by Amelia Wilde
His head lowers. There’s not time to breathe or think.
When his lips touch mine, there are a thousand stars lit up. I’m the one burning inside the open space of him. I’m the one made hot and raging. He dips his tongue against my lower lip, testing me, tasting me, soothing the wild heat inside with a smooth, dark movement.
A sound comes from the door.
It takes me a while to come back into my body from the places I’ve been. To feel the mechanics of my bones and joints and muscles. To make myself step back. When I do, I can see the door which hangs open behind Christopher.
Sutton stands in the doorway, his blue eyes stark and cold. A lake that’s frozen over. There’s no way to explain what’s happened here, not when I don’t understand it myself. No excuses for the fact that Christopher’s hand is clenched in my hair. He releases me slowly, finger by finger. Prying himself away. That’s how it feels. He takes one step back. Another.
I watch as he becomes the man form after the will reading. I watch as he becomes a stranger. An enemy. “You were just leaving.”
There are razors in my chest. They turn against me, leaving only ribbons of wanting, the remains of a pointless dream. “Is that why you were kissing me? Because the only way you can touch me is if you know it means goodbye?”
The words hit their mark, an arrow in the heart of a stone. He turns cold. “Does it matter? You have what you wanted.”
Hurt crowds my throat. I cover it up with suspicion. “Sutton?”
“The trust fund. It’s your money. Use it however you want. Buy a thousand goddamned butterflies.”
He leaves me with that terrible victory, having won control of the fortune that should have been mine, having lost the man who never belonged to me. The man I’ve always wanted more than he wants me. Sutton turns sharply to give Christopher his exit, careful not to touch him. No punches thrown. That should be a relief to me. It feels like I took the hit to my stomach instead.
I half expect Sutton to storm out of the apartment, but he stands in front of me. Stands with me in the rubble of trust around us, figurative dust floating in the air, the way we were at the library. He’s the past, he said then. Christopher’s taste is still on my tongue.
“I shouldn’t be surprised,” Sutton says, his gaze past my shoulder, to the wall of windows beyond.
Words crowd my throat, words of apology, but loss steals my voice. I should have learned this by now, that life couldn’t be trusted.
That anything good was only temporary—especially men.
I could say that I didn’t initiate this, that I didn’t come here for this. That it was Christopher who kissed me. But I didn’t stop him. And in my secret heart, I know the truth—I didn’t want to stop him. Sometimes a woman has to face a wrecking ball coming toward her with steady eyes. She knows what’s coming. That’s what I told Christopher. The library might recover. Cleopatra won’t.
“I’m sorry.” My voice comes out raw. “That shouldn’t have happened.”
“No? After what we did in your hotel room I don’t think I had any claims of monogamy. You can kiss whoever you want.”
Those same words might come from a man with no desire for commitment. Instead they’re filled with a dark amusement. It makes me remember the glint in his eyes when he watched Christopher take my virginity. The way his Southern charm had slipped for a moment, revealing a cunning underneath. “Whoever I want, as long as you’re in the room, pulling the strings. Is that how you like it?”
There’s heat in those blue eyes. Betrayal and hurt, but enough heat to blaze like summer. “That’s how you liked it, too. I remember how hard you came, honey. Your beautiful thighs trembling. Wet enough to soak the sheets.”
My body responds with suddenness, warmth spreading through my body, a wildfire in a dry forest. This isn’t the time be to be aroused. Sutton must know that. He watches me with that same cunning beneath the surface. It makes me want to toss a pebble into it, to make him ripple. “Why did you come here? Are you following me?”
“It was only a matter of time before you came to see Christopher.”
“That means yes.”
“Do you want me to apologize?” He drawls the word, making it sound like a mockery. Except he should apologize for following me. And like he said, we hadn’t made any promises of monogamy, no matter how shameful I felt to be caught kissing someone else.
