The Best of Winter Renshaw - An 8 Book Collection - Winter Renshaw Page 0,16

the centuries-old Carver lighthouse on Miller’s Island at sunset, where I used to take Demi to fish. Or rather, I’d fish and she’d read a book on a blanket beside me.

I grab a carton of eggs from Demi’s Viking refrigerator, check the date, and search for a pan beneath the oven.

“You sure know your way around my kitchen.” She watches my every move.

“Oh, yeah? Do other people keep their eggs in the pantry? Their frying pans in the freezer?” I click a gas burner to medium and pull a spatula from a ceramic canister next to the stove.

“I don’t like eggs.” Her nose wrinkles. She’s so fucking cute, despite the fact that she’s not trying to be. She doesn’t like me making myself at home. I see it written all over her face. But she’s too polite to stop me. Can’t take the well-bred Rosewood out of the girl, no matter how pissed she is at me. “Remember?”

I grip the edges of the white marble counter and hunch my shoulders. “Right. That’s right. You don’t like the smell.”

“The texture.”

“Yeah,” I say, clicking the burner off. “You eat toast still?”

She nods.

“Peanut butter and brown sugar?”

She nods again. “Haven’t had that in forever. You remembered.”

“You’re going to have to tell me where you keep your bread.”

Demi slides off the stool and wanders to the pantry, emerging with a loaf of nine-grain artisan bread and a futuristic toaster that would make a Jetson green with envy. She places them on the center of the island and exhales.

“This is weird. You in my kitchen. Making me breakfast.” Demi’s voice fades into nothing. She bites her lip and stares out the picture window above the breakfast nook.

“What’s weird is that you’re actually being nice to me. Last night you were looking like you wanted to bite my head off.”

Her gaze snaps back to mine. “I still want to bite your head off.”

“Can we do it after we eat? Kinda hungry.”

Demi studies me, returning to her seat. I think she might smile for a second, but that smile never comes. But within minutes, we’re casually eating toast like all of last night never happened.

The scent of brewing coffee fills the frost-colored kitchen after a while. A percolating puff-puff, drip-drip sound comes from a wall by the sink.

“It’s on a timer,” she says.

I glance at the built-in coffeemaker and its fifty thousand knobs.

“Of course it is.” I grab two mugs from a hook by the sink and pour, staring out a window into a manicured backyard. A tarp-covered pool centers the picturesque retreat. “So this is how the other half lives.”

Demi rolls her eyes. “None of this stuff is mine. It’s all his.”

“You live here. It’s yours.” I sip my coffee.

“Not anymore.”

She shakes her head, staring down into her cup and wrapping her hands around it.

“He called the wedding off. The night of the accident. He said he didn’t want to marry me, and he left, his bag packed before I’d even come home from work.” Demi drags a ragged breath across her lips before bringing the mug to pursed lips. “Apparently, I’m a magnet for the love ‘em and leave ‘em kind.”

Her blue eyes lift, meeting mine from across the island. So many things I could say right now, but the timing’s all wrong.

“You ever going to tell me why you left?” Her tone is flat, but her gaze is sharp. It’s a stark reminder of the fact that we’re no better off now than we were last night, when she slammed the door in my face. Just because I took care of her last night and made her breakfast this morning doesn’t mean I’m in her good graces again.

I search for the right words.

But it’s not that simple.

I clear my throat to buy some time.

And by some kind of divine intervention, I’m saved by a knock at the front door.

Demi frowns, climbing off her bar stool and carrying her mug to the front door.

A few seconds later, female voices float from the hall. I can hardly tell them apart. Dark hair filled with shiny, loose waves spilling over an olive green parka is the first thing I see. Next are the unmistakable almond eyes of Delilah Rosewood.

“What. The. Fuck.” Delilah freezes mid-step when she sees me.

“Morning, Delilah.” I lift my cup, offering a brazen toast to this unconventional reunion.

She turns to Demi, tucking her chin against her chest. “Why is he here, and why is he dressed like your fiancé? What is going on? Tell