Tempt Our Fate (Sutten Mountain, #2)

by Kat Singleton

There’s a lipstick stain on the lid as she pushes it into my chest. “See? Not poisoned.” “What if it’s a slow death? I still don’t think I can trust you.” I want to press the cup to my lips. To place mine on the same spot as hers. And I don’t know how fucked up that makes me.

“Well, you’re going to have to try something new and trust me for once.” “Trust you? That’s pushing it.” “Better get comfortable with it. Because you’re going to have to trust me all day today.”

“Why would I have to trust you all day?” “Because I’m here for my real payment, obviously. Today’s your lucky day, Camden. You get to spend the entire day with me and the beautiful town of Sutten.”

“I have a lot of things to get done today.” She raises one of her tanned shoulders. “I had a lot of things to do when you asked me to slave away for your event—where I was insulted by one of your rich friends, in case you forgot—so excuse me if I don’t care if you’re busy or not. You’re coming with me for the entire day—and maybe even the evening. I’ve got so many fun things planned for us.” “Your plans were to watch disgusting reality TV. Do you know how much of that shit is actually scripted?” Her plump bottom lip peeks out in a pout. “Don’t ruin it for me. I quite enjoy reality TV. I’ll never be able to look at it the same.” “Maybe we can rain check our little Sutten Mountain adventure?” I ask sarcastically. “And by rain check, I mean never doing it.”

Regretting ever saying yes to her, I groan. “You aren’t letting me out of this, are you?” Her eyes twinkle. The light from the floor-to-ceiling windows catches the gold rim around her pupils. “No, I’m not. Tick tock, Camden! You now have four minutes until you have to meet me outside.”

“I think there are different kinds of crowded,” I begin, turning my body so I face him completely. “In my mind, I think of it this way… You can have a huge group of people who are giddy and ready to begin their vacation. They’re away from work and the sorrows of everyday life. They get to just experience life in the moment and not think about anything else. And then you have another group of people. They’re having to push themselves every day of their life to make ends meet. They’re tired and looking forward to the weekend so they can just take one minute for themselves. Both are groups of people. Both could seem crowded when you’re standing in the middle of them. But which group would you rather be in?”

“I’ve never questioned which group I want to be in,” he finally admits. “And are you now?”

“I’ve only ever known the one.”

Camden Hunter isn’t kind. He’s a man of power, a man who will do anything to get what he wants, including creating a gallery that goes against all of the small-town values of keeping things local in Sutten.

No one except for the people in the church should know about me running around at two without any clothes on in the middle of a service. I blame it on my mom. Dad still to this day loves to tell everyone that my mom found it hilarious and wasn’t the least bit embarrassed by my antics. That was my mom. She was vivid and full of life. She could make a joke out of anything, and there are just days that I wish she wasn’t ripped out of my life without warning.

“Pippa sure is sweet,” Camden drawls. He flashes his straight, white teeth, his incisors slightly sharper than the rest of his teeth. “Kind of reminds me—” He pauses as if he’s having to think through his next words. “—of shortcake…” My eyes turn to slits. His smirk tells me he thinks he’s funny, but I don’t find it amusing in the slightest.

Miss Mary gets us all packaged up, and Camden listens to her talk about her five grandchildren. He doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who does small talk with strangers. In fact, his harsh, rude personality strikes me as quite the opposite. I always thought he came off as entitled, meaning he thought he was better than everyone else. Instead, he’s showing little glimpses of himself that make me question what I really do and don’t know about him. I reach to grab the little bag from his hand as we walk by a few more additional booths, but he pulls it from my reach. “I’ll carry it.” His tone makes it seem like there’s no further room for discussion. “I can carry my own bag.”

“You can do a lot of things. It doesn’t mean you should have to.” And with that, he begins to lead the way toward something that’s caught his eye.

“What’s your pricing?” I focus on a landscape of a forest. It’s at night, but it still feels warm and inviting. Like everything is asleep around you, and you get to be at peace for once in the calmness of the night. “That one is one hundred.” “Thousand?” Pippa sputters behind me. Or maybe it’s Tommy because when I look at him, his face is bright red. “No,” he whispers, his voice scratchy. “Just one hundred dollars.” I frown. “You’re severely undercharging for your art.” “I am?” “Definitely. I already have people in mind who would pay thousands upon thousands of dollars for these pieces.”

