Chapter Three
Penny
Either I’m insane, or I’m the smartest woman alive. The verdict will be read at the end of the weekend.
Donuts and cider in hand, Wilder helps me up into his pickup truck.
Judging by the flannel and the ride, I’d guess he’s trying to blend in, but the flannel looks designer, and his truck is some kind of high-tech self-driving thing.
No one drives these up here. I mean, how do you even turn it on?
There are no buttons, just a massive touchscreen.
This isn’t a truck. It’s a spaceship. Folks up here were raised on farm trucks and old model beaters they’ve been fixing for twenty years.
I think about pressing him about it, but I opt for warm donuts instead.
The man did pay four million dollars for a weekend with me. I might as well be sweet.
“So, what’s with the donuts? That line was like four miles long.” Everything he says sounds flat and a little grumpy. I see now why he had to pay for a date.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“You’ve never had a cinnamon sugar donut?
They’re like the fall thing to do here. You get like twelve dozen with a jug of cider, then eat them until your stomach hurts.
” I take a bite as I talk, moaning a little as the sugar hits my tongue.
The donut is crisp on the outside, soft in the middle, and still warm. It’s pure nostalgia.
“Well, you made that sound delicious.” He tucks his massive hand into the bag and pulls out a donut, biting into it without regard for where the sugar goes.
For a minute, he doesn’t speak. I only hear the groans and moans from his throat as he finishes off the fried cake.
“Damn. Okay… I see why we eat these until our stomachs hurt.”
“Right? People around here wait all year for these things. I’ve tried making them at home, but they never turn out right.”
“You bake a lot?”
“No. That’s probably why they don’t turn out right.
” I laugh thinking back at how terrible the last batch of donuts I tried turned out.
They were soggy and somehow burnt all at once.
“I, ugh, my mom had all these fudge recipes, and I always fantasized about opening a little fudge shop in Rugged Mountain. Donut making, though, that’s not my thing. ”
Pine trees blur as we drive up in elevation. It’s late, and the shadows stretch and deepen, turning the green needles into dusky silhouettes.
“You said had . What happened to the recipes?”
“Oh,” I take a swig of cider straight from the jug, “I still have the recipes, but my mom passed. Car accident. I was fifteen.”
“Oh.” His tone is low, as though his reaction is coming from a place of sincerity.
“She made this one fudge,” I say softly, “with cayenne and dark chocolate. No one ever liked it but me.” I smile, half to myself. “She said it was fiery, like I was.”
I glance at him, and for once, he doesn’t look grumpy. He looks human, maybe even shaken.
“I’m sorry,” he says finally, voice rough like gravel under boots.
“It’s okay. It was a long time ago. I just…
I have a few nice memories of her, and I try to keep them alive.
” I draw in a deep breath. “Anyway! I’m, ugh, I’d love to open a shop one day and sell all her fudge.
Name it something kitschy like The Fiery Fudge Shop.
I can imagine everyone in town coming out to stock up on the new fudge of the week, ya know? ”
“I could tell by your negotiating earlier that you’re an entrepreneur.” He nods slowly as the weird spaceship truck drives itself off the main drag.
How do people get used to this?
“Not really. I just want to do something to make other people happy, and I figure Mom’s treats always did that. But, until this deal, that was just a dream. I was going to finish school, look for a job in marketing, and let life happen. What about you? Are you close to your parents?”
“Fuck no.” The truck turns down a dark, narrow road with trees towering on both sides. “You know, if you’re interested in my bio, you can read it online.”
Something like whiplash hits me hard and heavy, and I snap a look of disgust toward this sorely mistaken man. “I’m sorry?”
Most people know when a woman says, ‘I’m sorry,’ you’ve said something stupid. She’s giving you a chance to rectify it. This man doesn’t have a clue, and keeps going.
“My bio,” he pulls out his phone, scrolls to something, and hands it toward me, “you can read it online.”
“Yeah,” a laugh sticks in my throat, “I don’t want to read it online. I thought the point of this was to get to know each other in real time.”
“Sure.” He tucks his phone back into his jacket. “I just don’t like wasting effort.”
I chew the inside of my cheek, wondering how I’ll endure two whole days of this. Sure, four million dollars is a lot of money, but so is therapy these days. I don’t want to end up with some bizarre version of PTSD after some weird encounter with an emotionally absent psychopath.
