The Best of Winter Renshaw - An 8 Book Collection - Winter Renshaw Page 0,209

His hair is mussed and sexy, and this room smells like us.

“You can get a hold of me too, you know,” he says. “This agreement of ours, it goes both ways.”

“Good to know.” I pull my shirt over my head and straighten the hem. I’ve got a meeting today with that lawyer Coach Harris connected me with. He’s going to help me set up this foundation for Bryce. “Think I’ll still let you do the calling.”

“Of course you will.”

I flash him a wink and a smart-mouthed smirk, and I show myself out.

By the time I’m outside, he sends me a text.

Thanks For That

Smart ass.

Eleven

Rhett

* * *

I can still smell her perfume as Coach Harris yammers away about something or other this morning. I don’t know. I’m not really listening.

She came by last night, which marked the fourth time in the week that’s passed since we agreed to a no-strings attached arrangement, but she didn’t stay the night because she had a deadline to meet for work and was going to stay up all night finishing her project.

When she left, I stole her pillow, and this morning, I can still smell her.

Let me make this clear: I’m perfectly fine being on my own. In fact, I prefer it. But it’s kind of nice not having to be alone with my thoughts at night. In the evening, when everyone’s doing their own thing or no one wants to go out or people are too busy to reply to your text, a man can get all too acquainted with the thoughts he’d been ignoring for the better part of the day.

But that’s where Ayla comes in.

I take one look at her ... that ass ... those lips ... and I’m one hundred percent distracted.

That’s all she is—a distraction.

And that’s all she’ll ever be.

“Carson, you get that?” Coach barks in my direction. Some of the guys look my way. I overheard a few of them talking about me earlier, shocked that I could just “go on as if it never happened.”

Fuck them.

If they only knew.

“The charity event.” Shane’s on my left, whispering under his breath.

“What charity event?” I whisper back.

“For Bryce,” he says, refusing to make eye contact.

“This Friday,” Coach says. “You’re all to report to the ice at seven o’clock. We’re holding a skate-a-thon in Bryce’s name, in collaboration with the new foundation being established in his honor. Attendance is mandatory.”

In Bryce’s name?

Fuck this shit. I’m out.

My chair makes an awful screeching noise as I push it away from the table, and all eyes are on me. Coach’s wild gray brows furrow, and he’s telling me to get my ass back in there, but I’m gone. I’m done. I’m not doing a damn fucking thing to honor that man.

The narrow hallway walls close in on me, and I can’t breathe.

Sometimes, I can push it all from my mind, forget about it for a while. And other times it hits me, knocking me off my feet and sucking the air from my lungs. No matter how hard I try to ignore it, it’s always there, hanging out in the background of my mind.

Within minutes, I’m on the street, making my way past tourists and passersby, some of whom recognize me and call out my name, but I keep moving.

I have to keep moving.

When you stop and rest and think about everything, when you feel the weight of it all, that’s when you drown. That’s when you sink so deep to the bottom that it’s impossible to claw your way to the top ever again.

Pulling my phone from my pocket, I don’t think twice before texting Ayla.

* * *

Me: WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

* * *

Her: WORKING. DUH.

* * *

Me: I STILL DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT YOU DO. WRITER, RIGHT? WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WRITE?

* * *

Her: MAYBE YOU SHOULD ASK SOMETIME.

* * *

Me: I DON’T DO PILLOWTALK.

* * *

Her: IT’S CALLED CONVERSATION, AND I KNOW YOU DON’T DO PILLOWTALK. I’VE BEEN FUCKING YOU FOR A WEEK NOW AND YOU DON’T EVEN SCREAM MY NAME. KIND OF DISAPPOINTED IF I’M BEING HONEST.

* * *

Me: I CAN SCREAM YOUR NAME IF YOU WANT. I DO TAKE REQUESTS. THOUGH SHOULDN’T YOU BE THE ONE SCREAMING MY NAME?

* * *

Her: PROBABLY.

* * *

Me: YOU DON’T REALLY STRIKE ME AS A SCREAMER ANYWAY.

* * *

Her: YOU’RE PERCEPTIVE. I LIKE THAT IN A FUCK BUDDY.

* * *

Me: COME OVER.

* * *

Her: CAN’T. LOOMING DEADLINE.

* * *

Me: I’LL BUY YOU A LIFETIME SUPPLY OF COFFEE IF YOU GIVE ME AN HOUR