“I’m going back to Manhattan tomorrow, but here’s my card. Email me, and we’ll get your art in my gallery. You’ll find out what at least half a mil looks like by the end of the month.” “Half a what?” the kid asks. His eyes are so wide with shock that he looks like he’s straight out of a cartoon. “Million,” I finish, confident his pieces will sell. The kid will be in for a real treat when he finds out what people will pay if he does custom work for them. I know ten people off the top of my head who’d want a custom piece done for sentimental reasons.

Pippa looks as shocked as Tommy when I finally look at her. Her mouth hangs open, and I hate that the first thing that pops into my mind is how fun it would be to shove my cock in it. Her tongue is a perfect shade of pink. It’d look hot as fuck licking cum from my shaft.

“You know you just changed his life, don’t you?” “No. That was all you.”

“This,” I begin, sliding out of the truck and planting my boots on the ground, “is Camden Hunter. He took over the Richardson gallery.” “The guy you called a prick because he bought the space you wanted?” Camden’s eyebrow arches in curiosity as he rounds around the front of the vehicle. I was too busy gawking at my brother’s unnecessary comment to notice Camden even getting out to begin with. “I didn’t want to buy the space,” I lie, suddenly embarrassed. For some reason, I don’t want Camden to know I wanted the space he now owns. I don’t want him to have that to hold against me. Because I’m sure things can’t stay neutral between us forever, and even though today he’s been friendlier than normal, I know there will be a time when we’ll go back to arguing, and when that happens, I’d rather him not know that I’d always dreamed of buying the art gallery to allow myself more space for Wake and Bake. Cade fixes the ball cap on his head. “What are you talking about? All you ever rattled on about was saving up the money to buy their place and yours and merge them together.” He pulls me closer to him, running his gloved hand along my forehead. “Did you get concussed and not tell anyone?”

“Cade, you have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I’ll give it back when I’m out of this awful outfit and back in clothing that is actually tailored to fit my body.” I almost bust my ass when I attempt to jump up and snag my phone from his grip again. He’s too quick for me, holding it above his head so it’s way out of reach. His thumb continues to swipe through my camera roll, and he’s getting dangerously close to seeing photos on there that weren’t meant for his eyes. So far, we’re in the safe zone, and he’s mostly seeing photos I’ve taken of cakes and other pastries to upload to all of Wake and Bake’s socials. But if he keeps going… I lunge one final time, hoping to catch him by surprise. It doesn’t work. He pushes against my chest just enough to allow him more room to invade my privacy while he swipes away with his other hand.

I’d spent too long ogling him that I hadn’t realized he never responded to me. I notice his thumb is no longer swiping across my phone screen, but something has still caught his attention by the way he brings the screen closer to his face, staring down at it. Oh no. “Camden,” I start, my breath hitching. Thank god my brother had to run out to help my dad with a broken fence, or I’d be even more mortified to have him bear witness to this.

“Who the hell are you sending this to?” His voice is tight, and even from a few feet away, I can see the muscles along his jaw ticking away angrily. My stomach drops when I see the picture of me standing in front of the full-length mirror in my closet. “No one,” I answer, hating the way my cheeks flush knowing he’s seen the photo. I want to say I’m embarrassed, but I don’t know if the blood rushing to my cheeks is from embarrassment or excitement—and I think I might like it. “Pippa.” He takes a long, angry breath, air hissing through his nostrils. I always thought the stables were loud and full of life, but as we face each other in the tack room, nothing can be heard but our labored breaths. “Who. Did. You. Send. This. To?” “That’s none of your business. Let’s go.” Camden’s nostrils flare. It’s the only thing that gives his jealousy away, aside from the angry tick of his jaw. Our angry glares don’t falter. Time passes by as we stare at one another. Or maybe it isn’t anger in our eyes. It’s full of tension, but I don’t know what kind, and I know that I need to get out of this room before I do something dumb. Right now, I want to do something foolish and ask him if he liked what he saw. “You have one more chance to tell me who you sent this photo to before I go through every single one of your text messages to find out.” “That’s childish. You hate me, remember? Why does it matter who I’m sending pictures of myself to?” “Because you’re wearing nothing but scraps of fucking la...