“So where are your parents? I’m not going to read your bio.” I narrow my gaze as I ask, though I stay focused on the hauntingly dark passage through the woods. Maybe this was a mistake. I’m pretty sure refraining from rides in cars with strange men is rule one in the book of how not to be murdered.
His reaction is flat as he says, “They traveled a lot. I’d guess they were home maybe two weeks a year.”
“What?” I finally twist toward him as the clearing opens ahead, easing my nerves a little. “Why didn’t they take you with them?”
He shrugs. “Never asked. It’s just the way things were.”
The way things were.
I let the words settle between us, and for a second, my sick heart has empathy for this guy. I had a rough childhood, but I can’t imagine being left behind for all but two weeks a year.
“It wasn’t all bad,” he continues. “The house manager was my primary caregiver. I’m lucky to have him. Reynolds. You’ll meet him this weekend.”
At least we won’t be alone. Then again, it could be two psychopaths against one. Those don’t seem like great odds.
“I have to ask,” I say turning toward him. “You’re rich. I’m sure loads of women want you. Why fake all this with me? It’s not good for your heart.”
He turns toward me, narrowing his dark brows, a slow smile building on his face as he says, “My heart? My heart froze over a long time ago. And, little lamb, the whole world is playing pretend. Don’t you think?”
“How so?”
“People marry all the time for convenience or at the very least they stay in loveless relationships for the sake of kids or money.”
“No,” I shake my head, “some things are real. Love is real.”
“To what extent? A few months? Love is a fairytale sold to you by corporations a lot like mine.”
“And what is your corporation, Wilder? You sell cutesy valentine cards?”
“No,” he brushes his hand down over his beard, “I created a file sharing program that allows users to transfer encrypted data peer-to-peer without relying on centralized servers. It’s completely anonymous, lightning-fast, and virtually untraceable, but the concept of love and business are the same.
Emotional manipulation, stakes, and the illusion of trust.”
“Sounds like you could hook any woman you want then. Why me? Why pay all this money to spend a weekend with a young, inexperienced virgin?”
His gaze meets mine. “Because I can have whatever I want, and I want you.”
I glance away as a shot of something rushes through me.
I can’t identify it, though it feels like a cross between flattery, excitement, and disgust. Thankfully, the cabin door comes into view ahead, distracting me.
It’s a massive place tucked between the pines like a secret.
Floor-to-ceiling windows reflect the last glow of dusk, and a wraparound porch hugs the structure like an embrace.
I blink, stunned. It’s the kind of place you see in magazines and never expect to stand in front of. But we’re here, and I’m with him, and he’s looking at me like he’s a hungry wolf and I’m the prey he’s been eyeing.
I shouldn’t like it, but I do. I really, really do.
“Yeah,” I finally say, swallowing down the lump in my throat. “Why, though? Why me?”
“Do I need a reason?”
“Yeah!” I gasp, brushing back a strand of loose hair. “You paid four million dollars. I need a reason. A reason more than how innocent I am.”
The spaceship parks itself, and Wilder turns toward me, leaning close.
His breath is warm, a mix of cinnamon and sugar.
“That’s a part of it, though. You haven’t been tainted yet.
The way your body responds to touch is still new.
You haven’t been taught how to perform. I want to taste that.
” His voice is deep and brooding, sending all the wrong signals to all the right parts of my body.
“What’s the other part?” I ask, my heart beating hard behind my ribcage.
The rough pads of his fingers graze my cheek lightly. “You’re beautiful, and you gave me a run for my literal money back there. I liked that. You’ll challenge me. That’s what I need to make this feel real.”
“Is that what I am?” I blink up at him, far too desperate for his lips to touch mine. “A challenge?”
“You flinch when I touch you. You breathe like you’re afraid of wanting me. Maybe a part of me hopes that breaks.”
A chill traces my spine and I hesitate, stuck on the way he finished his sentence. There’s something about the way he said it, like he sees deeper than he should, like he’s reading lines no one’s ever written.
Or, I shake my head, he’s playing the game he paid to play, chasing control in places real emotion can never reach. That’s the one. That’s what he’s doing. It’s a game.
Still, my thighs clench when he looks at me. It’s involuntary, and I hate myself for it, but it’s there, the creamy wetness, the aching desire, the subtle yearning in my stomach.
He slides from the truck and my pulse kicks harder. Whatever this weekend is, I have a feeling it’s going to be complicated.