The Best of Winter Renshaw - An 8 Book Collection - Winter Renshaw Page 0,428

a straight line. He directs the book toward me, almost shoving it.

“I don’t want this,” he says. “I don’t know what it is, but I don’t want it. Don’t leave shit at my door.”

If this is the man, he clearly didn’t get the girl because if he did, he wouldn’t look so inherently angry.

“I found this outside your place last week,” I say, keeping my tone delicate as my heart breaks for the man who quite possibly never had his happily ever after. “It was raining, and it was getting wet. I didn’t want it to get ruined. Meant to bring it back sooner, but I’m never on this side of town.”

The man is still holding the book toward me, but now he glances down, brows pointed in as he studies it.

“I’ve never seen this before in my life,” he says.

My shoulders deflate, and I hesitate before reaching to accept the notebook. “Do you have any idea who it might belong to? I found it right outside your place, lying in the mulch by the bushes, like it had fallen off your steps . . .”

He gives me an incredulous glare, his lips twisting into an unpleasant smile. “Seriously? You actually expect me to believe all this?”

I tuck my chin, wincing. “I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”

“Do you know how many people walk past here leaving crazy shit on my doorstep? Shit they want me to sign, naked pics, letters with phone numbers . . .”

I release a soft, uneasy laugh. “I’m sorry. I’m so confused.”

“I don’t give autographs,” he says. “Not anymore. You’ll have to check eBay.”

“I don’t want your autograph,” I say, purposely leaving out the part where I tell him I have abso-freaking-lutely no clue who he is.

“Then what is this? Because it looks like one of those stupid little autograph books to me.” He pulls the notebook closer, fanning the pages and sighing. “Jesus, what is this? Your diary? Look, I’m flattered, but I have no desire to read about your little fantasies. Maybe you think you’re in love with me, I don’t know, but all the shit you’ve written in here? Not going to happen.”

My jaw hangs and my head tilts to the side as my smile fades. All the nervous energy circulating through me dissipates, and my fingertips tingle with red-hot heat in the seconds that pass before I snatch the journal out of his hands.

“If this is how you treat your fans,” I say, “then you’re heartless.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” he huffs, his eyes holding mine. “So you admit you’re a fan.”

Jaw set, I reply calmly through gritted teeth and press the book against my chest. “Like I said, I didn’t write this. I found it in front of your steps, and I was returning it.”

He lets out a cruel chuckle, his hands hooked on his narrow waist. The man towers over me with a good eight inches and his long, muscled legs are wrapped in low-slung jeans.

Tucking the notebook under my arm, I feel an angry burn in my face, my tongue on fire with everything I want to say to him. “And by the way, you may think I’m here for an autograph, but I honestly have no clue who the hell you are, so fuck you.”

I turn to leave, feeling exhilarated yet fuming at the same time. The number of times I’ve said the words “fuck” and “you” together in a setting beyond my bedroom door I can count on one hand. Growing up in small town Red Fern, Missouri, we weren’t raised to speak to anyone that way. Problems were solved over a slice of banana bread at the kitchen table and sealed with a hug and kiss. Kincaid women didn’t solve their problems with nasty words and chipped shoulders, we rose above them with dignity, always taking the high road.

But today? I’m taking the low road because that man, that jerk, deserves it, whoever he is.

“Fucking asshole,” I mutter under my breath as I round the corner, moving quickly because I can’t get away fast enough. My hands tremble with anger, and I’m slightly out of breath.

But at least I have the notebook, and given the fact that I’m never going to know its rightful owner, I suppose that makes it officially mine.

Forever.

And I suppose that also means I’ll never get a chance to see the face of the man behind the words, and I’ll never know if he was able to be with his