The Evolution of Man (The Trust Fund Duet 2)

“We should talk about the Death Plan, Harper.”

And there it is.

I still can’t believe there’s something even called a Death Plan. Who plans for death? It’s the worst possible outcome, and even if it’s inevitable, even if you see it coming, how can you accept it with something as terrible as Times New Roman printed on cheap inkjet paper?

“I really don’t think I need to talk about it, actually. Bad enough that it exists.”

She doesn’t move out of my way. “The purpose is to make the event easier for you.”

“Easier? Death isn’t supposed to be easy.”

“Maybe not easy, but it doesn’t have to be hard. Death is a natural part of life.”

God. Is that what the Death Plan says? Ten thousand percent glad I haven’t read it. “I know Mom was into this whole hospice, kumbaya, circle-of-life thing, and I respect that, but that doesn’t mean I have to join the club. No leather jacket for me, okay?”

“She would really like you to be on the same page.”

No, it’s not respecting her wishes, but I can’t read that sheet of paper any more than I can stab my eyes with a steak knife. That’s actually looking more and more like a reasonable exit as Freida continues to stand in front of the door to the kitchen.

It may not look like much, but I’m doing the best I can. I’m not fighting for my mother to continue treatment. I’m not begging doctors for favors or circling the world for a new experimental medicine. I’m here to face her death, but I don’t have to read the script.

“You can’t avoid this forever,” she says gently.

“Watch me.”

It strikes me how this is the opposite of Daddy’s death. His will was a secret when he died, taking all of us by surprise. Maybe even him. Instead there’s an actual plan for Mom’s death. There won’t be any surprises, any pain, because dying is just a part of life, right? Unless the paper says, Just kidding, I’m not dying, there’s nothing that can make this easier.

The nurse takes a step back, giving me enough room to squeeze by. “My job isn’t only to care for the dying. I’m here to help the family, too.”

I stare at her, more bemused than frustrated. “Does that ever actually work?”

She pauses for only a moment. “I hope so.”

And I think I’m not the only woman trying to turn straw into gold. I’m not the only woman failing. There are a million impossible tasks we give ourselves, trapped in a room with no way out. Part of me wants to throw my arms around Freida and sob into her warmth. Instead I leave the brownie on the counter and go upstairs to change into something sexy and ill-advised. It’s going to take something a lot stronger to make me forget tonight.

The Den is part gentleman’s club, where socializing happens with liquor and cigars. Part Renaissance salon, where ideas are discussed. And part boardroom, where deals are made.

Both Sutton and Christopher are regulars here, which means I put on my best dress. Even Mom notices the effort, telling me I’ll turn heads tonight. I might not be with either man right now, but I can at least show them what they’re missing. Tonight I need something that shallow. Something that selfish. Something that sweet.

Tonight that means a strapless red gown that flares into an asymmetrical sweep beside my knee. It’s head-turning anywhere, but in the low lamp glow of the Den I’m like a walking, talking beacon to the men around me. There are a hundred eyes on my body as I weave around crinkled leather chairs and thick wood stools.

The first person I recognize is Blue, a man I’ve met here before who runs a security company. He’s standing at the bar, watching the men who watch me. There’s definitely no Sutton, no lazy smile as he waits for me and that drink. Unease curls through my stomach. Did he stand me up?

“Whatever’s on tap,” I tell the bartender, sliding across a twenty.

An assortment of gold and clear liquids line mirrored shelves behind the bar, but I find myself craving the cool froth of a beer. Maybe it was hearing Sutton say the word, that it somehow eroticized an otherwise ordinary drink. He has that effect on more than beverages—the heat of morning across my cheeks, the metal scent of the earth.

All of it becomes the backdrop to his elemental charisma.

A large glass of amber beer appears in front of me, the glass already condensing.

Blue slides the bill back to me. “It’s on me. The least I can do considering I earned many times that spying on you. What makes you so intriguing, Ms. St. Claire?”

So that’s how Christopher knew about my mother. “I’m sure I have no idea. It must be really boring to watch me read books and pick up Thai food.”

“I don’t watch you personally, but I see the reports.”

That makes me snort. “‘She ordered the yellow curry today instead of the red.’”