The Best of Winter Renshaw - An 8 Book Collection - Winter Renshaw Page 0,298

a sip of water just in time to glance outside and spot none other than Astaire Carraro crossing the street. From the looks of it, she’s leaving the Elmhurst Theatre. I check my watch. What the hell would she be doing there this early on a Saturday morning?

Her pale hair is piled into a messy bun on top of her head. A Styrofoam coffee cup is cozied in one hand, a plaid scarf is wrapped around her neck, and a slouchy suede bag hangs across her body.

She crosses the street with a group of pedestrians, heading this way.

An errant heartbeat trills in my chest.

“Apologies.” I stand, secure the button on my jacket, and push my chair in. “But something just came up.”

My mother’s brows knit. If she’s about to protest, she stops herself. I’m sure she knows it’s best that I leave now before I dredge up any more of the muck and mire she’s spent the past five years burying.

“Beth and Errol … best of luck.” I head to the lobby, grab my coat from the coat check, and dash outside, barely catching her before she makes it to the next crosswalk. “Astaire.”

She doesn’t look up or over or around. She stares straight ahead. When I get closer, I spot her white ear pods.

“Excuse me,” I squeeze between a woman walking a poodle and a man aimlessly scrolling the Wall Street Journal on his phone, and then I tap her shoulder.

She turns to glance over her shoulder just as the light flashes white and the small mob begins to cross.

Astaire’s jaw slacks and she plucks an ear bud out of her ear. “Oh, come on.”

“For the record, I wasn’t following you.” I lift my palms, walking in tandem with her. “I was at Peridot having brunch and I saw you from the window …”

“Convenient.” She lifts her hand to her ear, but I lower it.

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay … after last night.”

“Most people … I don’t know … call or text,” she says. “They don’t borderline stalk.”

The woman with the poodle cranes her neck and shoots me a look.

“I’m serious. I just want to know if you’re okay.”

“Sure you do.” She sips her coffee, her fingers protruding out of her knit gloves. A hint of pink lip balm colors the white lid, signifying where her lips have been.

God, those lips.

Full, soft pillows I’d do anything to taste again …

After she bolted last night, I texted Deidre from 6A, thinking I could close my eyes and pretend she was Astaire for the sake of mentally finishing what I’d started, only when she showed up, she’d dyed her hair shit-brown, started peeling off her clothes before my door was shut, and told me she had twenty minutes before she had to meet some guy off Tinder for drinks.

I immediately lost my hard on, told her to get dressed, and sent her back to the sixth floor without another word.

I need the real thing.

I need Astaire.

And last night, I almost had her.

Almost.

That’s what I get for being honest, for telling her up front that it wasn’t anything more than sex.

It’s quite the conundrum I’m facing: Astaire Carraro needs to be wined and dined before she’ll let a man inside of her, and I need to be inside of Astaire Carraro.

“What are you doing this Friday?” I ask.

She shoots me a squint.

Or maybe it’s a wince. A painful wince.

Either way, it’s not enough to deter me.

“I want to take you out.” I nudge her arm with mine, an attempt at being playful and lighthearted, which is arguably a foreign language for me. “On a date. A real date.”

“No.”

I cough out a laugh. “No? Just … no?”

“No.” She walks faster.

I match my pace to hers. “Any particular reason?”

Her lips twist at one side. “Because it’s a bad idea.”

I slip my hand around her elbow and pull her aside, out of the pack of strangers surrounding us, and I find a section of brick outside an abandoned storefront.

“I can’t undo your first impression of me.” I capture her curious gaze. “Or your second. Or your third. But I would be remiss if I didn’t try to show you a better time.”

Astaire grips her coffee with both hands, chewing the inner corner of her mouth. “We’re night and day, you and me. And I know you’re only after one thing.”

“You don’t know that.”

“You said so last night. You told me I knew why you really invited me over …”

Fair enough. “All