We have kissed a million times before, but this feels like the first time.
When we get back to the car, we can’t stop smiling.
“I love you so much, Everly.”
“I love you, too. I can’t wait to get back to our cabin and curl up in front of the fire and not leave for a long, long time.”
He starts the car and pulls out of the parking lot.
“Oh, no, I just remembered,” I say. “We only have the place until tomorrow. That’s a…bummer.”
“Actually, I extended our stay for a month. So, if you want, we can get home, climb under the covers, and not leave until the end of January.”
“I like that.”
Whatever guilt I felt earlier about not inviting anyone to our wedding has dissipated completely.
That moment felt right and true and it will stay with me forever. It doesn’t matter that no one else was there.
It doesn’t matter that it happened in the dead of winter and I didn’t even hold a flower in my hand.
It doesn’t matter that I wasn’t wearing a dress, let alone a white dress or a wedding gown.
Easton is my husband and I am his wife.
Thank you for reading THRONE OF YORK! I hope you enjoyed the conclusion of Everly and Easton’s story.
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I am the recluse billionaire of New York.
Holed up in a twelve thousand square foot mansion overlooking Central Park, I spend my days doing the only thing I was ever good at: making money.
Not long ago, I had everything a man could want. But then in one moment I lost everything that mattered.
In the middle of the most bustling metropolis in the world, I’ve managed to live my life completely isolated from society for almost four years.
But then she came along.
Disheveled. Lost. Innocent.
She crashed into my perfect tucked away life and changed everything.
One-click TANGLED UP IN ICE now!
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Prologue
Her small, delicate mouth parts in the middle.
She licks her lower lip and my body burns for hers. I lift my chin to hers. Our lips collide.
I bury my hands in her hair.
It’s soft and damp with an earthy scent that doesn’t come from any shampoo bottle.
She is soft and snug in my arms and she pulls away only far enough to utter, “I love you, too.”
I clutch her closer, wrapping her arms around mind.
Her breaths become mine and mine become hers.
Her hands are ice.
She slips them under my shirt and my back recoils for a moment before welcoming her in.
I’m restless and hungry for her.
All of her.
Right now.
That’s what she does to me.
One touch and I have to have her.
Another touch and I morph into a beast who can’t control his impulses.
With her chin tilted toward the ceiling, her long hair moves in waves.
I run my hands down the contours of her body. I know every curve and every dip.
The more I feel, the greedier I become.
Chapter 1 - Jackson
Hate
I hate this city.
I hate the grime.
I hate the sad and angry faces that people make as they walk down the sidewalk.
I hate the rush.
I hate that everyone has somewhere more important to be than the person next to them.
I hate the way the poor kids from the projects look at rich kids with personal drivers.
And I hate the way kids with drivers look at everyone else, like they are specks of dirt beneath their feet.
I hate that a family of five has to cram into a one-bedroom apartment and pay two-thirds of their income in rent for the luxury of a two hours commute.
I hate that I live alone in twelve thousand square foot, five-story mansion with a view of Central Park from practically every window.
I hate the summers with their hoards of tourists taking pictures of every mundane and uninteresting thing.
I hate the fall and the spring, with its torrential rains which chill you to the bone and make the city grey and gloomy for weeks.
But most of all, I hate those five weeks between Thanksgiving and New Year that everyone else seems to find so magical.
It’s the time of year that people spend hours gawking at window displays designed to dazzle and make you forget that you really can’t afford anything there.
I hate the blinding lights that twinkle all day and all night without a moment’s peace. But mostly I hate the cheer that fills the city, which only has one real purpose - to sell more crap.
I hate people and I hate that I’m all alone.
I hate that I haven’t left this house in almost four years and I hate how much I like being alone.
I hate that all I do is work, but without work, I’d have even less than I do now.
I hate my money, and I hate to imagine a world in which I don’t have it.
But mostly I hate myself.
I hate the scars that cover my body.
I hate that every time I look at them, my mind is flooded with memories of that day.
I hate that the person I used to be is gone and I hate that I can’t imagine my life without all of this hate.
Chapter 2 - Harley
Love
I love this city.
I love the traffic jams, people honking when they are standing still with absolutely nowhere to go.
I love the lights that illuminate the streets until twilight.
I love that something is always going on.
I love that everyone is always in a hurry.
Where are they going?
What are they doing?
What is it that’s so important?
I love how hot and steamy and unbearable the summers get.
