The Best of Winter Renshaw - An 8 Book Collection - Winter Renshaw Page 0,637

of graduation, we were officially Mr. and Mrs. LeGrand.

God, I was naïve then.

I didn’t know anything about anything, and that included relationships. But I’m free now and I’ve never felt more alive or ready for whatever life throws at me next. I’m not that simple, trusting girl I used to be. I’m not that agreeable “yes” girl who put everyone else before herself.

I wouldn’t even recognize my old self if I ran into her on the street.

Slipping my phone into the back-right pocket of my faded Levi cut offs, I follow Tierney into the café and try to pay attention as she rambles on about her baby registry, but all I can think about right now is Jude and how nice it would be to run into him again soon.

It’s the strangest thing, but right now … I kind of miss him.

Eighteen

Jude

* * *

The date I “won” fair and square is tomorrow night, and I’ve spent the better part of the evening trying to plan something that marries what I think Love would like to do with something from this ridiculous binder Hunter made for me.

Hunter claims her interests include the opera, fine dining (Butter and Tavern on the Green are her favorites), trips to the MoMA, French cooking classes, and wine tasting (he claims reds are her favorite despite the fact that I’ve only ever seen her drink white).

I can’t picture Love doing any of those things, but the man was married to her for all those years. I doubt he pulled these ideas out of his ass, not to mention he wants this to work—needs this to work.

Rising from my living room sofa, I stretch my arms over my head and make my way to the kitchen to grab a bite. It’s been storming most of the day, so I’ve been cooped up in this place, though I’ve reminded myself there are worse places I could be.

I’m elbow deep in the fridge, looking for something less frou-frou and more regular-dude, when the lights flicker and the inside of the thing turns black. Backing out, I realize my entire apartment is without power.

Heading back to the living room, I glance out the rain-slicked window to see most of our block is dark. Every window, every street light … extinguished.

Collapsing across the sofa and wondering if it’s possible to die of boredom, I realize I haven’t talked to Love in a couple of days. I’d been giving her space, but I don’t think it’d hurt if I confirmed that we’re still on for Friday night.

The battery on my phone reads forty-three percent, so I should be good for now. Tapping out my message, I press send, place my phone on the coffee table, and wait.

Something like five minutes later (I tried not to count), she responds with, “Thought you’d forgotten.”

My lips curl at the sides as I reply with, “Never” and then I add, “What are you doing right now?”

The bubbles fill her side of the screen for a few seconds before her message comes through, “Sitting in the dark, letting my face mask dry and doing some research for Agenda W on my phone.”

“I’ve got some ice cream in the freezer about to melt,” I text without giving it a second thought. “I’d hate to let it go to waste.”

The sky flickers and a moment later, thunder rumbles the glass. I’ve always found storms to be sexy, provocative almost, with that hint of danger and satisfaction of being safely shielded. And if I’m going to sit in the dark, I’d rather sit in the dark with her.

“Keep the door closed. It should be okay,” she writes.

I reply with, “I could. But I don’t want to. So … your place or mine? And mint chocolate chip or strawberry?”

Love sends me “Whatever” followed by “Yours. And strawberry. Just give me ten.”

Sitting my phone aside, it finally hits me.

Sound Underground. That’s where I’m taking her for our date. I think she’d like it, and it’s different. It’s this hidden bar you can only enter through the back of a Korean BBQ joint, and you need that night’s password. Lenny, the owner, has an ear for finding the best budding talent, and he’s discovered some of the biggest musical acts long before anyone else took notice.

Grabbing my phone and dialing the bar, I speak with Maureen, Lenny’s wife of thirty-six years and dedicated personal assistant. A minute later, she puts me on the list and gives me the password for tomorrow’s show: karma.

Nineteen

Love

*