The Best of Winter Renshaw - An 8 Book Collection - Winter Renshaw Page 0,341

about you because he would’ve found a way to exploit that, to leverage it against me.”

“Yeah, but he doesn’t know me. And I’ve got nothing to hide …” I haven’t a single skeleton in my closet, and I’ve never been embroiled in anything remotely scandalous. There’s nothing his brother could dig up on me.

“You don’t know Errol or what he’s capable of. He’s a sociopath. He has no moral compass. A skilled manipulator who feels he’s one step above the law. And my mother’s twice as bad. They make an awful team. There’s no telling what they’d do if it meant getting what they want—and they want Honor out of the picture.”

I glance at the house once more, and a chill runs through me. “Can we get out of here?”

“Of course.” He releases my hand and shifts into drive.

We’re a solid mile away before either of us speaks again.

“Do you understand why I had to say what I said?” he asks. “I had to protect Honor. I had to protect you.”

I nod. If what he’s saying is true … and my gut feeling is that it is … then it makes perfect sense.

“I’m sorry you had to hear that. And I’m sorry that you’ve spent the last several days doubting if what we have is real, but I swear to you, Astaire. It’s the realest thing I’ve ever felt. I can’t tell you how to feel, but it’s real for me.” We stop at a red light when he retrieves a large white envelope, folded in half, from the visor above. “This is for you.”

The envelope is blank on the outside. I peel it open and slide out a stack of papers, all of them with an attorney’s logo on top.

The first line says PURCHASE AGREEMENT.

“What is this?” I ask.

The light turns green, and we coast ahead.

“Just read it,” he says.

The paperwork is dated from this past Saturday.

I scan the legalese until I get to the line that clearly states the ELMHURST THEATRE is henceforth owned by ASTAIRE CARRARO.

“Oh my God.” I let the papers fall in my lap.

“You love that place,” he says. “You’d mentioned during the tour that the owners were thinking of selling, so I did some checking around with all my free time the last couple of weeks. Turns out they had a pocket listing on it with one interested buyer who had every intention of tearing it down and replacing it with condos.”

“You saved the Elmhurst …” I swipe away a single happy tear before interlacing my fingers with his. “You’re a saint. Really. You have no idea how much this means to me. But I don’t have the means to refurbish it … I don’t have the—”

“—I’ve set aside a trust that should generate enough in interest to cover the ongoing maintenance. I’ve also set aside an account to cover the refurbishments, current and unanticipated.”

It makes sense now why the owners didn’t send out an email. I bet Bennett asked them to keep it quiet because he wanted to be the one to tell me.

“Also, were you aware that the three floors above the theatre had been used as storage space for the past twenty years?” he asks.

“I guess? We never had any reason to go up there.”

“Honor and I toured the place last weekend, and we think it would make a wonderful place to live.”

“What …?”

“That neighborhood is in an up-and-coming area, family friendly, close to her school, plenty of parks …” he says. “She doesn’t need to grow up in a penthouse. She needs to grow up in a home. So we’re going to make it a home, and we’d be honored if you would join us in that process.”

“Are you asking me to move in with you?”

“I am.” He turns to me.

“Wow.” I lean back in my warm seat, watching the gray world blur past.

“I know it’s a lot to take in at once. And I want you to know that I don’t expect an answer right away,” he says. “And regardless of what you choose, the theatre and everything that comes with it … is my gift to you.”

I think back to my conversation with Ophelia last Friday, when she called him a rich, lonely man with a Batman complex.

I also think back to what she said about how he could have any blonde, twenty-something, kid-friendly woman in the world—and yet he wants me.

We ride back to my apartment in silence, together but alone with our thoughts.

“I’ll walk you in,”