The Best of Winter Renshaw - An 8 Book Collection - Winter Renshaw Page 0,279

stranger in such a hurtful way.

This morning, on a whim, I decided to send you an email … a few gentle words to let you know you’re not alone in this world, because Lord knows I could’ve used the same thing a year ago.

But now I know I was wrong about you.

You’re cruel for the sake of being cruel.

But all of this said, it doesn’t make me any less sorry for your loss.

Sincerely,

Astaire Carraro

* * *

I hover my mouse over the ‘send’ button, chewing the inside of my lip.

When I sat down to compose this message ten minutes ago, I wanted to vent, to get the words out of my system. I had no intention of sending the thing. But it’s not like I have anything to lose at this point, nor will I likely ever cross paths with him again.

Screw it.

I reach for my wine glass, toss back the remains, and send the damn thing.

Ten

Bennett

* * *

“Oh, good. You are home.” My mother pushes past me Saturday night, showing herself into my apartment. “You weren’t taking my calls after the memorial, so I assumed you were either out and about with one of your female friends. Or you know, the usual … ignoring me.”

“I was just about to step out. Something I can help you with?” I close the door before following her to the wet bar where she proceeds to make herself a vodka cranberry that’s more vodka than cranberry.

My phone vibrates with a call.

A quick glance tells me it’s that social worker from last night.

“I wanted to discuss this ongoing little tiff with your brother.” She places her clutch on the counter before stripping out of her jacket and hanging it on the back of a chair.

“Please, Mother. Don’t trouble yourself.”

She lifts a pencil thin brow. “Trouble myself? Darling, the two of you are my world. It pains me to see how much your father’s death has destroyed your relationship. You were so close before.”

I bite my tongue. My mother was rarely around, rarely involved more than she had to be when we were growing up and this does nothing but solidify that. I’m sure in that delusional, dollar-bill-filled head of hers, we were the best of friends.

Never have been.

Never will be.

Not in this lifetime.

“Don’t you think the silent treatment has gone on long enough?” She spins to face me, eyes as wild as the exotic feathers lining the hood of her jacket. “Five years, Bennett. Five years. All he wants is to be in your life again. And a position at the company.”

I choke on my laughter before capping the vodka on the mini bar.

I’m cutting her off at one drink because she isn’t welcome to stay long enough for two.

“You expect my brother, who can barely keep his art gallery afloat and is now delving into the world of self-help books despite the fact that he’s never taken a psychology class in his life … to help run the corp?”

My mother blinks, expression unreadable.

“You and I both know any salary I’d give him would be spent before the first deposit hits his bank account,” I add. “Not only that, but my receptionist is more qualified for a seat in the boardroom than he is.”

“I think this would be a great learning opportunity for him.” She takes a sip before squaring her shoulders with mine, a hint that she has no intentions of backing down. “You’ve done tremendous things with the company since you joined. You’d be a great inspiration for him.”

“Right. Errol aspires to be just like his little brother someday.”

“I know the two of you can be competitive sometimes …”

“Sometimes.”

“But with the loss of Larissa—” She blinks away false tears.

“—please, Mother. Enough with the act. It’s insulting. I’m well-aware of how you really felt about her.”

Her left hand lifts to her narrow hip and her brows transect. “You only know what you think you know.”

“I know enough.”

She rolls her eyes. “She wasn’t as perfect as you thought she was.”

“I never once implied that she was perfect.”

“Obviously you thought the world of her. You were always rescuing her, helping her.”

My jaw tenses. “Someone had to.”

“Well, I’m just saying … you cared an awful lot about her.”

I don’t correct her.

I didn’t care about her—I pitied her.

Big difference.

“Anyway,” she continues, “I helped her in my own ways over the years. I’ve cleaned up plenty of her messes. I just never felt the need to broadcast them to you to make you feel guilty.”

I squint. “What are you