Chapter Four
Four
I find a secluded spot at the edge of the reception on the dock overlooking the lake, where the glow of lanterns gives way to shadows. At the edge of the water, the humid air presses against my skin, thick with the croak of toads and the rhythmic hum of crickets.
I lift the champagne flute, downing what’s left in one long sip. The bubbles fizz through my bloodstream, numbing the edges of my thoughts.
Now that I’m alone—no Mackenzie, no Amanda, no wedding drama or job-hunt stress—it hits me.
I am fucking exhausted.
I am so tired of clawing my way toward a future that keeps getting yanked out from under me. Of almost making it. Of falling short. Of failing. Of knowing that, in less than a month, I will have nothing left.
No apartment. No money. No plan.
And why? Because I believed in myself? Because after ten years of working my ass off—of grinding through eighty-hour weeks, of sacrificing sleep and sanity, of building a career out of nothing but sheer fucking determination—I thought I had earned my place.
A bitter laugh catches in my throat.
I was supposed to be safe.
I was supposed to have finally made it.
Being the Director of Marketing for the biggest publishing house in New York wasn’t just a job. It was everything.
I had connections, I had momentum, I had a future.
I wasn’t just coordinating launch parties for debut authors—I was rubbing elbows with editors, with CEOs and CFOs, with the very people who could have launched me into the next stage of my career.
And then one day, out of fucking nowhere, they called me into HR and told me it was clear I wasn’t ready for the promotion. That they’d already filled my old position. That they had no choice but to let me go.
I had to sit there, smiling through a meeting to keep from sobbing, while they danced around the real reason they were letting me go.
I wasn’t good enough.
I thought I was. I thought I was ready for that promotion five years ago, but clearly, I was wrong.
My boss looked me in the eye and told me I wasn’t ready for the next step in my career.
Maybe I never will be.
Maybe the future I built my whole life around is just a story I tell myself—one more thing I want so badly that I can’t see the truth staring me in the face.
And now?
Now, I have three weeks left on my lease and an overdrafted checking account.
Now, I have LinkedIn rejection emails clogging my inbox and exactly zero prospects on the horizon.
Now, I’m staring down a future I never planned for, a future where I crawl back to my parents’ house, humiliated, broke, and a failure.
And the worst part? The ugliest, most shameful part?
There’s one person who could fix all of it.
One person who has the power to put me back on my feet with a single phone call.
And I’m so tired of fighting that I don’t know if I have it in me to say no to him again.
I let my fingers brush over the tarot card in my palm. The serpent glints in the moonlight, twisting, watching. I don’t need a reading to understand the warning.
“Drinking alone?”
I turn, and there he is. Like an answer to my prayers. Like I summoned him with a thought, a need, a weakness.
Alder stands confidently in that quiet, composed way that always makes my stomach twist.
My hand tightens around the tarot card, its edges biting into my palm, the only thing keeping me steady against the pull of everything he has to offer. The only thing reminding me that this isn’t fate—this is a choice.
Alder tilts his head, eyes shining like ice in the moonlight. “You came back.”
“I’m not here for you,” I say.
His lips curve. “We both know you don’t believe that.”
He lifts a hand, brushing my hair back with deliberate softness. Then he twists a strand around his fingers, his touch light but so, so unbreakable.
His lips dip to my ear, his breath warm, coaxing, indulgent.
“You’re struggling,” he murmurs, his fingers skimming down my arm. It’s not a question. It’s a fact. A truth he knows too well. “Wouldn’t it be easier if you let me help you?”
“I don’t want your help,” I lie, but even I hear the vulnerability in it.
His lips graze the corner of my mouth in the softest tease.
I sway forward, body betraying me before I can stop it.
He plucks the champagne flute from my hand and, without looking, tosses it onto the bank. The crystal thuds softly against the grass.
Alder’s hands find my waist, and he pulls me closer, closer, closer, until I feel him everywhere.
“You saw what’s out there, Gemma,” he breathes, his lips skimming my jaw. “You left. You tried it your way. And you taught yourself a lesson.”
His teeth graze my pulse, and I can’t help the shudder that rolls through me.
“Now…” He drags his mouth up to my ear. “It’s time to come back to me.”
“Why me?” The words fall from my lips before I can stop them. “Why not find someone else? Someone more on your level.”
He smiles against my skin, his fingers trailing lower, his touch so hot it burns through the fabric. “I blame it on growing up in a small town.” His hands wander, sliding down, gripping my hips, guiding me exactly where he wants me. “You got your hooks into me early.”
