The Best of Winter Renshaw - An 8 Book Collection - Winter Renshaw Page 0,196

tell them no. I can’t walk in here, walk out with my cool three mil, and not give back to the legacy of the man who so bizarrely set me up for the rest of my life.

“Sure,” I say with a breathy smile.

Harris and Charity smile, like I’ve just made their days.

“Just so you know, I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing,” I say.

Harris pulls his phone from his pocket, pressing his chin against his chest as he thumbs through his contacts. Ripping a piece of paper from a notepad a second later, he scribbles down a name and number for me.

“This is the team attorney,” he says. “He’ll help you file any necessary paperwork.” He jots down a second name and number. “And this is a buddy of mine who does a lot of philanthropic work. Anything else you need, you let me know. I’d really like to get the team involved as much as possible, so anytime you need the guys, they’re all yours.”

I rise, unsteady on my feet, and Charity hands me a copy of Bryce’s life insurance information.

“Thank you.” I turn to show myself out, passing a mirror in the hallway.

I sure don’t look like a millionaire.

And I don’t want to act like one either.

My hands tremble as my new reality sends shockwaves straight through me.

I need a cocktail and a good, hard pinch, because so far this feels like a dream I could wake up from at any moment.

The second I hit the pavement outside, I call Bostyn and ask her where I can find the stiffest drinks in all of Manhattan, and she tells me to meet her at The Prescott Club at nine o’clock tonight.

Five

Rhett

* * *

This place is dead, but that’s exactly why I came here. No one in their right mind drinks on a Monday night.

I like this bar.

They know me here.

No one gawks or stares.

They don’t allow patrons to snap pictures.

And I know when I’m ordering top shelf liquor, I’m actually getting top shelf liquor.

“Another one?” the bartender asks, rapping on the wooden counter in front of me. He’s hunched over, lips tight as he tries not to judge me.

“I’m good.” I lift my crystal tumbler, giving proof that the glass is only half empty. Fitting.

“Anything else I can get you?” he asks with his sad little eyes. He knows.

He’s read the articles.

He’s heard the news.

Everybody’s heard the fucking news.

“Yeah,” I chuff. “Can you tell those fucking girls down there to keep it down?”

He turns in their direction, and their annoying little giggles waft our way like high-pitched pollution. Seven empty bar stools separate us, but even an ocean wouldn’t be enough at this point.

“Can’t do that, Rhett. I’m sorry.” The bartender lifts a white rag, wiping at an imaginary speck of dust on the counter. “They’re paying customers, and they’re not making too much noise. You want to go to the back room, get away for a bit?”

I huff. No, I don’t want to go to the back fucking room.

I don’t want to sit in a red-carpeted VIP lounge all by myself like a goddamned, self-important loser.

I toss back the remainder of my drink, sliding the empty glass his way, and he nods in silent understanding.

The girls haven’t stopped chatting since they sat down. They’re talking about flowers. Engagement rings. Dresses.

Fuck my life.

“An old fashioned, please.” A dark-haired beauty with red lips takes a seat two spots down from me. She places a little black clutch on the bar and brushes her bangs from her eyes, revealing two pools of hazel lined in black.

“That’s a man’s drink.” It takes a moment for me to realize I’m the asshole speaking those words.

She whips her attention toward me. “Excuse me?”

“An old fashioned,” I say. “What are you, an eighty-year-old man?”

She exhales, rolling her pretty eyes. I’ve always been a sucker for pretty eyes. The second she looks away, I steal a chance to take in the rest of her. Tight, curved body wrapped in head-to-toe black. Sexy heels that come to a point at the toe. Her breasts spill from her top just enough to make a man’s gaze linger a bit too long. She must be meeting someone for drinks. No one comes to a bar dressed like that just because.

A second later, she’s pulling her phone out, pressing the power button and groaning at the blank screen. When the bartender returns with her drink, I hear her ask if he has a phone charger, but he gives an