The Best of Winter Renshaw - An 8 Book Collection - Winter Renshaw Page 0,455

hand through my beard.

Not only have I not spoken with Matteo in months, but he hasn’t seen me since shortly after the accident.

“I’m in the city for work,” he says, and I can hear the smile residing on his pretty boy face. Matteo’s an aspiring actor living in Los Angeles, taking bit parts and small jobs whenever he can get them. “Only for a few days. You want to meet up? There’s a group of us from this commercial I shot earlier, and one of them has the hook up at this club. We can get in.”

I snort through my nose, shaking my head. There was a day not too long ago that my name opened doors and busted through VIP list barricades. There was a day when everyone wanted me in their club, drinking their drinks, exciting their patrons.

Funny how quick people are to move on to the next best thing.

“Haven’t seen you in a while,” Matteo says. “Believe it or not, I miss your dumb face.”

My fingertips trace along the scar hidden beneath my beard. “Yeah?”

“Go out with us,” he says. “I know you sit at home, Alessio. No one ever hears from you anymore. You’re a shell of a man, and you’re better than that. Don’t let . . . don’t let what happened ruin you. Don’t give her that.”

Matteo has a point.

“I’ll come by in an hour. You think you can be ready by then?” he asks.

Fuck.

Fine.

Whatever.

It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do tonight.

“Yeah,” I say.

Matteo laughs. “Good, good. Molto bene.”

A year ago, I wouldn’t have been caught dead at a club like this.

Pulsing music.

Flashing lights.

Women stumbling out of bathrooms, brushing white powder from their nostrils.

But I glance at my brother, and he’s grinning ear to ear, like he’s proud his connections opened doors for once. I guess I can at least give him that.

“We’re going to be in the VIP lounge,” he yells above the club remix of a god-awful pop song I’ve never heard before. Matteo points to a small room illuminated with blue lights and sectioned off with a red velvet rope.

In the cab on our way here, he mentioned we’d be partying with a bunch of production people from some underwear commercial he shot this morning: lighting guys, hair and makeup people, and a couple of production assistants. I’ll admit a small, pathetically curious part of me wondered if Aidy Kincaid might be included in that group.

But I know better.

The industry is huge and this city’s enormous.

The odds of running into her yet again this week aren’t in my favor.

The closer we get to the VIP room, the more I find myself scanning faces for an ounce of familiarity.

Just in case.

But none of them register.

None of them are Aidy, and I’m kind of relieved because I’d be disappointed if she hung out in places like this.

Sinking into a patent leather chair, I take a clean glass resting on a nearby table and pour myself a glass from the magnum of champagne resting in a bucket of ice before me.

“What are we celebrating?” I ask the woman sitting next to me.

Her lashes flutter and her mouth pulls into a drunken grin as she slinks a shoulder to her ear. “Why, hello there, handsome.”

The woman leans toward me, her eyes struggling to focus.

“What’s your name?” she asks.

Jesus. Had I known she was going to be my instant best friend, I never would’ve said anything.

“Alessio,” I reply, glancing at Matteo who’s leaning against the wall, sleeves cuffed to his elbows and bedroom eyes in full effect as he chats up some leggy blonde.

It’s been a long time since I’ve offered anyone my given name, but I didn’t want to take the chance that she might recognize me by my mononym since I’ve evolved into the male athlete equivalent of Cher or Madonna.

“Alessio,” she says. “That’s really fucking hot. I like that. Alesssssio.”

I don’t ask her name, and I don’t look at her long enough to figure out if her hair is brown or blonde or red. Under these flashing lights, it’s damn near every color in the rainbow. Her skin too. She could be magenta for all I know, but I don’t give a shit.

I didn’t come here to get laid, and I’m sure as hell not taking anyone home with me.

I only came here to spend time with my brother and to get out of my own head for a bit.

Matteo pulls his phone from his pocket.

We’re not even here five minutes