The Best of Winter Renshaw - An 8 Book Collection - Winter Renshaw Page 0,556

‘country club best.’ I told her jeans and a t-shirt.

She showed up in a dress.

It’s like she gets off on defying me, proving me wrong. That or she hates being told what to do. I’m not quite sure yet. We didn’t talk or text at all after Tuesday, when she agreed to come to Pierce’s with me. So in a way, we’re still strangers. She knows very little about me. I know very little about her. And honestly, it’s for the best, especially if we plan to keep this strictly physical—and I do.

We climb out of the car, and I lock both doors with my key before joining her at the sidewalk. The house is lit like a Christmas tree, party lights, the flicker of the TV in the living room, the porch light on full blast so drunks don’t trip on the steps.

I take her in through the garage, where a couple of guys—Cooley and Brian—are smoking fat cigars and nursing whiskey neats.

“Hey,” I say as we pass.

The guys nod, and Cooley’s shameless stare lingers on Brighton, scanning the length of her before settling on her rack. She doesn’t notice. My jaw clenches and I move to her side, blocking his view.

Taking her in through the garage entrance, we end up in Pierce’s kitchen. A group of Olwine girls, same ones who show up every Friday, are gathered around the peninsula doing tequila shots. They’re laughing and chirping away until they see Brighton, and then they’re all silence and eyes.

“Hi,” Brighton says, offering a friendly wave and a smile.

I’m sure she intimidates the fuck out of them, with her long legs, shiny blonde hair, long, thick lashes, and million-dollar radiance. They don’t make ‘em like that around here.

“This is Brighton,” I tell the girls. “Brighton, that’s Tanya, Melissa, Gabby, and then you know Missy from the shop.”

The girls still gawk and gape but if it fazes Brighton, she sure as hell doesn’t act like it.

“Why don’t you go have a seat in the living room. I’ll grab us a couple of drinks,” I say, my hand pressing the small of her back.

The second she’s gone, Gabby shoots me a look. “Dude, Madd. What the fuck?”

The other girls simper and snicker. I know what they’re thinking, that we look ridiculous together, that I have no business bringing someone like that to Pierce’s, but I couldn’t care less.

“Something bothering you, Gab?” I ask, digging around in Pierce’s fridge until I find two of the better beer options. He’s on some Millennial craft beer kick lately, and half the shit in here is stuff I wouldn’t give my worst enemy. Beer shouldn’t burn going down. It shouldn’t make you gag either.

“What’s with the girl?” Gabby asks. “Quite a departure from, uh, Veronica.”

My ex used to be one of them. Back when we were together. She was the fifth member of their Olwine girl gang, all of them having gone to high school together, all of them having made the decision to stick around here and become what the locals call “lifers.”

Tanya punches Gabby’s shoulder. “You know we’re not supposed to say that word anymore.”

“What? Veronica?” Gabby asks.

Missy rolls her eyes.

Ever since Horatio-gate, the girls refused to talk to Veronica, opting to pick my side over hers. Though I’m sure some of that had more to do with the fact that there’s no better place to be on a Friday night than here and they didn’t want to lose their hangout spot.

That’s some small-town loyalty right there.

Uncapping the bottles, I pass the girls, stopping to add, “She’s cool, okay? Be nice to her. Or else.”

“You don’t scare us,” Melissa says with a wink.

When I get to the living room, I find Brighton deep in conversation with a local mechanic by the name of Cash McConnell. Or as some of us call him when he’s not around: Manwhore McConnell.

Dude looks like the reincarnation of James Dean, the take-no-shit attitude of Vin Diesel, and he’s good with his hands, which is apparently a thing that drives 99% of the female population wild.

Brighton smiles and nods, glued to whatever bullshit he’s feeding her. I stand for another minute, unnoticed until I clear my throat.

“Oh, hey,” Cash says, pretending he didn’t just ignore me for the last sixty seconds.

I hand Brighton one of the sweaty beers in my hand and she mouths, “thank you.”

“Anyway, that’s so funny that you say that because my brother actually lives in New York,” Brighton says when she turns to him. She’s