His Wicked Christmas Wager. Annie BurrowsЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Prologue

      Eighteen Months Ago

      Tucker

      I sat on my bed in the room I shared with another student, enjoying a rare moment of solitude. I didn’t actually mind having a roommate, but she was the fourth one I’d had in six months. She wasn’t someone I called a friend. Living in Residence Hall Three—the official name for our dorm—provided little opportunity to be alone. Even when the odd time did arise, more often than not, I avoided it by spending my spare waking moments with Mark.

      I sighed a little when I thought about him—the icing on my cake.

      Smart, dependable Mark, who had his life mapped out in the most perfect way possible. I’d spent my whole life trying to escape from unpredictable moments, and I think Mark’s predictability drew me to him even more than any kind of physical attachment. I was in my second year at Juniper College, but I met Mark on my first day. I hadn’t noticed him as particularly striking, and his horn-rimmed glasses had made me smile to myself when he wasn’t looking. But we were both studying environmental law, and we got to know each other through group projects and our common interests. The beautiful thing about our relationship wasn’t its ease. It was its productivity. Our dates weren’t just dinners and dancing, they were meaningful protests for important causes and petitions sent to politicians. We wanted to end poverty and hunger and carve out a greener planet. Mark was kind and steady, and his beliefs lined up with mine so perfectly that it was almost like we were made for each other.

      My childhood was marked with enough unpredictability, provided almost exclusively by my father, and compounded by my mother’s enabling personality. Drug addictions led to drug debts. Drug debts kept us living in a tiny, one-bedroom apartment, and tore apart the possibility of any kind of relationship with my mother, turning it into something that seemed beyond repair.

      I spent hours—days, even—at the local youth center, seeking respite from the continuous stream of unhappiness.

      The only sliver of hope had come when my father disappeared. I didn’t know if he was dead, or just gone. I tried not to care if he was either, because suddenly my mom’s two jobs were enough to pay the bills. My belongings no longer went missing, only to turn up at the pawnshop three blocks from home. Strange women didn’t call our house, making my mom cry when they asked for “Paulie, baby,” and menacing men didn’t sit on our stoop, waiting for a payday that was more likely to wind up in broken fingers than actual cash.

      I still wanted to get out, and suddenly it seemed possible.

      I buckled down at school, pulling grades that would have been unachievable if my father’s life had still been interfering with mine. And once it was in my sight, college became an imperative thing, rather than a choice, and I had made it happen.

      At Juniper College, I was only eight miles away from my devastating childhood, but I was on my way to becoming the adult I’d always wanted to be.

      So Mark…studious, sweet, smart Mark was the icing on the cake that was my new life. He didn’t make my heart pound, or my mind spin, but that was perfect. I wanted nothing to do with emotional outbursts or irrational behavior.

      As I thought about it, my short-term aloneness in my room suddenly seemed a little lonely after all, and I kind of wished he hadn’t begged off to study.

      I was relieved when the door squeaked open.

      “I hope you have chips,” I said as I turned to greet my roommate.

      The rest of whatever I’d been going to say died in my throat when I caught the look on her face. It was ashen.

      “What’s wrong?” I asked immediately.

      She shook her head and handed me a piece of newspaper. I frowned. I recognized the letterhead as one from the local paper. I scanned it, and panic reared in my chest. Select words jumped off the page, lodging in my brain. Stonewood Gate Apartments. Twenty-one dead. Estranged husband. Drug and alcohol abuse suspected. Fire. And the headline: No Survivors.

      I dropped the article like it was burning.

      “Tucker.”

      I heard her say my name, but I was already on the move. People stared as I ran through the common area on our floor in nothing but pajama shorts and an ill-fitting tank top, but I didn’t care. I needed to get to something solid. Something