He isn’t wrong. I’d found a new website to order lingerie from. I wanted to see how it fit. The lingerie fit perfectly, and I love to do my own little photoshoots when I feel sexy. The pictures weren’t taken for anyone but myself. I love the body I have. Strong in some places and soft in others. I liked that this lingerie accentuated my favorite parts of my body. It lay high on the hips, bringing attention to the narrow of my waist. It cut low on my breasts, giving them a needed lift without pushing them up to my chin in a way that is completely unnatural and incredibly uncomfortable. The bra makes my average-sized breasts seem bigger than they actually are, something I really liked about it. I get so lost in my mind that I don’t realize he’s closed the distance between us. He’s cornered me, the edge of the saddle stand digging into my back. I hardly notice the sting of it because I’m too lost in the way his eyes have darkened.

“One last chance, shortcake. Tell me who you’re sending them to.” “Why? So you can laugh with them?” “No, so I can tell them to lose your fucking number.” My m...

I frown. Maybe he has a point. “You aren’t going to find who I sent the picture to.” His breath tickles my cheeks when he looks back to me. “And why’s that? You deleted the conversation?”

“I took the picture for me.”

“Yes. For me. Why can’t a woman take sexy pictures of herself and keep them just for herself? On days when I’m tired or I’m covered in flour and in a pair of old jeans and a T-shirt, I like to look back at pictures like this and remember the times I felt beautiful and sexy.” He swallows, his Adam’s apple slowly moving along his throat. “No one else has this?” I shake my head. Not that he deserves to know the information in the slightest. “You’re always…” His words drift off. He decides against saying whatever he was going to say as he backs away a few steps, keeping my phone in his grip.

Now that I’m alone, I finally take my first deep breath in a while. I grab my phone, noticing that the screen is still illuminated. My entire body flushes when I see a brand-new text thread created, with only one text in it. The picture we were just looking at. I don’t have to ask to know he just sent that picture to himself—and now I’ll spend the entire day wondering why.

Watching Pippa’s strong thighs straddle the horse, knowing what she’s hiding underneath her jeans. The image of Pippa in nothing but that skimpy lingerie will forever be burned in my mind. I can’t get rid of it, no matter how hard I try. I’ve thought of countless different ways I could rip that lace from her body so every perfect bare inch of her skin would be on display. I’m not proud of imagining what her ass looked like in the lingerie. I’m sure it left little to the imagination, and I can’t deny how bad I wish I’d seen the view. There’s not a doubt in my mind that seeing the bare curve of her ass would be my undoing. I’d love to see that scrap of fabric settled between her ass cheeks as I put a perfect palm print on them. My cock stiffens in my jeans. I hate it. It’s just another reminder that I’ve lost control. My body is betraying me by wanting her—but how could I not? She’s beautiful—there’s no way I could ever deny that—but she drives me insane. She’s everything I hate—uncontrollable chaos. Yet, I’m aching to have one little taste of her wild side. She’s so incredibly tempting, and she doesn’t even know it. At least she doesn’t know how tempting she is to me. I’m trying to hide it, but seeing her in lingerie, wondering what other man has laid eyes on a body that deserves to be etched into stone, was where all of my careful control snapped. I didn’t care if she knew I was jealous. But with more space between us, I can’t help but hate myself a little for wanting her ...

“Holy shit,” I mutter under my breath, looking at the expansive view in front of us. It’s so breathtaking it deserves to be captured in paint forever. “It’s something else, isn’t it?” Her voice takes me by surprise. She’s no longer ahead of me; instead, she sits on her horse right next to me. “It’s okay,” I lie. It’s one of the most beautiful views I’ve ever seen. Some of the leaves on the trees have started to change colors. It’s absolutely mesmerizing. I’ve been all around the world. I’ve seen a handful of the seven wonders of the world, but fuck, I hate that she’s right about the view in front of me.

It’s magnificent. A hidden treasure that not many people seem to know about except the people who live here. The trees paint a vibrant picture in hues of red and orange, mixed with a small amount of luscious green from the trees that haven’t quite accepted summer changing into fall. There are even mixes of yellows throughout the rolling hills. If I look far enough, there’s a large body of water nestled in between the trees. The top of the mountaintop behind it reflects in the water, creating a masterpiece. If I could have some of my most popular artists come up here, they could create magic. The idea pops into my head without welcome. I shouldn’t want to return here. I shouldn’t want to bring talented artists here to capture the breathtaking essence in front of me, but I can’t stop myself from already imagining it. They’d never come close to capturing how perfect the view is, but damn do I know some really talented people who could try their best.

