my heart against my ribs.
I would know which yacht belongs to Daddy even if I hadn’t seen it before. It’s the biggest one, the best one. The one that gleams the brightest, with Liquid Asset in bold letters.
The silhouettes of three people split the sunlight.
Three people, not one. Disappointment hitches my breath. What did I expect?
Last year Daddy’s new wife got so drunk she threw her champagne flute in the air. It came down in a splash of pale liquid and bubbling despair. After the steward mopped up the broken crystal, once the wife had gone belowdecks to sleep it off, Daddy sat looking out at the dark sea. I sat beside him. “Why?” I asked, unable to keep the question in. After so many years it came out. “Why do you keep getting married to these people?”
He had been a little drunk himself. Not enough to play volleyball with the drinkware, but enough that his eyes had gleamed with a distant sadness. He pulled me close, and I nestled against him the way I had as a little girl, breathing in the cedar-salt scent of him.
“I love your mother,” he said then, present tense. He loves her.
There shouldn’t have been enough of the wide-eyed little girl inside me to believe it meant my parents would get back together, not after ten years and even more spouses between them. They couldn’t even arrange my visits on spring break without an intermediary—me, of course. But maybe some part of me thought there wouldn’t be a new wife this year, after that confession.
Well, now I know for sure. There’s no chance of them being together, not even in the same room. But it would be nice if Daddy had stopped marrying his way through every divorcée in Boston’s upper crust. Like the limo that picks me up from the airport, there’s a new model every year.
Daddy smiles at me from the deck, and I can’t help the smile that meets his. Can’t help the little run I make down the rest of the deck before launching myself into his bear hug. We’re far from a happy family, but I always love seeing him. I may be fifteen years old, but the little girl inside me wears pigtails and wants to run to her daddy.
Even if it means putting up with the strangers he marries.
“How’s my girl?” he asks, tucking me into his side.
“Sleepy.” A guy in a rumpled suit had snored beside me the whole flight, which would have been more annoying if I hadn’t swiped his phone and read his e-mail using the plane’s Wi-Fi. Someone had a secret girlfriend in New York City. At least she used to be secret. A few clicks had changed that as we were flying over the Atlantic.
Guilt still knots my stomach, but then I imagine my mother as that man’s wife. More likely she would be the secret girlfriend. Men shouldn’t be allowed to hurt her so much.
“You can take a nap after brunch,” says the woman I was hoping wouldn’t speak to me.
“Harper,” Daddy says, giving my arm a secret squeeze. He’s never forgotten the time I yelled, You aren’t my mommy. Never mind that I was seven years old. “This is Louise Bardot. Louise, this is Harper. Isn’t she beautiful?”
I’m surprised I don’t get frostbite, that’s how chilly this woman’s smile is. “Everything you said about her is true, Graham. She’s an absolute doll.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” I say just to see her dark eyes flash with rage.
Daddy’s smart enough to run a Fortune 500 company, but he can’t figure out when a woman is bullshitting him. Or maybe he knows, because he steers me away from her. “There’s someone else I want you to meet. This is Christopher.”
There have been other boys. Other girls. Most of the time we ignore each other, having bigger problems in our broken rich-kid lives than the stepsibling of the month. Sometimes one of them will take a swipe at me, with sharp words or a surprise shove as we pass in the hallway. A preemptive strike, so I know better than to mess with them.
I don’t want to mess with them. They’ll be gone by next year.
There’s no reason Christopher should be different.
Except that he is.
Even in a burst of sunlight he manages to look like a shadow, with raven hair and onyx eyes. He’s taller than me, taller than Daddy. His arms solid and muscled beneath the thin cotton of his black T-shirt. He’s wearing jeans, technically, but nothing about him is casual. Not the way he holds himself, as if he needs to guard something—maybe himself. And definitely not the way he’s looking at me, intensity a physical brush against my skin, like he’s made of ocean and I’m sand, washed away, washed away, becoming smooth and pliable beneath him.
He inclines his head. “Your dad talks a lot about you.”
“He never mentioned you,” I say before I can stop myself. I would have remembered. He looks like some kind of conquering warrior, like a knight from the old medieval days. The kind who would have defended the peasants, but who would also have demanded his due.
Daddy makes a disapproving sound. “Harper.”
The corner of Christopher’s mouth turns up. “There’s not much to say.”
“Liar,” I say before I can stop myself. “I bet you’re top ten percent of your class.”
“Graduated valedictorian,” Daddy says, pride rich in his voice. “Now he’s in his first year at Emerson studying business with a 4.0 GPA. You could learn a thing or two from him.”
It’s really not surprising Daddy has a new wife every year. The only thing he knows how to do with the female of the species is make us mad. “He can get good grades, but can he paint a three-story Medusa on the wall of the gymnasium?”
A rueful laugh. “That little stunt cost me a brand-new science lab.”
Even two coats of thick white primer hadn’t completely covered the shape of her thick lips and wild snake hair, painted dark and angry in the small hours of the morning, using the folded-up accordion stands for scaffolding.
The new wife makes some kind of cooing sound, like a bird on the street, and Daddy goes to make her a drink. That leaves me and Christopher standing on the deck, the echo of his perfect GPA and my costly little stunt hanging in the air between us.
“Daddy seems to love you,” I say, unable to keep the venom from my voice.
He laughs softly, which infuriates me. “You’re one to talk.”
“Of course. That’s why you need to paint the gym to get him to notice you.”
Asshole. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“So you aren’t a poor little rich girl?”
There’s a twinge in my chest. “We both know you’ll be gone next year. I’ll never see you again, and you’ll never see me, so let’s just stay out of each other’s way for the next week, okay?”
“Sure you wouldn’t rather learn a thing or two from me?” he asks, mocking.
“If I want to know how to make enemies and alienate people, I’ll call you.”
He blinks, and I think for a minute that I may have actually struck a nerve. Then his eyes harden. “I’ll stay out of your way,” he says, his voice so cold it makes me shiver even as the sun beats its heavy blanket on my bare shoulders. It’s not the worst encounter I’ve ever had with a stepsibling, but it’s the first time I think I started it. Apparently I’m not above lashing out first, if the boy in question is smart and handsome enough.
Though he isn’t really a boy, this one. His first year at Emerson College. Business school. No wonder Daddy loves him. He probably thinks he’s found his true heir, because his wild daughter isn’t going to take over the family empire. That will never be me, but I was right about one thing. Christopher will be gone next year. They always are.
2
Family Money
I manage to avoid him the rest of the day, napping after brunch and ignoring him at dinner.