“So it’s my fault?”
He hums, low and indulgent, like I should be flattered. Like I should be grateful that a man like him wants me. “And you soften my image, the company’s.”
His hand slides down my back, slow, possessive. He pulls me flush against him, and I feel him. All of him. The thick, undeniable swell of him through his slacks, pressing hard against my stomach.
Heat floods my veins, my pulse jumping, thighs clenching around the want, the need, how familiar and how right it feels.
“See?” he murmurs, his mouth so close to mine it’s torment. “You still fit against me perfectly.”
I bite back a whimper, nails digging into his chest.
I hate him.
I want him.
God help me, I can’t tell the difference anymore.
“Even when I went off to Stanford,” he murmurs, his lips dragging down my throat. “Even when I’m traveling the world. When I could have anyone.” His teeth graze my collarbone. “I only want you.”
His hands slip under the thin straps of my dress. His fingers brush my bare skin, and I swear I can feel his smirk against my throat when I shiver.
“You keep me grounded, Gemma,” he murmurs.
His lips find the hollow of my collarbone, his tongue skimming slow, deliberate.
“I could remind you of home too,” he whispers, voice so soft, so lethal.
His hands lower the straps, his mouth tracing the newly exposed skin.
“Hell,” he breathes, dragging his lips lower. “I could build you a home, Gemma. A castle, if you want.”
A promise.
A trap.
I exhale sharply. “So you can lock me away in a tower?”
His lips curve against my skin. “So I can save you.”
I should walk away. I should tell him to fuck off, to take his money, his power, his promises and go straight to hell.
But the thing is—he’s right. About all of it.
If I let him, he could fix everything.
He could save me.
He could buy me security, stability. A life without struggle.
Would it be so bad to trade my pride for peace?
Alder’s fingers tilt my chin up, forcing my eyes to his. He waits. Just long enough for me to catch my breath. Just long enough for me to pretend I have a choice.
Then, he crashes his mouth into mine. His lips part, and his tongue sweeps in, claiming every inch of my mouth as a groan escapes from my throat. I can’t stop the whimper that follows, my hands fisting in his shirt.
“Let me save you, Gemma.”
My body answers for me. And I let it.
Because tonight, I don’t want to fight. Tonight, I want to be taken care of. Tonight, I want to be his.
Alder’s hands are everywhere, mapping me, memorizing me like he hasn’t already spent years doing it. His fingers slide lower, finding the hem of my dress, pushing it higher, inch by agonizing inch.
Cool night air skims over my heated skin, and I shiver. Not from the cold—from him. From the way he’s looking at me like I belong to him. Like I always have.
His strong hands grip my thighs, lifting me against him.
He squats, lowering us both until my butt hits the dock.
Then he eases me back, guiding me down with those strong hands until I’m lying flat and breathless beneath him.
And fuck, there it is. The thickness of his cock pressing right where I need him.
I whimper, instinctively rolling my hips, chasing the friction.
Alder chuckles—low, rough, and entirely too satisfied. “There she is.”
His fingers skim higher, teasing the edge of my panties.
I shift against him, hips tilting in silent demand.
He cups me through the fabric, his palm pressing just enough to make my legs weaken around him.
Heat floods me, pooling low and deep, an ache that only he can satisfy.
His lips drag up to mine. “Tell me something, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “This.” His palm presses harder, moving in slow, agonizing circles. “This doesn’t feel like a casual, just-catching-up kind of situation.”
I bite my lip, nails digging into his shoulders. “Shut up,” I pant, but it sounds more like a moan than an actual objection.
Alder laughs, the sound so low, so wicked, I feel it in my body.
“Oh, that independent streak is cute.” His fingers slip beneath my panties, skin against skin, finding the wetness that’s already waiting for him.
He strokes once, slow and devastating, his other hand gripping my thigh, keeping me right where he wants me.
My head falls back against the dock, a sharp gasp breaking free.
“This doesn’t mean we’re back together,” I manage, my voice wrecked, breathless.
“No?” Alder makes a thoughtful hum, his fingers still stroking, unhurried, cruel.
“You mean to tell me”—another stroke, firmer this time, like he’s testing me, taunting me, coaxing me closer to the edge—“you let me get you like this, let me touch you like this, but we’re just… what? Two exes catching up?”
He strokes again, and my hips jerk into his hand.
“Alder,” I gasp, nails scraping down his back, desperate.