The Best of Winter Renshaw - An 8 Book Collection - Winter Renshaw Page 0,448

and talk?” he asks, head cocked. “Really quick. Won’t take much time. I just think we need to straighten this out.”

“There’s nothing to straighten out,” I say. “Just stop following me.”

His chin dips to his chest, and he drags his hand through his dark hair before locking eyes with me. His are a vibrant shade of aquamarine, and they briefly distract and disarm me.

“Five minutes,” he says. “I just need to know you’re not a crazy stalker.”

Sighing, I look him up and down. “Fine. Because I need to know the same thing.”

The line moves ahead again, and suddenly I’m next. The group of people a couple spots in front of me must have all been together, thank God.

“Good. Meet me at Gilberto’s. It’s on the corner, two blocks north,” he says.

“I have to finish up a job,” I say. “Give me half an hour.”

“Next,” the checker calls.

I turn away from Ace, though I still feel his eyes on me, his stare weighted and unapologetic. Placing my bottle of makeup remover on the counter, I pull out my wallet and complete the transaction, forgoing a bag and receipt.

Dashing up the street, I return to Helena’s and fix her up. By the time I’m back, her hair is already swept up into a modern French twist, and she’s wearing that sexy little black number she so desperately pried herself out of not long ago.

When we’re done, she glances out the window where a Yellow Cab waits below.

“There’s my ride.” She sucks in a long breath, smoothing her hand down her sides. Her mouth pulls into a wide smile. “Too fake?”

I laugh, nodding. “Just a little.”

She takes it down a notch.

“Just right,” I say, packing up my things. Checking the time on my phone, I see I’ve got ten minutes before I’m supposed to meet Ace. “Good luck with Brad tonight. Remember what we talked about. If you get too nervous, just fake it ‘til you make it.”

Helena strides my way, stepping into sexy stilettos that lengthen her legs even more. Moving toward me, she wraps her arms around me, and I breathe in her sultry sandalwood perfume.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

Gathering my things, I head toward some place called Gilberto’s, and as my heart beats wildly in my chest for some reason unknown, I realize I might have to take my own advice tonight.

Ten

Ace

* * *

My knuckles rap against a chipped wooden table in the back room of my buddy’s bar. Clear glass rests atop a myriad of beer bottle caps in every color and brand imaginable. Aidy should be here any minute, but I went straight here from the pharmacy, wanting to grab a drink before she made her appearance.

“Need anything?” Gilberto pops his head into the private back room.

I glance down at my beer, my second for the night, and look back at him. “I’m good.”

“All right. I’ll send her back when I see her.” Gil disappears, and I check my phone. She should be here any minute, and I’m torn between feeling her out to see if she’s truly an obsessed fan or coming right out and accusing her of stalking me.

I’ve had stalkers in the past.

I’ve had women mail me their panties or offer me hundreds of thousands of dollars for my sperm. I’ve had women, whom I’d never slept with, accuse me of fathering their children and attempting to pursue court-ordered paternity tests. The worst was when a deranged fan broke into my apartment during a series of away games. She lived at my place for days at a time, each time I was gone, using my soap and shampoo, wearing my clothes, sleeping in my bed. It wasn’t until I came home earlier than expected that I finally caught her. I’ll never forget the sick knot I had in the pit of my stomach when one of my neighbors told me my girlfriend was upstairs and that he never knew I had a thing for girls like that.

“That” meaning completely off-her-rocker insane.

That one did some time for stalking, and ever since, I’ve been particularly weary of my most loyal female fans.

Minutes pass, and I sense a new energy enter the room. Glancing up, I spot Aidy in the doorway, looking exactly like she did a half hour ago. Her blonde hair is wavy and bushy, parted on the side and tucked behind one ear. A loose tank top strap hangs off her shoulder and she takes the seat across from me.

She’s not sitting next to me.

That’s a