The Cruelest Stranger
Winter Renshaw
Contents
Copyright
Important
Gift For You!
Also By Winter Renshaw
Description
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Epilogue
SAMPLE - Hate the Game
About the Author
Copyright
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Also By Winter Renshaw
THE NEVER SERIES
Never Kiss a Stranger
Never is a Promise
Never Say Never
Bitter Rivals
THE ARROGANT SERIES
Arrogant Bastard
Arrogant Master
Arrogant Playboy
THE RIXTON FALLS SERIES
Royal
Bachelor
Filthy
Priceless (an Amato Brothers crossover)
THE AMATO BROTHERS SERIES
Heartless
Reckless
Priceless
THE P.S. SERIES
P.S. I Hate You
P.S. I Miss You
P.S. I Dare You
THE MONTGOMERY BROTHERS DUET
Dark Paradise
Dark Promises
STANDALONES
Single Dad Next Door
Cold Hearted
The Perfect Illusion
Country Nights
Absinthe
The Rebound
Love and Other Lies
The Executive
Pricked
For Lila, Forever
The Marriage Pact
Hate the Game
The Cruelest Stranger
All Books Available here!
Free Content Available here!
Description
The first time I saw him was at a bar called Ophelia’s on a Thursday night. I was there to drown my sorrows after a trying day, he was there to escape the storm. After a brief yet incredibly cruel exchange, the handsome stranger bolted before I had a chance to tell him off. Incensed and two cocktails deep, I followed him out the door, determined to give the audacious Adonis a piece of my mind—and the umbrella he’d forgotten.
Tearing after him in heels and barely able to keep up in the freezing rain, I ended my chase when I realized where he was going.
They say never to judge someone unless you know their story.
I never could have anticipated his...
And I never could have anticipated the way our paths would cross again—or that I would one day find myself falling for a man with a hollow cavity where his heart should be, a man as callous as he was beautiful, as complicated as he was mesmerizing.
They say never to judge someone unless you know their story.
This one’s ours.
“Don’t tell me you love the rain when you don’t stay to watch her dry after she’s fallen for you.”
Lauren Eden, Of Yesteryear
For Jennifer, the kindest stranger I ever knew.
1
Astaire
It wasn’t supposed to rain today.
I stand on the rubber entrance mat inside a bar called Ophelia’s, soaked to the bone, water as cold as January dripping off my wool pea coat in rivulets, toes pinched numb in my pointed heels.
The sign for the ladies’ room flickers in neon, and I waste no time trotting to the back of the narrow space, ducking through the swinging doors, and positioning myself in front of the first vacant mirror I find.
The instant I encounter my gaze in the reflection, I know I should have stayed home tonight.
What kind of person marks the one-year anniversary of their fiancé’s death with a blind date?
A person who can’t say no to anything or anyone—that’s who.
Mrs. Angelino had good intentions, trying to set me up with her nephew, and I knew better, agreeing to go despite every atom in my body screaming for me to tell her the truth … that I’m just not ready.
I hang my jacket on a nearby wall hook and return to my station.
“Weak.” I slam my bag on the white porcelain sink and start digging inside for a hairbrush, a hair tie, anything to tame my damp baby-blonde waves. “Weak, weak, weak.”
> I locate a mini wet-brush and a rubber band so stretched it could snap without warning, and then I rake my hair back, twisting it into a low bun and securing it at the nape of my neck.
When I glance up again, I realize my mascara has settled beneath my lower lash line—not exactly the smoky eye look I was intending.
Yanking a paper towel from the nearby dispenser, I fold it into fourths before running it under warm water.
Behind me, a bathroom stall door swings open and a leggy blonde in a cropped ecru sweater dress and black knee-high boots saunters out, bending over the sink a second later to wash her hands. Our gazes intersect as I attempt to remove the remnants of my Great Lash, and she offers a sympathetic half-smile.
“You okay?” The woman reaches for a paper towel, unhurried. Her ballet-pink nails are shiny and shellacked, her fingers long and slender. Everything about her is soft and elegant, a jarring contrast against my current condition.
“Wasn’t expecting to get caught in the downpour. Supposed to be meeting someone in a few minutes. Kind of hoping he stands me up.”
“Too late to cancel?”
“I don’t know his number. A colleague at work set us up. It’s her nephew. All I know is he’s six feet tall with dark hair and his name is Garrett. She says he’s unbelievably handsome but she’s his aunt, so …” I laugh through my nose at the absurdity of this entire situation, and it’s then that I notice a section of hair still sticking out. Carefully I tug out the elastic and re-do my low bun, smoothing my palms over my half-dried mane. But there’s nothing I can do about the fully-dried mascara under my eyes. “I can’t meet a complete stranger looking like this.”
The easy-breezy siren of a woman studies my face before placing her oversized handbag next to her sink.
“It just so happens I work at the Catherine DeAngelo makeup counter at the mall on weekends.” Her voice is light, sing-songish “Which means I’ve got you, girl.”
Within seconds, she pulls out a travel-sized pack of chamomile-infused makeup remover towelettes and offers them with a wink.
“You’re a saint. Truly. Thank you so much.” I tug one wipe from the case and clean myself up, only when I’m done, I look more exhausted than fresh-faced.
I swear the circles beneath my eyes are a shade darker than before—probably from all the rubbing and scrubbing—and my pale lashes are practically invisible.
I exhale, reminding myself that looks aren’t everything, that there’s a chance he’ll find my drowned rat appearance … endearing?