I love how everyone who has anywhere to go takes off for the Hamptons, Connecticut, Vermont, leaving the the rest of us with a bit more room to stretch out.
The summers bring in all the tourists and I even love them.
I was one of those tourists once.
When I turned fourteen, my parents took me here to show me the sights.
The Statue of Liberty.
Broadway.
Times Square.
The typical places that all real New Yorkers avoid.
That’s when I first fell in love with the city, and that’s when I knew that I had to do everything in my power to move here.
And the thing that I love most is that magical time between Thanksgiving and New Year’s.
The tree lighting ceremony in Rockefeller Center.
Ice skating in Central Park.
The store fronts and the lights that seem to explode in life.
But I also love this city on those other less lovable days: the cold, slushy days of February that are all too short.
I love the dirty snow that appears a day after a big blizzard, and I love the way there’s always one rebel pizza place that remains open while the rest of the city closes down and everyone crams into it for a bite.
I love the lights.
I love the crowds.
I even love my apartment.
And that’s not easy to love.
It’s a four-hundred square foot studio and I share it with a roommate.
Yet, I still love it.
I love the tiny kitchen in which every appliance is miniature.
&n
bsp; I love the little closet which only fits half of my clothes and I don’t even shop that much.
I love the little bathroom that has no space around the sink for clutter. I house the shampoo and conditioner in a wire hanger around the shower, keeping the rest of the products in boxes under the bed.
Why do I love this apartment?
I can’t help it.
It’s about the size of a large Barbie Dream House if she had a Dream New York Apartment, but it’s enough for me.
Maybe there’s something more to all of this?
Maybe I love this place because of how it makes me feel about myself.
Despite what I have or rather don’t have, I feel important.
Special.
New York does that to people to get them to move here.
It’s almost as if the city itself sends you these subliminal messages that say no matter how crappy your apartment is or how crowded and loud and angry people, you’re in New York.
And being here is enough.
That has to true, right? Why would I love this place otherwise?
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Black Edge
Want to read a “Decadent, delicious, & dangerously addictive!” romance you will not be able to put down? The entire series is out! 1-Click Black Edge NOW!
I don’t belong here.
I’m in way over my head. But I have debts to pay.
They call my name. The spotlight is on. The auction starts.
Mr. Black is the highest bidder. He’s dark, rich, and powerful. He likes to play games.
The only rule is there are no rules.
But it’s just one night. What’s the worst that can happen?
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Start Reading Black Edge on the next page!
Chapter 1- Ellie
When the invitation arrives…
“Here it is! Here it is!” my roommate Caroline yells at the top of her lungs as she runs into my room.
We were friends all through Yale and we moved to New York together after graduation.
Even though I’ve known Caroline for what feels like a million years, I am still shocked by the exuberance of her voice. It’s quite loud given the smallness of her body.
Caroline is one of those super skinny girls who can eat pretty much anything without gaining a pound.
Unfortunately, I am not that talented. In fact, my body seems to have the opposite gift. I can eat nothing but vegetables for a week straight, eat one slice of pizza, and gain a pound.
“What is it?” I ask, forcing myself to sit up.
It’s noon and I’m still in bed.
My mother thinks I’m depressed and wants me to see her shrink.
She might be right, but I can’t fathom the strength.
“The invitation!” Caroline says jumping in bed next to me.
I stare at her blankly.
And then suddenly it hits me.
This must be the invitation.
“You mean…it’s…”
“Yes!” she screams and hugs me with excitement.
“Oh my God!” She gasps for air and pulls away from me almost as quickly.
“Hey, you know I didn’t brush my teeth yet,” I say turning my face away from hers.
“Well, what are you waiting for? Go brush them,” she instructs.
Begrudgingly, I make my way to the bathroom.
We have been waiting for this invitation for some time now.
And by we, I mean Caroline.
I’ve just been playing along, pretending to care, not really expecting it to show up.
Without being able to contain her excitement, Caroline bursts through the door when my mouth is still full of toothpaste.
She’s jumping up and down, holding a box in her hand.
“Wait, what’s that?” I mumble and wash my mouth out with water.
“This is it!” Caroline screeches and pulls me into the living room before I have a chance to wipe my mouth with a towel.
“But it’s a box,” I say staring at her.
“Okay, okay,” Caroline takes a couple of deep yoga breaths, exhaling loudly.
She puts the box carefully on our dining room table. There’s no address on it.
It looks something like a fancy gift box with a big monogrammed C in the middle.
Is the C for Caroline?