We’ve bickered and fought more than I have with any other random stranger in my life. I should have no problem insulting the view she clearly loves—but I can’t do it. I’ve said some shitty things to her, but I can’t do it again. Not at this exact moment. Because I understand what she means. I’ve seen the incredible craftsmanship in the architecture of Barcelona, the lake at the bottom of the mountains in Hallstatt, Austria, the Amalfi Coast in Italy with water such a vivid turquoise I wondered how it was possible for it to be so vibrant. I’ve vacationed in the French countryside and walked through rows and rows of blooming cherry blossom trees in Japan. My lifestyle has brought me all around the world, allowing me to see so many beautiful places. Little did I know the one I wanted captured in paint the most was one in a little town I’d never heard of in Colorado. And I never would’ve heard of it if my best friend and his wife hadn’t insisted on getting married here and forcing us all to join them.

I let out a shaky breath. Am I about to tell him about my mom dying? If I do tell him, how much do I tell? Do I tell him that I feel guilty Cade was the one who found her? That sometimes I wish it was me who found her because I feel like I could handle the pain better than my brother? Do I admit that I waited outside the local movie theater the next day because my mom and I had made plans to see the newest rom-com together that afternoon? I hadn’t processed that we’d actually lost her, even though Dad had already asked me to begin arranging the funeral and to let everyone know she’d passed because he hadn’t faced our new reality yet. I sat on the curb in the theater’s parking lot for over an hour weeping because she never showed up. Do I tell him that I still listen to the old voicemails she left me to pretend she’s still here? Do I admit that sometimes I feel really fucking angry at her for dying? And hate myself for feeling that way because I know in my bones she never would’ve left us on purpose.

“You don’t have to…” There’s a softness to his voice, his words trailing off. I nod, letting out a shaky breath. I have to tell him. We’ve made it this far. My tears make it obvious that there’s more to what he already knows. I might as well tell him the rest. “A few months ago,” I begin, trying to swallow the lump in my throat that makes my words come out shaky, “my mom passed away all of a sudden. She had a heart attack in the middle of the night.” Camden’s body freezes, the rough, calloused pad of his thumb still on my cheekbone. He’s silent, and I don’t hold it against him. At least he doesn’t apologize. That’s what I hated most when talking to people after my mom died. I didn’t need their apologies. I just needed my mom back. “We all thought she was healthy. It shattered our world. My dad had been with her his entire life, and Cade was a total Momma’s boy. She was their world, and our family was a mess after.” “And you?” He lets his thumb stroke along my cheek again, even though I’m confident more tears haven’t fallen. “Wasn’t she your world, too? How did you handle it?” I pause. His words take me by surprise. “I don’t know if anyone really asked about me specifically. It was always ‘how’s your brother doing…how’s your father doing…how’s your family doing…’” “I want to know how you’re doing.”

“You don’t have to answer that,” he insists. His eyes search my face. I want to know what he’s looking for, what he’s thinking. I’m grateful that he might be the first person to know about my mom and not look at me with pity. I try to hold back a weak laugh when I realize the first person to really ask me how I’m doing without pitying me happens to be a man that I swore I hated—and one I’d bet money hates me. I’m well aware how truly pathetic that is. “If I tell you, are you going to make fun of me later for it?” He rears back as if I hit him. Of all the insults I’ve thrown at him, why does he seem most affected by this one? “I must really have been an asshole to you if you think I’d ever make fun of you for how you’re dealing with the loss of your mother.”

“Tell me about her.” I stare at him for a moment, wondering if although he doesn’t show it, he feels sorry for me. That could be the only explanation for why he’s asking about my mom. It’d make sense why he’s acting like he actually gives a damn about me. “You really want to know?” I shift on the quilt, my knee bumping against his. He doesn’t move at all, even though with my new position, our knees barely touch. “Yeah.” He sounds confident but maybe even a little sad. Taking a deep breath, he looks up from his lap, and I find vulnerability in his icy-blue eyes. “I want to know more about her.” “Okay…” I begin, hesitant to tell him much about me. I feel like stuff between us should stay surface level. But I like that he knows nothing about her. I like that I can be the one to tell him how amazing my mother was. Everyone in the town knew her and loved her. I’m excited to be able to talk about my mom and the mark she left on my life without having someone look back at me that pitied me or felt like they lost her, too. “It’s cliché, and I know every kid says this about their mom, but she truly was the best mom ever. She was born to be a mom.” “I wouldn’t.” The words are said under his breath. Once his eyes go wide, I wonder if he meant to say that out loud at all. “You wouldn’t what?” He runs a finger along my mother’s stitching on the quilt. I’m wondering if it’s something he does when he’s nervous. I’ve noticed he’s also always stuffing his hands in his pockets once his hand...

