The Best of Winter Renshaw - An 8 Book Collection - Winter Renshaw Page 0,318

throat, force down any worries of this exploding in our faces. “If that’s what you want, Bennett … then I’d be honored.”

He exhales, like he was worried I wouldn’t agree. And then he kisses me. Hard. Grateful.

“I know we both got screwed in the family department.” I sweep a dark hair from his brow. “But in a way, this is our chance to have our own makeshift little family. We can have our own rules. We’ll be good to each other. We can even have traditions if you want. No matter what happens between us, I’ll always be there for the two of you. I promise you.”

Bennett lifts my hand to his mouth, depositing a light kiss. “Thank you.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll call my attorney first thing Monday and have him draft the paperwork immediately.”

His urgency catches me off guard, but I don’t question it. He strikes me as a man who likes to be prepared. I’m sure it’s nothing more than that.

“Linda and I didn’t have a lot of Christmases together, but we had this one tradition … on Christmas Eve, we’d get peppermint hot cocoas and drive around for hours looking at all the Christmas lights, singing Christmas songs at the top of our lungs.” I smile. “And on Valentine’s Day, she always got me a mother-daughter card. I thought it was strange at first, but she told me Valentine’s Day is about love, and love comes in all varieties. Every summer, we’d spend three weeks in Marco Island, Florida, visiting her sister and staying in a condo right on the beach. I always asked her why three weeks. She was off the whole summer, being a teacher and all, and she told me she loved her sister but that was about as much time the two of them could spend together without ripping each other’s hair out.”

Bennett laughs through his nose.

“Did you have any traditions in your family?” I ask.

“None.”

“Nothing? Really?”

“Nothing like that,” he says. His voice is colored in melancholy and his eyes are glassy, though I don’t think he realizes it.

Peeling the blanket from our laps, I climb onto his lap and cup his face in my hands. “We’ll have to start some of our own then.”

I kiss him, inhaling his woodsy scent.

“I’m afraid I wouldn’t know where to begin,” he says.

I kiss him again. “That’s where I come in …”

His hands hook my hips, pulling me against him as his hardness grows. There’s hunger, greed in the way his mouth crushes mine, and my fingers tangle through his thick hair.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he whispers, lips grazing mine. Hands sliding beneath my ass, he lifts me from the sofa and carries me to his room where we make love like we’ve got all the time in the world—each of us silently aware that tomorrow is never a promise.

Thirty-Two

Bennett

* * *

“What are you doing here?” Astaire’s face is lit as I walk into her darkened classroom Monday afternoon. She’d mentioned before that the kids go to lunch from 11 AM to 11:25 AM with a twenty-minute recess afterward, and I was in the area, so the timing worked.

“I was at the bookstore down the road.” I place a giftwrapped book on her desk—an old favorite filled with Marcus Aurelius’ philosophy. “Thought I’d try to catch you for a few minutes.”

“Thank you.” She places her hand on the book but leaves it wrapped. “You keeping busy today?”

“Trying.”

“You haven’t been to the office, have you?” she asks.

I sniff. “Of course not.”

Rising, she comes around her desk and wraps me in one of her trademark soft hugs. I’m realizing more and more that everything—and everyone—she touches, she treats as though it’s fragile, the only one of its kind.

My hands cinch her waist. I pull her into me and steal a kiss. “You coming over tonight?”

She fights a smile. “How are you not sick of me yet? We spent the entire weekend together …”

“I’ve been asking myself that exact question all day,” I say. “But the offer stands.”

“I’ll be there.” She kisses me, quick, and steps away as a bell chimes over the speakers. “My kids are coming back from recess. Thanks for the gift. I’ll see you tonight.”

I return to my waiting car and tell George to take me home.

Thirty-Three

Astaire

* * *

“Excuse me …”

I’m at the grocery store Monday evening, grabbing a few things for dinner before heading to Bennett’s, when there’s a tap on my shoulder. Turning, I try not to choke on the sharp