The Best of Winter Renshaw - An 8 Book Collection - Winter Renshaw Page 0,212

reason I was asking was because I wanted to know if he was going to the charity skate-a-thon this Friday at the Spartans’ rink.

I don’t think he would go and support Bryce’s cause ... but if he does, and he sees me, this will be over, and it’s kind of just starting to get good.

I enjoy Rhett. I have fun with him. And I kind of think, in a weird sort of way, he needs this.

He needs me.

Slipping my arms through my shirt, I pull it over my head and tug it into place. “I’m kind of busy this weekend with ... obligations ... so that’s why I was asking. I have limited availability, is what I’m trying to tell you.”

Rhett saunters toward me with the confidence of George Clooney and Ryan Gosling combined, and his lips pull into a smile that incinerates my core and elevates my heartrate. My gaze locks on his, and I wonder if this will be the last time he’ll ever look at me—like this.

It’s a very real possibility.

I think about telling him the truth.

I think about it every day.

And then I tell myself I’m in too deep; that I missed that exit miles ago.

“You make time for what you want,” he says. “If you want this, you’ll find time for it.”

Yeah. True. But I still need to know if he’s going to be there Friday night.

Lingering in the doorway, the truth bubbles on the edge of my tongue. I should tell him. I should come clean with everything right here, right now. Get it over with. Do the right thing.

“Rhett.” I inhale, practicing the words in my mind.

“Yeah?” He lifts a brow. And then his phone begins to vibrate. With a finger in the air to silence me, he answers. “Hello ... yeah, hey.” He takes a seat. It’s going to be a while.

“I’m leaving,” I whisper. He nods, angling his back toward me as I leave.

I have to end this.

Thirteen

Rhett

* * *

Irena’s face lights up when she spots me from across the room at her favorite restaurant Friday afternoon. She gives a little wave before smiling, and my stomach twists when I realize how much she reminds me of the one woman I’m trying to forget ever existed.

“Hi, sweetheart,” she says, motioning toward the spot across from her. She whispers a quiet thank you to the host, though she’s unable to take her eyes off me. Her fingers flit and fuss with her short dark hair, and she can’t seem to sit still, which isn’t like her. “Thanks so much for meeting me today. I know it was short notice.”

“It’s fine.” I take a seat, reaching for the glass of wine she pre-ordered for me.

Her dark red lips flatten as she exhales, and her eyes search mine. “I’m in the city today handling a few affairs for my daughter’s estate, and I wanted to talk to you about something that has been bothering me for a while now.”

“Okay.”

“There are some things I feel you should know,” she says, eyes flitting to the untouched bread basket between us. “Some things about Damiana.”

I say nothing, and I honestly don’t want to know, but I’m not about to walk out on Irena. She did nothing wrong.

“Last year,” she begins, clearing her throat. Her cheeks grow pink, and she stops herself, offering a nervous smile. “Goodness, I’m getting all worked up.” Her lashes flutter, like she’s blinking away tears, and she looks away for a second. “This is very hard for me to say, Rhett. I want you to know that. I say none of this lightly.”

“Irena, you’re making me anxious here.” I sit up straight, glancing around the room to see if anyone’s paying attention to us, but it’s three in the afternoon and the place is dead.

“Okay, let me try this again.” Her nervous smile fades quickly. “Last year, my daughter found out she was with child.”

The room spins. My ears ring, my chest tightens.

Irena places her slender hand across the table, resting on top of my balled fist. “It wasn’t yours, sweetheart. It was his.”

There’s a tight clench in my jaw that sends pain radiating up the sides of my face.

Not only had she been fucking my best friend, but she’d been doing it since the first year of our relationship. And the sly son of a bitch knocked her up because of course this fucked-up sundae wouldn’t be complete without the proverbial goddamned cherry on top.

“She was so upset,” she says, tacking on