“Don’t feel bad for me, shortcake. Parents fuck up their kids all the time.” He playfully bumps his leg against mine. “Now, tell me what having a mother that loves you feels like.” I don’t talk at first because I’m lost in what he’s told me, in what I’ve seen about him and his family on the internet. Everything in me wants to pry further about his life, to figure out why he is the way he is. “If you aren’t ready to talk about her, you don’t have to,” he offers, his tone gentle. I shake my head at him. “It isn’t that. I just was caught up in hearing about your childhood.” He peels a piece off his scone, popping it into his mouth. “There’s a reason I’m a dick. Fucked up childhood. Parents who didn’t love me but pretended to when cameras were around. No one in my house to show me love.” “You deserved better,” I whisper softly. “Tell me what I missed out on. Tell me about your mom, shortcake.” “She was my favorite person in the world. My best friend, my mom, my everything. She volunteered in my classroom every year in elementary school. She was the one who taught me to bake, the one who helped me get ready for my first date and held me the first time I had my heart broken. She loved to drink tea and sit on the front porch, and she was always begging for me to make her fresh biscuits to leave with her during the week. Her favorite thing to do was make me laugh during church and would then pretend to scold me when I did. My mom was the life of every party, and people just flocke...

“One time, me and my best friend, Mare, wanted to do a lemonade stand so badly. It’s all we talked about, even though Cade and my parents kept telling us that we lived on the edge of town, no one was driving by to stop for lemonade. Mare and I would hear none of it,” Pippa explains, laughing to herself. Something about her makes me want to laugh along with her, as if I was remembering the same memory she is. It’s just the two of us, our horses, and the mountains around us. I feel like without the distraction of the real world, I can almost let my guard down with her. At least enough to enjoy hearing what it’d be like to have a parent who cared about you. “So, come to find out, my mom forced half the town to drive out to the ranch to visit our lemonade stand. Mare and I were so young and naive we truly thought everyone was driving by and wanted to taste our lemonade, but no, it wasn’t that. It was because my mom strong-armed half the Sutten population to purchase glasses of overpriced lemonade from us.”

“What’d you buy with the hard-earned money?” “An Easy-Bake Oven,” she answers immediately. “I have no idea what that is.” “Oh my god!” She sits up on her knees, slapping the ground underneath her as she looks at me in shock. “You don’t know what an Easy-Bake Oven is?” I shake my head. She sighs dramatically, as if the fact I didn’t grow up with whatever this appliance is was the reason my childhood sucked. “You’re right, you did have a terrible childhood,” she mutters, almost reading my mind. “You’re right,” I joke. “Not having some fancy oven was the reason my childhood was stolen from me.” Pippa throws her head back with laughter. Her hair falls down her back as her entire body shakes with her laugh. “It’s the fact you think the Easy-Bake Oven is fancy.” She looks at me once again. There’s wetness under her eyes, but this time, it’s from laughter. She wipes at her smudged mascara.

“Is it not?” “No. It’s terrible. I don’t know how the food that you bake in it is even edible.” “How was I supposed to know that?”

“Doubt it,” I answer honestly. I have a complicated relationship with my parents. As an adult, I can’t fathom treating a child the way they treated me. I could imagine myself having a kid or two if I met the right person, and I can’t imagine just discarding a child the way they discarded me. “All there is to say is that I was their trophy child. Paraded around and appreciated when they wanted to show me off to others but hidden away and forgotten about when there was nobody around to brag to.”

“Encourage isn’t the word I’d use. Forced is more like it.” “Something tells me you don’t take well to being forced to do anything.” I chuckle. I appreciate that she seems to always say exactly what’s on her mind. “You could say that.” “So you rebelled by becoming an art owner instead of a creator?” “I rebelled by not ever giving in to their wishes and following in their footsteps. I was supposed to be some nepo baby art prodigy. They wanted me to be that desperately. It’s the one thing I refused to become.” “So could you have been an art prodigy? Are you any good?” My lips twitch as I do my best to fight a smirk. “Remember that statue you liked so much in my office?” Her face scrunches in confusion. It makes me laugh, a small chuckle rumbling from low in my chest. “The most beautiful piece of art I’ve ever seen? Yeah, I remember it.” My teeth run over my bottom lip because she’s feeding my ego, and I love it. “The artist who didn’t know if they wanted to sell it? That’s me.” “Shut up!” “No one knows it’s me.” “Oh my god, I gave you compliments without even knowing it.” “You gave me so many compliments,” I tease, popping another bite of scone into my mouth. It’s my second one. They’re just so damn good. “I want to throw up.” She sighs dramatically, falling backward onto the quilt. “How could you let me say such nice things about you and not say anything?” “Maybe I like it when you say nice things to me.” She looks at me from the corner of her eye. “No you don’t.”

