The Best of Winter Renshaw - An 8 Book Collection - Winter Renshaw Page 0,373

on the lie? Would you rather force them to lie for you?”

“I’d rather not involve them at all.” I sigh, sinking into the covers. “Anyway, it’s too late to turn back now. I just … I don’t know. Watching them tonight and seeing how big their smiles were and how enchanted they were with everything you were saying … I guess when I agreed to this, I didn’t think about how it would affect them.”

“I meant what I said,” he says. “I’m going to see to it that you’re cared for for the rest of your life. That money will go far for you if you invest it wisely, and I’ll see to it that you’re set up with the best financial planners in the industry. And once we go our separate ways, just say we got caught up, we rushed things, and we amicably decided to end it. That’s all. They’ll understand.”

Rolling to my side, I face him, looking into his deep blues. “Must be rough always having all the answers.”

“I like a good puzzle, a good challenge.”

“You like taking things apart and putting them back together,” I say, remembering what he said earlier at dinner.

“I do.”

“And here I just thought you liked to design things.”

“It’s sort of the same thing,” he says.

I watch him, bathed in the glow of moonlight that spills in from my bedroom window. This moment is completely surreal. My jerk boss, lying in my childhood bed, moments from drifting off beside me.

“If you could take me apart, how would you fix me?” I ask, eyelashes slightly fluttery as my body begins to shut down for the night like one of those old desktop computers that take forever. I’m fighting the spinning wheel.

“It’s been a long day, Mari.”

“Before we go to sleep, can you just answer that?” I ask. “Or is that what you did with the makeover and the ring and all that. Was that your way of fixing me up?”

“Not at all,” I say. “Those things were costumes. Props. Mari, you don’t need fixing. Now go to sleep.”

I feel my lips pull into a sleepy grin as I roll over. We’re not touching, but I can feel his body heat, and when his breathing slows, I know he’s already out.

His kind words replay in my head just as I float off.

Maybe … just maybe … he’s not such a jerk after all.

The sweet chirping of birds outside my window at dawn wakes me the next morning, only when I roll over, I find the other half of the bed cold and empty. Sitting up, I rub my eyes before taking a look around.

Flinging the covers off, I tiptoe out of bed and head down the hall to where my mother is singing some Fleetwood Mac song at the top of her lungs as she fries bacon in a skillet.

“Where’s Hudson?” I ask, startling her.

She whips around, her hand pressed over her heart as she laughs. “Good morning, sweetheart. He’s in the garage with your father. They’re tinkering around with … something. I don’t know.”

She swats her hand through the air then turns back around to tend to the cooking, and I glance at the clock. It’s too early to be tinkering with anything. Plopping down at one of the old swivel bar stools at the peninsula, I watch my mom cook.

Just like old times.

Mom keeps singing, belting Rhiannon so loud I’m pretty sure the McKenzies on the corner can hear her, but I just smile.

“What do you think of him, Mom?” I ask while I have her alone.

She spins around. “Who? Hudson?”

I laugh, nodding. “Yeah. Who else?”

“I like him,” she says. “He doesn’t seem like a bullshitter to me. You know how much I hate bullshitters. You can tell he’s very intelligent. Very hardworking. Your father respects that. You chose well, Maribel. We’re shocked, but we’re proud.”

This moment is more bittersweet than I thought it would be. Someday, when I’m really engaged and truly in love, someday when I tell my parents I’m actually getting married—for real—it’ll be for the second time. And they might hold back then. They might not take me seriously. Or they might not want to get their hopes up.

There’ll never be another first time.

“Why don’t you go tell them it’s time to eat?” Mom plates the bacon before cracking an egg over a bowl. “I’m sure they’re starving; they’ve been out there for an hour.”

“An hour?” Where the hell have I been?

I head for the garage, opening the