Tanglewood is a blade. I’m torn in two pieces, one that loves Christopher. That’s always loved Christopher in all his terrible ambition. And one half that loves Sutton, the man of few words and dangerous trust, the man staring at me like I’m the enemy. “I don’t think you’re that concerned with what I want. This is some sort of game for you, and you’ve been playing since I first met you in the boardroom.”
“You’re a beautiful woman. A man would be crazy not to want you.”
“Except that’s not why you wanted me. It was a competition with Christopher.” The certainty makes my stomach turn inside out. “That’s why you pursued me from the beginning, why you invited me to the gala, why you made me the offer about the historical society.”
Blue eyes glitter. Why have I never seen how much they look like a hard gem? A stone made beautiful and sharp. “You want to question my motives, honey? You’re the one who came storming into the office like a woman on a crusade. Looking for Christopher.”
The words echo in the air around us. Looking for Christopher, he says while we stand in Christopher’s empty apartment. “I didn’t know,” I whisper, my throat burning. “I didn’t know that I loved him.”
And how for me to realize it, when there’s no hope of a happy ending. No solace for me now. No permanence in a gilded world.
Sutton gives me a small smile, this one small and true. “Honest,” he says, a little sad. “Honest to a fault.”
It would have been impossible to choose between these two men, but sometimes love doesn’t give you a choice. The heart has its own balance sheet. It makes its own calculations. I’m the last person to find out what it decides.
I leave the cold, sterile apartment alone, walking down concrete steps to a waiting black car. It’s little comfort that I control the trust fund, that I control my own fortune. I’m one of the richest women in the country. In the world. Money can’t buy love or trust or safety. It can’t stop a thousand pounds of forged steel when it’s already swinging toward me. It can’t make the pain disappear.
Thank you for reading SURVIVAL OF THE RICHEST! I hope you loved Christopher and Sutton. Find out which man wins Harper’s heart in THE EVOLUTION OF MAN, the final book in the Trust Fund duet…
Ambitious. Intense. Irresistible.
I never wanted to fall for a man.
And definitely not two men.
They tear me apart until I don’t know how I’ll ever be whole again. Until I’m not sure I want to be. How can I choose between two halves of myself?
One-click THE EVOLUTION OF MAN now!
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SAVED BY THE MOUNTAIN MAN
Adriana Anders
Saved by the Mountain Man
Adriana Anders
I was a wild man in my cabin in the woods. I worked, ate, drank, survived. Nothing more.
Until a woman drove off the side of the mountain and blew my life apart. I saved her, brought her home, patched her up. She was everything I despised—big city glitz, money.
I was fine alone. Until she arrived and made me want her like I’ve never wanted anything.
Now we’re stuck together, snowed in just the two of us. And I don’t ever want to let her go.
Saved by the Mountain Man is a sexy, stranded standalone in the Love at Last series.
ABOUT ADRIANA ANDERS
Adriana Anders is the award-winning author of the Love at Last series and Blank Canvas series. Under Her Skin, a Publishers Weekly Best Book of 2017 and double recipient of the HOLT Medal
lion award, was featured in Bustle, USA Today Happy Ever After, and Book Riot. Today, she resides with her husband and two small children on the coast of France, where she writes the stories of her heart. Visit Adriana’s Website for her current booklist!
1
Christa
I’d thought my boss peeing off the deck at our annual Christmas party was the worst thing that would happen that day.
Boy, was I wrong.
Something had felt off the moment I’d arrived at Jonathan’s massive cabin in the middle of nowhere. I was all nervous, gussied up for my first work event, hoping to make an impression. After a harrowing ten minutes spent navigating his steep, twisty drive, my wipers working double time to clear what I hoped was just a light rain, I’d pulled up and blinked at the two cars parked at the house.
Where was everyone?
I spent the next three minutes listing all the reasons I shouldn’t turn around and drive home, change out of this suffocating dress, put on my reindeer pajamas, and watch A Christmas Story for the millionth time. I’d make hot cocoa, stir it with a candy cane, and counter all that sugar with super salty popcorn.