“Camden,” she groans, covering her face with her hands. “You’re the actual worst for letting me make a fool of myself.” Leaning forward, I attempt to push her hands from her face, but she keeps them locked in place. “You didn’t make a fool of yourself. I liked hearing what you thought of my work.” She grunts, not giving any indication that she’ll move her hands. “I was telling you what I thought that artist was trying to convey when you were the artist.” Another loud groan comes from her. I try to look away from the skin she’s showing between the denim waistband of her jeans and the ruffle at her midriff. So much sun-kissed skin that’s begging for attention. “Stop being dramatic.” My fingers wrap around her wrist. I pull again, this time a little harder. Finally, I get one of her hands to move enough to see both her eyes. “Everything you saw was exactly what I wanted the beholder to see. I’ll deny this if you ask me again, but to be honest, I was flattered you noticed all the little details I’d hidden in there.” “I can’t believe you actually have talent. I thought all there was to you was, well…you being a dick.” “Maybe I like it that way.”

“Why would you rather let everyone think there’s nothing to you other than being a dick instead of maybe letting yourself be a little more…human?”

“I’m thinking of doing something incredibly fucking stupid.” “Like?” “Like tasting that sharp tongue of yours. I can’t help but wonder if your insults won’t bother me as much if I get to taste them.”

bet he kisses angrily, with a pent-up rage that is all-consuming. I bet he fucks like that, too. And for just a moment, I was desperate to know what it felt like to feel his anger in a different way. The rushed movement of his lips, the punishing bite of his teeth. I wanted to feel it all.

“Did the horse get you in the head? Maybe you shouldn’t be standing.”

“Maybe you should worry about your arm—or the fact we’re down to one horse—and stop hovering over me and pretending you give a shit. Now we have to share a horse the entire ride down.” I tense up at the thought of having to feel his body pressed against mine for an hour. I’m pissed at him, no longer wanting to kiss him but back to considering strangling him. I don’t want to have to be anywhere near him, but he wanted away from me so fast that he lost one of the horses in the process of getting the hell away from me. Cade is going to go into a tailspin when Rebel returns alone. Camden’s jaw flexes, and I swear I can hear the sound of his teeth grinding against one another. “We’ll call for someone to bring us a new one.” I narrow my eyes, trying to stifle the angry laugh bubbling inside my chest. “Good luck getting service. And even if we could, they wouldn’t be up here for at least an hour. Is the thought of sharing a horse with me that bad?” “Yes,” he answers immediately. His voice is lower, more uncontrolled than what I’m used to with him. It almost sounds strained, like it pains him to imagine sharing a horse on the way down. That would make two of us. “God, you’re so hot and cold.” I angrily untie Tonka’s reins from a branch. He whinnies at me happily, ready to get going and completely unaware of the tension between Camden and me. “I’m not getting on the horse with you.” He’s regained composure in his voice, his cold, calculating demeanor firmly back in place.

“I’m not getting on there with you, shortcake,” he repeats, trying to avoid looking me in the eye. “It’s going to be a long walk down, then,” I respond, directing Tonka forward.

After stopping what was about to happen between us, it wouldn’t surprise me if she abandoned me at the top of the mountain. It might even serve me right. I couldn’t help it. Once reality hit, I knew I couldn’t kiss her. I knew that it was the worst idea possible to involve myself with a woman who hates my guts—a woman who keeps trying to prove to me that I’m better than I am when I know I’m not. A kiss would lead to me wanting more of her. More of her past, more of her body, more of her rage. I’d want more and more until I was done with her, and for some reason, I know I wouldn’t be able to look at myself if I used her and left like I normally do. The women I involve myself with always know the rules, but some end up hurt anyway. It occurs to me that I don’t want to hurt Pippa—no matter the simple yet complicated past between us when I know I’ve done just that—hurt her—with the words I’ve said while lashing out.