The Best of Winter Renshaw - An 8 Book Collection - Winter Renshaw Page 0,260

hot pink sweater.

“Ayla, I’m wondering if you can tell me why you made Stassi so unlikeable in Hard Hearted?” she asks. “You’re a great writer, but I couldn’t get past her attitude. Loved James though. He was perfect.”

“Aw, I’m sorry you didn’t like Stassi,” Ayla says. “I wanted her to be sassy and spunky, and maybe I went a little overboard with her personality. I know sometimes she was super blunt and didn’t really filter her opinions. Maybe you’ll like Ariana better? In Cold Hearted? She’s a bit softer. Big heart. Very emotional. Probably too emotional…”

A fourth person takes the mic. “Are they going to make Hard Hearted into a movie?”

Ayla smiles. “I don’t know. I hope so. I guess the right people need to see it? It’s only a few months old, so who knows. Anything can happen.”

The worker scans the dimly lit room and eyes a woman a couple spots to my left with her hand wagging in the air as she bounces on her toes.

“Yes, Ayla, hi,” she says, breathless and smiling. “I’m Nicole from Baltimore, Maryland, and I was wondering if you’re single? Because you would be perfect for my little brother!”

The crowd laughs and Ayla blushes.

“I am single,” she says.

“Perfect! I’ll give you his number after this,” Nicole says.

My chest squeezes, I can’t take this anymore.

My hand flies into the air and I make direct eye contact with the shop employee, motioning for her to come my way.

The second the mic is in my hand, my heart thuds and everything around me goes black except for her. The spotlight moves to me, and I feel its subtle heat.

“Hi, Ayla,” I say, my stare piercing across the room. “Rhett. From Philadelphia.”

She’s frozen, eyes fastened on mine and face white as a ghost.

“In your book, Cold Hearted, which I was fortunate enough to read in advance,” I say, feeling the collective weight of the jealous stares around me. “I was wondering if you could tell us how much of your book was inspired by real life.”

Her eyes flash and then narrow. She thinks it’s a trick question.

“I used to think some of it was,” she says after careful consideration. “But I can confidently say that it’s purely a work of fiction. You’d be hard pressed to find a real life version of either of my characters.”

“Are you sure?” I ask. “Because they felt so real to me. It felt like I knew them. Personally.”

She flushes and glances away, fidgeting.

“Maybe a small part of Reed is based on someone I knew a long time ago,” she says with a sigh. “But Reed and this guy, they’re nothing alike. Night and day.”

“Another question, if I may,” I say when the employee tries to take the mic back. “Are you still in contact with this man? The one who inspired the character in your book?”

Her gaze narrows. “I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

“In Cold Hearted, Reed tells Ariana he loves her constantly, every chance he gets. I was wondering if Reed—the real Reed—ever told you he loved you?” I ask.

She doesn’t blink, she only stares straight ahead. The room is silent until she clears her throat.

“Never,” she says. “We never got to that point. I told him. Many times. He never said it back.”

“Is it possible,” I ask, “that Reed was in a bad place at the time? That maybe he loved you, but he didn’t know how to say it because it meant giving up control of the one thing in his life he could protect—his ice-cold heart?”

“Anything’s possible.” Ayla tucks her dark waves behind one ear.

“Have you spoken to him recently? Maybe he’s ready to tell you? Maybe he wants to apologize for being such an asshole? Maybe he’s ready to finally go deep with you.”

She tucks her chin against her chest.

“I love you, Ayla,” I say as she glances up. “I’m sorry. I messed up.”

All eyes are on me now. The woman in front of me is dabbing at her happy tears with a tissue and the one to my left is glaring like I’m some sort of monster.

“Kiss him!” someone yells from the back of the room, and suddenly everything blurs into the background.

I’m squeezing between aisles and rows and chairs and women, pushing my way to the front of the room where I climb onto the small stage and storm the podium where the love of my life stands motionless, paralyzed.

Cupping her cheek in my hand, I slide my fingers along the nape of