I sighed. I’d spent hours shopping for the right dress and shoes for this shindig. Gran would kill me if I ran home with my tail between my legs.
Okay. So, fine, I’d come all the way out here. I’d go in, have one drink and some finger food, chat with my colleagues about… I shut my eyes tightly. Weather. Sports. Work. Hobbies.
I could do this.
I stepped out of the car into—dear God—icy cold, at least ten degrees cooler than down in the valley. Cursing myself for grabbing my dressy coat, instead of the warm one, I teetered up the gravel walkway to the massive wood and stone house, and rang the doorbell.
I’d just about given up when my boss, Jonathan, answered the door.
“Well, if it isn’t the new girl.” He stumbled, turned it into a dance, and reached out for my coat. “Hey, New Girl. Let’s get this off you.”
“Oh. Oh, hi. Thank you.” I shuffled back, avoiding his hands, and shoved the bottle of wine I’d brought at him. “This is for you. Where can I…”
He grabbed the wine and coat and led the way into a big, open room, where he proceeded to serve me a bourbon (I asked for wine), and invited me to sit.
We were alone. And he was drunk.
I looked around, nervous. “So, where is everyone?”
“Yeah, not sure.”
Should have gone home.
It took maybe fifteen minutes for Jonathan to admit, without meeting my eyes, that he’d canceled the party.
By then, my fight-or-flight instincts were screaming at me to get out of there, while my keep-the-job-it-took-you-months-to-find instincts kept me frozen.
Should have listened to the first voice and run.
“Let me show you the view.”
“Um, I need to get going, the weather—”
“Come on.” He grabbed my arm and hauled me toward the massive French doors, led me out onto a huge deck. It was freezing. As soon as I recognized the sound of his fly unzipping, my awkward misgivings turned to outright fear.
Jonathan groaned. “Shit, man!” he said, as if I were his frat boy peanut gallery. “Too cold to piss out here.”
Oh good God. My boss was trying to pee all over his view. In front of me. No way. I took off inside.
I spent a frantic couple of minutes by the front door, searching for my coat. Shit, where did he put it? At least I had my purse. But I loved that coat.
“Hey, New Girl. Christa, Christa, Christa…hang on, come on back, hun. Let’s figure out—” I yanked my arm from his hold and his expression morphed from good-natured to something else. A shiver went through me as I followed the direction of his gaze. “Oh, look. Mistletoe.”
That’s when he put his hand on my boob and tried to kiss me.
I’d always asked myself how I’d react if someone attacked me. Well, now I knew.
I lost it. My chest rose and fell on wordless grunts, as my hands flailed, slapping his face and chest. I shoved him into the corner, kicked him hard between the legs, and took off down the walk, over the stupid little rocks—it was a wonder I didn’t break an ankle, or a heel—and into my car. The Jetta started on the first try, a total miracle given how freaking cold it was out here. Shuddering like crazy, I barreled down the precarious drive, fast.
Don’t follow me, I begged the whole time, eyes flicking to the rearview. Please don’t chase me.
It wasn’t until I left the gravel and hit the pavement of the main road that my car swerved. It took about ten seconds for the words black ice to enter my brain but by then, I’d lost control. Everything spun, dark shapes sped by, something squealed.
My tires? No. No, the sound was me, screaming.
I pushed my foot hard to the brake pedal and in a flash remembered some lesson from a driving class about pumping, not stomping. Too late.
In eerie slow-motion, I skidded for what felt like ages, straight toward the cliff’s edge, pivoted left and…
Stopped.
Oh, thank God.
I tried to pull my hands from the steering wheel and couldn’t quite make myself do it.
“That’s okay. It’s okay.” I said the words aloud, trying to calm myself, I guess.
