The Best of Winter Renshaw - An 8 Book Collection - Winter Renshaw Page 0,533

on a pink settee and crossing her legs at the ankle.

Laurel’s mother is finishing up a phone call from a seat across the room, and when she tucks her phone away, she makes her way over.

“So good to see you again, Temple,” she says. Her name escapes me. Though there’s a chance I was never given it in the first place. I was a little out of it the night of the engagement dinner. “Brighton, would you mind if I sat between you two? I’d like to discuss some wedding details with your mother.”

“Not at all.” I scoot to the end of the velvet sofa. Laurel disappears behind the fitting room curtain with her assigned associate, who’s carrying an armful of enormous gowns.

“So Laurel and I were discussing venues,” Laurel’s mom says to mine. “We’re thinking somewhere in downtown Chicago since the two of them work in that area. She’s wanting someplace with a view but not the Pier. There’s one place—the Skyline Tower—that has a ballroom, dining hall, and sweeping views of the city at night. I think it’d be perfect, but they’d have to get married on a Friday night the week before this Christmas, which of course is less than ideal given the fact that it gives us only six months to plan, but the place is booked every single Saturday for the next sixteen months, so ...”

“A Friday night wedding in December could be fun,” my mother says. “Sometimes there’s nothing wrong with bucking tradition.”

The two of them ramble on about flowers—Laurel is leaning toward calla lilies—and groom’s cake—Eben wants German chocolate, and her three bridesmaids scroll through Pinterest boards on their phones, agreeing to disagree on several of the bridesmaid dress options.

I lift my champagne flute and watch the dressing room curtain move. Any minute now she’s going to step out and we’re going to have to give our opinion.

“I don’t know about you, Temple, but I have a feeling this is going to be the wedding of the century,” Laurel’s mom says, her hand over her heart. “And have you ever seen two people more in love than Laurel and Eben?”

From what I know, Laurel’s an only child. I imagine, like most loving parents, all they want is for her to be with someone who loves her and wants to take care of her as much as they do.

And Eben is that someone.

There truly is someone out there for everyone. I believe that with all of my heart.

I just can’t help but wonder who my someone is.

Twelve

Madden

* * *

“You’re late.” Devanie climbs into my car and slams the door.

“I texted you. Didn’t you get it?” I ask.

“Yeah. But still.”

I’m twenty minutes late, which I’m sure to Dev felt like an eternity since she didn’t want to be there in the first place, but I can’t help it if my last appointment ran long. I wasn’t going to leave the tattoo unfinished when we were so close to being done.

“So how’d it go?” I ask. “With the mentor thing?”

“She’s okay,” Dev says, buckling up.

“Just okay?”

She pulls out her phone, firing off a text to someone, and I notice the garish pink paint on her nails.

“She take you to get your nails done?” I ask.

“Uh huh.” Her fingertips tap against the glass in warp speed. You’d never know she’s only a couple of weeks into having a cell phone.

“Tell me about her,” I say as we pull away.

“She’s nice,” she says, not looking up once. “Pretty.”

As soon as we get to a stoplight, I reach over and yank the damn thing from her hands mid-text.

“Hey!” She tries to grab it back, but I’m too fast.

The light turns green.

“If you’re going to be one of those assholes, then I’m going to start setting limits,” I say. “A hundred text messages a month.”

“You can’t do that.”

“Trust me, Dev. I know exactly what I can and can’t do. The guy at the cell store gave me a whole list of shit I can use to keep tabs on you.”

I pass a car ahead, and she seizes the opportunity to steal her phone back. “Ha.”

“I’m serious,” I say. “Don’t be that asshole who can’t look away from their phone when someone’s talking to them. That shit’s not cool.”

Placing her phone screen side down in her lap, she turns and gives me her full attention. “Better?”

“Better,” I say. “So tell me about your day, about your mentor.”

“I told you. She’s nice. Really pretty. Took me to get my nails done, then