The Best of Winter Renshaw - An 8 Book Collection - Winter Renshaw Page 0,294

I’ve invited you into my home and I’ve offered to make you a drink, and I don’t do that for just anyone.”

“I won’t be staying long. I just came by because I thought you needed … something.”

Why, yes. I do need something …

I fix myself a whiskey sour, stirring with my finger before licking the excess. And then I grab her a bottle of Evian from the bar fridge under the counter. She accepts the water but leaves it capped, and then she follows me into the living room where she takes a seat on the cognac Chesterfield across from the fireplace.

“I owe you an apology,” I say.

Her brows lift and she brushes a glossy blonde wave off her shoulder, sitting straighter, ears practically perked like a Welsh Corgi.

“I had someone do some digging,” I go on. “Your story checks out. All of it. And I’m sorry for your losses.”

Her nose scrunches. “And you couldn’t have emailed me this apology?”

“First of all, it’s proper etiquette. Second of all, I didn’t want the message to get lost in translation.” I take a sip to hide my smirk. I shouldn’t be laughing. My apology is sincere, but that deer-in-the-headlights look she’s giving me is an amusing distraction of endearing proportions.

Astaire stands, her bag still tucked under her arm.

“Thank you. I appreciate the hospitality and the apology, but I’ve got to go.”

“Hot date tonight?” I drink her in, from the top of her shiny, freshly-pressed waves to her tight black sweater and even tighter jeans, to the warmed scent of flowers wafting off her soft skin.

There’s a chance she dressed like this because she’s going out later.

There’s a bigger chance she dressed like this for me.

She doesn’t answer.

“Please tell me you’re not meeting up with Mushroom Dick again.” I laugh through my nose. “Because you can do a hell of a lot better than that.”

“What are you doing, Bennett? What is this?” She studies me, jaw clenched, baby blue gaze cutting through the space between us. “Are you trying to be charming? Are you trying to make amends? What do you want from me?”

“Don’t worry about what I want. This isn’t about me,” I lie.

Kind of.

This is about both of us.

I have something she wants. She has something I want.

It’s a zero-sum game we’re playing, even if she doesn’t realize it yet.

A win for me … is a win for her.

Astaire gathers a hard breath before letting it go. “I don’t have time for this, Bennett. Tell me what you really want or I’m leaving.”

“I want you to be angry with me,” I say without pause. “I want you to tell me how you really feel. I’ve said some terrible things to you. Treated you unkindly. I want you to feel all the things you never let yourself feel because you’re too busy being high on life. So go ahead, Astaire. Hate me. Tell me exactly what you think of me.”

“What? No.” Her arms fold across her chest.

“I was cruel to you. Beyond cruel. You shared personal things with me and in turn, I insulted you. You have every reason to detest me. And you should.”

“It was a misunderstanding. I’m not going to hate you for that.” There’s misplaced gentleness in her eyes; gentleness I don’t deserve.

“You see, that’s your problem, Astaire.” I take a sip. “You’re much too soft in a world full of jagged edges.”

The innocence in her eyes reminds me of a much younger Larissa.

So full of hope and unshakable optimism.

This life eats people like them for breakfast.

“I disagree. I think the world is soft and people like you are the jagged edges. You go around cutting and destroying all the good.” She’s pointing at me. This is good. It’s a start.

“Clearly you’re annoyed with me. Why not take it a step further?” I move closer, helping myself to one of her angelic blonde waves before letting it fall to her shoulder. Inhaling her sweet scent, I add, “Life has dealt you a shitty hand, Astaire.”

“And your point?”

“It isn’t healthy to bottle all that rage.”

“It is when there’s no rage to be bottled.” She doesn’t miss a beat. Could be it’s a line she practices out loud to herself in front of the mirror at home until she believes it.

“It doesn’t make you angry that your parents loved drugs more than you? That no one wanted to adopt you until you were fourteen? That the woman who finally adopted you had a handful of good years with you before she