“Is this how it came? There’s no address on it?” I ask.
“It was hand-delivered,” Caroline whispers.
I hold my breath as she carefully removes the top part, revealing the satin and silk covered wood box inside.
The top of it is gold plated with whimsical twirls all around the edges, and the mirrored area is engraved with her full name.
Caroline Elizabeth Kennedy Spruce.
Underneath her name is a date, one week in the future. 8 PM.
We stare at it for a few moments until Caroline reaches for the elegant knob to open the box.
Inside, Caroline finds a custom monogram made of foil in gold on silk emblazoned on the inside of the flap cover.
There’s also a folio covered in silk. Caroline carefully opens the folio and finds another foil monogram and the invitation.
The inside invitation is one layer, shimmer white, with gold writing.
“Is this for real? How many layers of invitation are there?” I ask.
But the presentation is definitely doing its job. We are both duly impressed.
“There’s another knob,” I say, pointing to the knob in front of the box.
I’m not sure how we had missed it before.
Caroline carefully pulls on this knob, revealing a drawer that holds the inserts (a card with directions and a response card).
“Oh my God, I can’t go to this alone,” Caroline mumbles, turning to me.
I stare blankly at her.
Getting invited to this party has been her dream ever since she found out about it from someone in the Cicada 17, a super-secret society at Yale.
“Look, here, it says that I can bring a friend,” she yells out even though I’m standing right next to her.
“It probably says a date. A plus one?” I say.
“No, a friend. Girl preferred,” Caroline reads off the invitation card.
That part of the invitation is in very small ink, as if someone made the person stick it on, without their express permission.
“I don’t want to crash,” I say.
Frankly, I don’t really want to go.
These kind of upper-class events always make me feel a little bit uncomfortable.
“Hey, aren’t you supposed to be at work?” I ask.
“Eh, I took a day off,” Caroline says waving her arm. “I knew that the invitation would come today and I just couldn’t deal with work. You know how it is.”
I nod. Sort of.
Caroline and I seem like we come from the same world.
We both graduated from private school, we both went to Yale, and our parents belong to the same exclusive country club in Greenwich, Connecticut.
But we’re not really that alike.
Caroline’s family has had money for many generations going back to the railroads.
My parents were an average middle class family from Connecticut.
They were both teachers and our idea of summering was renting a 1-bedroom bungalow near Clearwater, FL for a week.
But then my parents got divorced when I was 8, and my mother started tutoring kids to make extra money.
The pay was the best in Greenwich, where parents paid more than $100 an hour.
And that’s how she met, Mitch Willoughby, my stepfather.
He was a widower with a five-year old daughter who was not doing well after her mom’s untimely death.
Even though Mom didn’t usually tutor anyone younger than 12, she agreed to take a meeting with Mitch and his daughter because $200 an hour was too much to turn down.
Three months later, they were i
n love and six months later, he asked her to marry him on top of the Eiffel Tower.
They got married, when I was 11, in a huge 450-person ceremony in Nantucket.
So even though Caroline and I run in the same circles, we’re not really from the same circle.
It has nothing to do with her, she’s totally accepting, it’s me.
I don’t always feel like I belong.
Caroline majored in art-history at Yale, and she now works at an exclusive contemporary art gallery in Soho.
It’s chic and tiny, featuring only 3 pieces of art at a time.
Ash, the owner - I’m not sure if that’s her first or last name - mainly keeps the space as a showcase. What the gallery really specializes in is going to wealthy people’s homes and choosing their art for them.
They’re basically interior designers, but only for art.
None of the pieces sell for anything less than $200 grand, but Caroline’s take home salary is about $21,000.
Clearly, not enough to pay for our 2 bedroom apartment in Chelsea.
Her parents cover her part of the rent and pay all of her other expenses.
Mine do too, of course.
Well, Mitch does.
I only make about $27,000 at my writer’s assistant job and that’s obviously not covering my half of our $6,000 per month apartment.
So, what’s the difference between me and Caroline?
I guess the only difference is that I feel bad about taking the money.
I have a $150,000 school loan from Yale that I don't want Mitch to pay for.
It’s my loan and I’m going to pay for it myself, dammit.
Plus, unlike Caroline, I know that real people don’t really live like this.
Real people like my dad, who is being pressured to sell the house for more than a million dollars that he and my mom bought back in the late 80’s (the neighborhood has gone up in price and teachers now have to make way for tech entrepreneurs and real estate moguls).
Throne of York Page 15
