Ambitious. Intense. Irresistible.
The Evolution of Man, the stunning conclusion to the Trust Fund Duet by New York Times bestselling author Skye Warren, is live!
I never wanted to fall for man.
And definitely not two men.
They tear me apart until I don’t know how I’ll ever be whole again.
Until I’m not sure I want to be. How can I choose between two halves of myself?
The Evolution of Man is the second novel in the USA Today bestselling duet, which begins with Survival of the Richest.
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Excerpt
“Good evening,” he says, as casually as if he saw me last week instead of six months ago.
“Christopher,” I say, in case he hasn’t noticed. A table like this is reserved for VIPs or very special guests. Or ones with deep pockets. “This is the chef’s table. We’re sitting at the chef’s table in Koi.”
“Is that good? I thought they just ran out of regular tables.”
“Did you just make a joke. Oh my God. You did.”
The chef chooses that moment to introduce himself, a rather effusive man with a comforting smile and a thick Japanese accent. He says he’ll forgive that we drink champagne as long as we try the sake pairing he sends with every course. And he personally serves the amuse bouche, a tuna sashimi lollie on a fennel cilantro salad with ponzu dressing that makes me moan despite myself.
“Dear God,” I say when we’re alone again, my eyes still closed with the wonder of that single bite. There’s salt and citrus, and basically this is what heaven tastes like. “Did you spend all two billion dollars to get this table? Because it’s worth it.”
When I open my eyes Christopher is watching me, a strange expression on his face. He hasn’t touched the plate in front of him. He seems more interested in the way that I dip my finger in the ponzu dressing and lime foam to savor the last drops. I’m not sure that love is on the table, but if the glitter in his eyes is anything to go by, sex is definitely an option.
“One billion,” he says, almost absently.
I blink. “What?”
“Only one billion is mine. The other half belongs to Sutton.”
It’s like a bucket of cold water dumped over my head. “Why did you bring me here?”
One dark eyebrow rises. “You’re the one who insisted we meet in person.”
“And you’re the one who brought me here.”
The long pause that follows isn’t filled with hearts and roses. He does not secretly love me, and I feel like a fool for even considering the possibility. Because he took me out to dinner? It’s really a good thing I don’t date much, because I’m terrible at it.
“I invested in the restaurant,” he says finally. “It helps to have your take.”
“Because I have such a refined palate?”
“Because you were born rich,” he says, his voice flat. “You know what rich people like.”
It takes my breath away, and I’m left staring at him with the most incredible taste on my tongue. That’s all I am to him? A rich girl with nothing better to do with my time than give him advice on his new restaurant? Meanwhile I was gullible enough to think he actually wanted to spend time with me. It isn’t right. It isn’t fair, but then Christopher Bardot has never played fair.
“Christopher,” I say, in case he hasn’t noticed. A table like this is reserved for VIPs or very special guests. Or ones with deep pockets. “This is the chef’s table. We’re sitting at the chef’s table in Koi.”
“Is that good? I thought they just ran out of regular tables.”
“Did you just make a joke. Oh my God. You did.”
The chef chooses that moment to introduce himself, a rather effusive man with a comforting smile and a thick Japanese accent. He says he’ll forgive that we drink champagne as long as we try the sake pairing he sends with every course. And he personally serves the amuse bouche, a tuna sashimi lollie on a fennel cilantro salad with ponzu dressing that makes me moan despite myself.
“Dear God,” I say when we’re alone again, my eyes still closed with the wonder of that single bite. There’s salt and citrus, and basically this is what heaven tastes like. “Did you spend all two billion dollars to get this table? Because it’s worth it.”
When I open my eyes Christopher is watching me, a strange expression on his face. He hasn’t touched the plate in front of him. He seems more interested in the way that I dip my finger in the ponzu dressing and lime foam to savor the last drops. I’m not sure that love is on the table, but if the glitter in his eyes is anything to go by, sex is definitely an option.
“One billion,” he says, almost absently.
I blink. “What?”
“Only one billion is mine. The other half belongs to Sutton.”
It’s like a bucket of cold water dumped over my head. “Why did you bring me here?”
One dark eyebrow rises. “You’re the one who insisted we meet in person.”
“And you’re the one who brought me here.”
The long pause that follows isn’t filled with hearts and roses. He does not secretly love me, and I feel like a fool for even considering the possibility. Because he took me out to dinner? It’s really a good thing I don’t date much, because I’m terrible at it.
“I invested in the restaurant,” he says finally. “It helps to have your take.”
“Because I have such a refined palate?”
“Because you were born rich,” he says, his voice flat. “You know what rich people like.”
It takes my breath away, and I’m left staring at him with the most incredible taste on my tongue. That’s all I am to him? A rich girl with nothing better to do with my time than give him advice on his new restaurant? Meanwhile I was gullible enough to think he actually wanted to spend time with me. It isn’t right. It isn’t fair, but then Christopher Bardot has never played fair.
About Skye
Skye Warren is the New York Times bestselling author of dangerous romance such as the Endgame trilogy. Her books have been featured in Jezebel, Buzzfeed, USA Today Happily Ever After, Glamour, and Elle Magazine. She makes her home in Texas with her loving family, sweet dogs, and evil cat.
