The Best of Winter Renshaw - An 8 Book Collection - Winter Renshaw Page 0,425

this entire journal is like him professing his love for her and documenting all their stolen moments,” I sigh, thumbing through the pages to find another excerpt. “I stole a glance from her that night. But she stole my heart. It was a prelude to a lover’s war neither of us would win.”

“Creepy,” Wren sing-songs.

I find another passage, determined to prove my point, “Tonight we almost kissed. Almost. I took her soft hands in mine and felt a pull as our lips held in limbo, separated by mere inches and an unspoken if-only.”

“Give me that.” Wren swipes the journal from my hands and flips it open to a random page. “Tonight, I watched my neighbor fuck his maid against the floor-to-ceiling glass of his penthouse bar. Her breasts bounced with each thrust as they rained reckless inhibition over the snow-covered city street below, his hand cupping the underside of her jaw as he whispered in her ear words only the two of them will ever know.”

She hands it back, her tongue sticking out the corner of her mouth and her nose wrinkled.

“You didn’t read the rest,” I defend the stranger. “He goes on to talk about why he thinks a man would want to take what he’s not supposed to have. Is it lust-driven? Primitive? It’s fascinating, his perspective.”

“He’s obsessed with men wanting women they can’t have.” Wren shrugs then turns to face her dresser mirror.

“No,” I argue. “He totally gets love, Wren. He embraces that it’s messy and complicated and imperfect, and he’s exploring that. He’s trying to figure out why he loves this woman so much and if it’s possible to let her go because being with her would hurt people he cares about.”

“I’m seriously second-guessing your decision to follow in my footsteps, little sis.” Wren unsnaps a cream blush compact and dabs some peachy-pink on the apples of her cheeks. “Sure you don’t want to go back to school to study literature? I mean, you’re digging pretty deep here. It’s just a notebook full of ramblings from some deranged guy, and you’re painting it like it’s the second coming of Romeo and Juliet.”

“Don’t burst my romantic little bubble. I want to believe this is legit.” I clasp my hands over the front cover of the book and exhale, shoulders falling. “I have this image of him in my mind, dashing and broad-shouldered. Dark hair. Brooding stare. The kind of guy who brings you flowers for no reason and leaves love letters on your pillow and loves you with an intensity so fierce it physically hurts.”

“I love how you’re inserting your ideal man into someone else’s love story.”

“Oh, now you’re admitting it’s a love story?”

My sister rolls her eyes, fighting a smile. “Whatever.”

“I just hope they’re together now, you know? I hope they figured things out and they’re happy and that love won. Because it should. Love should always win.”

“Tell that to my ex,” Wren mutters before glancing at her phone and pressing the button to light the screen. “Shit. I’m running late. If I’m not done by three, can you pick Enzo up from St. Anthony’s?”

“Of course. Just text me and let me know.” I love picking my nephew up from school. He’s eight, so I don’t embarrass him yet, and he’s still so full of wonderment and adorable little boy smiles, and his freckled face always lights up when he sees me despite the fact that we live together twenty-six days of the month. Enzo knows when Aunt Aidy picks him up from school, we stop at the pretzel cart and the park on the way home. “Good luck today. Not that you need it.”

Wren slides her palms down the front of her high-waisted dress before stepping into a pair of Kelly green ballet flats. She’s highlighted and contoured to perfection, her skin dewy and her lashes on point. My sister is one of those people who look flawless no matter what, makeup or no. I like to think it’s her inner beauty that does most of the work. She can be tough on the outside sometimes, her exterior resin-like and hard to crack, but inside she’s chock full of little rays of gentle moonbeams and glittery stardust, and she’d do anything for anyone.

My phone dings from the nightstand, and I stretch across the bed to grab it. “Awesome. Just got a new appointment from the app. Twelve-thirty next Friday.”

Wren gives me an air high five and scans the room for her bag. Last year, we