The Best of Winter Renshaw - An 8 Book Collection - Winter Renshaw Page 0,266

would be cruel.

“No, I get it. Dating is hard. It’s even harder when you’re out of practice.” Placing a hand on my shoulder on her way out, she gives me a reassuring squeeze. “I’m Ophelia, by the way. My father owns this place. Tell Eduardo at the bar that your first drink is on me.”

With that, she’s gone.

I give myself one last glance in the mirror before pulling my shoulders back, collecting my things, and heading out to the bar.

The Killers play from speakers in the ceiling and a group of middle-aged men with slicked hair and expensive suits order a round of tequila shots.

I don’t bother scanning the room in search of Garrett, I head straight for Eduardo at the bar, cashing in my verbal coupon in exchange for a top-shelf gin and tonic, and then I help myself to a handful of pretzels because I haven’t eaten since eleven o’clock today.

Ten minutes later, warmth rushes through me.

My breathing steadies, no longer hitching and uneven.

My shoulders thaw, allowing me to melt comfortably into my seat.

Two spots down, a handsy couple clink martini glasses.

The table of suits and ties are enjoying dark lagers now.

Three women, all dressed in their office casual best, commiserate over bright-colored drinks at a high-top to my left. To my right is an empty stool.

The clock above the door reads six twenty-seven. It would seem I am, in fact, being stood up.

Be careful what you wish for …

“Can I get one more of these?” I lift my glass when Eduardo checks on me.

Tonight I’ll drink to Trevor—to his memory, to what might have been.

A minute later, my old drink is replaced. I don’t particularly like gin and tonics, but they were always Trevor’s go-to. He was never into IPAs or craft beers or Jager-bombs-with-the-guys. And he hated anything remotely sweet. He appreciated the hell out of a nice, top-shelf classic—which was fitting because he was a nice, top-shelf classic.

My eyes begin to burn, but I force it away.

I told myself I wouldn’t cry today.

Lord knows I’ve done more than enough of that over the past twelve months.

Taking a sip, my attention is hijacked by a frigid burst of air that sweeps through the bar and the floor-shaking shudder that follows when the door slams.

Glancing over my shoulder, I spot a dark-haired man, easily six feet tall. He retracts his rain-slicked umbrella and leans it against the wall before stalking toward the bar, and then he steals the last spot on the end—five places down from me, hanging his wool trench coat over the seat back before sitting.

Eduardo greets him, wiping the section in front of him with a clean towel, half hunched over and nodding in quick succession.

I wait until Eduardo returns with the man’s drink—which appears to be a triple shot of straight vodka over two perfect squares of ice in an old-fashioned tumbler—before appropriating a closer look at the mystery man.

Through the shadowy haze of Ophelia’s, my unfocused gaze struggles to home in at first. And then I see him perfectly.

Chiseled cheekbones.

Impeccably-groomed obsidian hair.

Broad shoulders hardly contained in a navy cashmere sweater.

Jawline for days.

Could this be …?

Is that Mrs. Angelino’s nephew?

I take a generous mouthful of gin and tonic, contemplating how best to introduce myself. My palms tingle, and I rub them against the tops of my thighs, sucking in a shallow breath.

There’s a chance this man isn’t Garrett, and the more I think about it, he likely isn’t. I’ve yet to catch him scanning the room in search of someone.

But still—if it is him, I’d hate for him to think he’s being stood up. I would never do that to anyone, for any reason. My life’s mantra can be boiled down to the whole “do unto others …” saying.

Clearing my throat, I lean in his direction. “Excuse me?”

He doesn’t hear me.

Waving my hand to capture his attention, I say it again, “Hi. Excuse me.”

Still, nothing.

It’s like he’s in his own world—ten feet away.

The friendly, kindergarten-teacher smile teetering on my poppy-stained lips fades with the realization that I’m being ignored.

“Hi, excuse me …” Third time’s the charm. I wave once more, wiggling my fingers the way you’d politely flag down a restaurant server.

The man turns to his left, dark brows knit together and gaze tightened in my direction—and then he does the craziest thing: lifting his finger to his lips, he shushes me.

He. Shushes. Me.

Like a child.

Facing ahead, I take another drink, the glass trembling in my hand as a cocktail of thoughts swarm