This was a lot for one night. I shivered, hard, teeth chattering. I’d just wait here for a few seconds, catch my breath, regroup, maybe call Gran to explain what had happened, that I was scared, that this whole night was a—
The car shifted, tilted, screeched so loud I flattened my hands to my ears.
Sudden quiet. Stillness.
Oh, God, my chest. Why can’t I breathe?
Something was very wrong.
I blinked, opened my eyes, focused on my hands. I’d moved them, apparently. One gripped the gear shift, the other had a tight hold on the door.
Okay. Okay. Focus.
Oh, shit.
Slowly, like a spotlight illuminating a dark set, one detail at a time, my brain took in the situation.
I was hanging, my body listing to the right, held in place by the seatbelt. I’d wedged my legs into the space under the wheel. The entire world tilted at a crazy angle. The high-beams tunneled through air.
Slowly, barely shifting at all, I looked left, first with my eyeballs, then craning my neck. A light, a spark of a hope. Was someone coming?
It was quickly extinguished and despair melted through me, turning my limbs to lead. Not a light. The night sky, glowing pink, like just before a snow.
I whimpered, shoved down my desire to thrash like a bug in a web, and swallowed hard.
Okay. Okay, this wasn’t so bad. I could call someone. I unpeeled my right hand from the stick, reached out, patted the console, gingerly.
No phone. Further to the right, over the passenger seat, I let my fingers travel, more and more certain that I was screwed until…
Oh, holy mother of God, yes. Like I was in a high-stakes game of Operation—only instead of avoiding the edges, the object was not to rock the car—I slid my hand into my purse, grasped my phone and, slowly pulled it close enough to peer at the screen.
No service.
Please, no. Oh, please please please, God.
Eyes squeezed shut, I swallowed back a fresh bout of hysteria. Don’t shake, don’t move a muscle. Just think, dammit!
Okay. I opened my eyes again, blinked.
No bars right here, but if I could get out of the car and walk—never mind these stupid shoes—I could find shelter. Or one measly little bar. Enough to get a text out. Or an emergency call. Something.
Sucking in a big, shaky breath, I reached for the handle, pulled, and pushed. Wouldn’t budge.
No. Oh, no.
Fueled by desperation, I hit the unlock button, jolted at the sound, and tried again.
Nothing.
I don’t wanna die. Who’d take care of Gran? She couldn’t handle another shock. Oh, God, please someone, help.
Eyes wide n
ow, the inevitability of it turning everything crystal clear, I stared up. Granny Evans would spend Christmas alone, worrying about me.
Something shifted above and I shut my eyes only to be assaulted by images of my body, smashed and ruined, at the bottom of this ravine. Wherever the hell this place was. I couldn’t even picture it on a map. And for some reason, not knowing where I was about to die made it all worse.
Another noise, gritty like dirt on a road, made me open my eyes.
Was that a person up there?
2
Micah
I eyed the car, wedged between a four-foot rock ledge and a young lodgepole pine tree. Christ, the asshole was lucky.
It was tempting to let him fend for himself, considering where he’d built his stupid McCabin. Damned thing was an eyesore.
I took a few steps closer, over ice-slicked asphalt, before looking over the side. Shit. Didn’t look stable. I’d need to climb down.
I yanked off my gloves and eyed the rock face. I could get down this, no problem. Getting another person up, however…
I let my legs drop over the side, hands gripping the edge, found a quick foothold, and shifted my weight. Another shift, another foothold, one hand, then the other. Piece of cake.
We’d see how it’d be with whoever was in that car.
Couldn’t be the new neighbor. Rich dudes didn’t drive Volkswagens. Probably line 4 in their stupid handbook, with an asterisk pointing to allowed vehicles: Audis and Suburbans and Kawasaki motorcycles. Fucking Jeeps.
Something moved below, with a sound of grinding metal and I picked up my pace. My foot hit the first tuft of grass and I dropped, then carefully walked to the car.