“Uh oh. I know that look. Hold on.” Dipping a hand to the bottom of her bag, she feels around before producing a fistful of miniature lipsticks and mascaras. She checks the names on the bottom of the shiny gold tubes before handing me one. “This color would be perfect on you. Don’t get scared by how bright it looks in the tube. It’s completely different once it’s on. Oh, and here’s some mascara. These are brand new, by the way. In case you have a thing about germs.”
“Oh, honey. I teach kindergarten. Germs don’t scare me.” I bat my hand before graciously accepting her gifts.
Uncapping the lipstick, I’m met with a bold bullet the color of psychedelic poppies, but I trust this woman so I slick it over my lips. The payoff is sheer, like a wash of fresh color on my pale pink mouth, instantly bringing my pallid complexion back to life. I swipe on two coats of mascara next. It isn’t life-changing, but it offers a distraction from the dark circles, so I consider it a win.
“For the record, you look chic as hell—but you were beautiful before.” She flings her bag over her lithe shoulder, one hand on her hip. “And any idiot who would care that you got caught in a rainstorm wouldn’t be worth a second date anyway.”
“I know … it’s just … this is the first first date I’ve been on in … a long time.”
Five years to be exact.
I don’t go into the whole dead fiancé thing because I find it tends to depress people—myself included, and I don’t even know my new fairy godmother’s name.
Unpacking all that heaviness onto a kindhearted stranger would be cruel.
“No, I get it. Dating is hard. It’s even harder when you’re out of practice.” Placing a hand on my shoulder on her way out, she gives me a reassuring squeeze. “I’m Ophelia, by the way. My father owns this place. Tell Eduardo at the bar that your first drink is on me.”
With that, she’s gone.
I give myself one last glance in the mirror before pulling my shoulders back, collecting my things, and heading out to the bar.
The Killers play from speakers in the ceiling and a group of middle-aged men with slicked hair and expensive suits order a round of tequila shots.
I don’t bother scanning the room in search of Garrett, I head straight for Eduardo at the bar, cashing in my verbal coupon in exchange for a top-shelf gin and tonic, and then I help myself to a handful of pretzels because I haven’t eaten since eleven o’clock today.
Ten minutes later, warmth rushes through me.
My breathing steadies, no longer hitching and uneven.
My shoulders thaw, allowing me to melt comfortably into my seat.
Two spots down, a handsy couple clink martini glasses.
The table of suits and ties are enjoying dark lagers now.
Three women, all dressed in their office casual best, commiserate over bright-colored drinks at a high-top to my left. To my right is an empty stool.
The clock above the door reads six twenty-seven. It would seem I am, in fact, being stood up.
Be careful what you wish for …
“Can I get one more of these?” I lift my glass when Eduardo checks on me.
Tonight I’ll drink to Trevor—to his memory, to what might have been.
A minute later, my old drink is replaced. I don’t particularly like gin and tonics, but they were always Trevor’s go-to. He was never into IPAs or craft beers or Jager-bombs-with-the-guys. And he hated anything remotely sweet. He appreciated the hell out of a nice, top-shelf classic—which was fitting because he was a nice, top-shelf classic.
My eyes begin to burn, but I force it away.
I told myself I wouldn’t cry today.
Lord knows I’ve done more than enough of that over the past twelve months.
Taking a sip, my attention is hijacked by a frigid burst of air that sweeps through the bar and the floor-shaking shudder that follows when the door slams.
Glancing over my shoulder, I spot a dark-haired man, easily six feet tall. He retracts his rain-slicked umbrella and leans it against the wall before stalking toward the bar, and then he steals the last spot on the end—five places down from me, hanging his wool trench coat over the seat back before sitting.
Eduardo greets him, wiping the section in front of him with a clean towel, half hunched over and nodding in quick succession.
I wait until the Eduardo returns with the man’s drink—which appears to be a triple shot of straight vodka over two perfect squares of ice in an old-fashioned tumbler—before appropriating a closer look at the mystery man.
Through the shadowy haze of Ophelia’s, my unfocused gaze struggles to home in at first. And then I see him perfectly.
Chiseled cheekbones.
Impeccably-groomed obsidian hair.
Broad shoulders hardly contained in a navy cashmere sweater.
Jawline for days.
Could this be …?
Is that Mrs. Angelino’s nephew?
I take a generous mouthful of gin and tonic, contemplating how best to introduce myself. My palms tingle, and I rub them against the tops of my thighs, sucking in a shallow breath.
There’s a chance this man isn’t Garrett, and the more I think about it, he likely isn’t. I’ve yet to catch him scanning the room in search of someone.
But still—if it is him, I’d hate for him to think he’s being stood up. I would never do that to anyone, for any reason. My life’s mantra can be boiled down to the whole “do unto others …” saying.
&nbs
p; Clearing my throat, I lean in his direction. “Excuse me?”
He doesn’t hear me.
Waving my hand to capture his attention, I say it again, “Hi. Excuse me.”
Still, nothing.
It’s like he’s in his own world—ten feet away.
The friendly, kindergarten-teacher smile teetering on my poppy-stained lips fades with the realization that I’m being ignored.
“Hi, excuse me …” Third time’s the charm. I wave once more, wiggling my fingers the way you’d politely flag down a restaurant server.
The man turns to his left, dark brows knit together and gaze tightened in my direction—and then he does the craziest thing: lifting his finger to his lips, he shushes me.
He. Shushes. Me.
The Cruelest Stranger Page 1