If there is one book you should read this year, Everest is on the top of that list. - Becky, Goodreads
Everest is 100% S.L. Scott perfection. Fantastic writing, complex characters, beautiful love story, and a sprinkling of mystery and suspense - Bestselling Author, Andrea Johnston, Goodreads
I just read a love story that will stay with me forever! - Eileen, Goodreads
If there is one read you should pick-up this year, make it this one. It will completely wreck you in the best possible way! - Misty, Goodreads
Plenty of action, dash of heartbreak and great supporting characters. - Michelle, Goodreads
This book had EVERYTHING! Romance, joy, deep friendship, laughter, drama, suspense, gut wrenching grief, sadness, true love and just really beautiful feelings! - Athena, Goodreads
S.L. Scott sucks us readers into the story with her beautiful storytelling and she does a fabulous job with this book. - Rhonda, Goodreads
From the Back Cover
Except her. Blue dress. Red lips. Hair the color of a golden sunset in winter.
Several girls made themselves more than available. I was offered a fast fuck in the bathroom within fifteen minutes of arriving. Fantasies may be taking over, but there's only one woman who catches my eyes--the demure beauty sitting on the couch.
I want to stare at her.
She'll see me though.
I want to sit next to her.
There are no more spots on the small futon.
I want to talk to her.
What do I say when she makes all the blood rush from my brain and shoot straight to my dick? Damn, I want her.
She's given me no reason to think of her naked beneath me. No indication that I should have dirty thoughts about those delectable lips. Absolutely no sign that I could have the pleasure of stroking her bare back while I take her from behind.
While images of her cloud my thoughts, I'm not sure I have a shot in hell of even taking up a minute of her time, much less a night. Nope, not one clue if I have a chance with this beauty.
I'll take the risk, something I'm adept at doing. More often than not I win in the end. She won't be an easy target, but nothing worth having ever is. I'm determined to find out if her tongue is as seductive as her eyes.
Although she brings out my instinctive side, this is not about sex and passing time. It's about spending time with someone who challenges my mind while turning on my body.
Nudging the guy who lives here, I signal across the room and ask, "What's her name?"
"Who?" He follows my gaze. "The hottie on the couch?"
Heart-shaped face, flawless skin, ample tits, hourglass shape at her waist. She's not built like a girl who doesn't eat. She's shaped like a woman I want to meet. "Yeah."
"Dariya Rostavik. She's fucking hot." He pats my shoulder. "And single. If my girlfriend wasn't here, I'd be all over that."
"Cuz you're an asshole." Her name, Dariya, rolls around my mouth, spikey instead of rolling off the tongue naturally. The name doesn't fit her.
"Pretty much." He laughs. "You gonna hit it, Everest?"
"I don't know." I feign interest to him, lying to get his eyes off her. "Fuck, they scored again." My diversion works, and his attention is back on the big screen.
The truth is, I don't know if I'm going to hookup with her. I've caught her looking at me when she thinks I don't notice. But is she looking at me the way I'm looking at her?
Was I busted moving closer when she was talking to her friend? Did she see me eavesdropping to hear her voice? Did she notice when I joined a conversation behind her to be closer? Or that I stepped out of the way of the fridge when she wanted a bottle of water?
I never get shot down by women. I've lived on easy street when it comes to my looks and, from what I'm told, my personality, attracting the most attractive. Something tells me I might be rejected by her.
She's not like the other girls here. Nothing about her fits in this environment--a party with a bunch of guys getting drunk while watching sports and yelling at the TV and girls dragged here by their boyfriends or convinced by their friends to stop by.
She's an innocent among sycophants. Everyone wants something from me, except her. Sexy and smart--speaks right to my heart.
I catch her eyes on me again. This time I stare back until she looks away with a pretty pink coloring her cheeks.
This game with her is much more interesting than the one on TV. I follow her with my eyes as she gets up and joins a group by the window. She seems to know the other girl, but not so much the two guys.
Good, I inwardly growl.
Keith hits me in the chest. "Who do you have your eyes on?"
"The woman by the window."
My best friend shakes his head. "No. Check out eleven o'clock. She's a model from Romania. Hot as fuck."
"Not interested. I want more than a fuck."
"I'm sorry. Have we met?" His sarcasm is as annoying as he's been lately at the office.
"I'm for real."
"So am I."
I exhale and shoot him a glare. "I really am. I can fuck anyone. I want to spend time with someone who interests me."
"You're working too much. You're so caught up in your head lately you're missing what life is really about."
Crossing my arms over my chest, I indulge him. "And what is life really about?"
"Doing everything in your power to get it while the gettin's good."
"Are we talking about business or women?"
The model is hot, but I feel like I've been there done that. I don't care what he wants. He can have shallow, meaningless relationships. They're more hassle than they're worth.
Glancing toward the woman outside, an ease comes over me, releasing some of the pent-up pressure that's been expanding lately. "You go for the model. I'll go for Dariya."
"Dariya?" I'm knocked on the arm, and he points toward the couch. "That's Dariya, man."
"Yeah," he says, laughing.
Thank f*ck I didn't go outside and call the beauty by the wrong name. "I'll be back." I grab two cans and head toward the window. I stop briefly by the group she was talking to prior, but they're buried deep into a conversation about American consumerism. I'm not interested in their philosophical views on finances. The only thing I'm interested in is the pretty woman sitting alone outside. The woman excuses herself and I ask, "Hey, you guys know her name?"
They look outside. "Singer."
"She's a singer?"
"No," he says, chuckling. "Her name is Singer. Singer Davis. She came here with her friend, Melanie, who just left."
I don't hear most of what he says because I'm stuck on the woman with the red lips. Singer. Singer Davis. "Thanks."
Singer's been sitting on that fire escape by herself long enough to not feel like I'm invading her space, like she's taken over my thoughts. I seize the moment and climb out.
This is where our story begins . . .