Country Nights

by Winter Renshaw

  “Maybe I didn’t want you to get away.” He reaches for me, clamping his hand around my wrist and steering me to a dark corner as a group of women in tight dresses push past us with wide, staring eyes. He doesn’t so much as blink in their direction. “Not before I had my chance.”

  “Your chance?” I try not to snicker, though I love the direction we’re headed. “What makes you think you have a chance?”

  His gaze holds mine. I allow his aftershave to drown my senses as my hands ache to touch the body of a man they’ve never known.

  “I’m Keir,” he says.

  “I know,” I say. “I’m Rowan.”

  “I know.”

  It takes everything I have to keep my jaw from coming unhinged.

  “You’re that Aldridge girl,” he says. His stare is magnetic, unapologetic. “Your parents worked on my father’s last campaign. You were away in college. They showed me pictures. A guy doesn’t forget a face like that.”

  That had to have been four years ago.

  “You want to get out of here?” he asks.

  The background blurs, and I exhale. I can’t take my eyes off him. He’s dreamier in person than I anticipated, and he makes me feel like the only girl in the room.

  “It’s loud, and I want to talk to you,” he adds. “And everyone’s staring at us. Do you want everyone to stare at us?”

  I shake my head.

  “Then come with me.” He slips his hand into mine and nods at one of his agents. In an instant, we’re slipping out the back door and climbing into a black SUV. His hand rests on my knee as we ride. Everything’s happening so fast.

  The city lights are a blur outside the passenger windows, and within minutes, the SUV stops in front of a brick building called The Hightower. One of the agents leaves the front seat and gets the door. Keir climbs out first, then he takes my hand. None of this feels real, and I remind myself this is what I came for.

  He pulls me close against him, the heat from our bodies mixing. His lips lift in one corner, a dimple flashing, and he leans in. My heart flutters. He says nothing, only exhales. His breath is warm against my cheek, and the second we step onto the elevator his thumb caresses the inside of my wrist with slow, deliberate strokes. Keir hasn’t taken his hands, or his eyes, off me since we left the bar.

  The elevator doors part, and his agents lead us to an apartment at the end of a hall. Keir swipes his key card and the lock beeps. The men wait outside, and we disappear into a dark apartment with a twinkling view of Washington, DC. It’s almost romantic. But I didn’t seek Keir Montgomery because I wanted hearts and flowers and moonlit city skyscapes.

  I have an agenda, and I’m sticking to it. I won’t let a little dreamy ambience throw me off my game.

  “Drink?” he asks, moving toward a cart against the wall. This man wastes zero time.

  “Please.” I place my clutch on a kitchen island and make my way toward the floor to ceiling windows in the living room. I’ve never seen the city from these heights before. Everything seems smaller, less significant. Down below, hundreds of thousands of people are doing hundreds of thousands of things, but up here, it’s just the two of us and we’re a world away from it all.

  Keir gently brushes my shoulder, my drink in his hand, and I take it from him.

  “Thank you.” I take a sip, tasting rum and sugared lime, and my eyes rest in his.

  “I always got the impression you were a good girl,” he says. “I mean, with your parents being who they are and all . . .”

  “Can we not talk about them tonight?” I pull another sip and let it linger on my tongue, anticipating the burn, and it feels like a metaphor for this moment.

  “What do you want to talk about?”

  “Anything but them.” If my father and mother knew I was running around downtown DC in little black dress and screw-me heels, tossing back mixed drinks like I’d done it a hundred times before, they’d have a coronary and a conniption fit, respectively. World renowned parenting experts, their enviable success has been propelled by their highly conservative political affiliations. Together they’ve built a multi-million-dollar empire, complete with workshops, handbooks, textbooks, talk shows, and an endorsement from Oprah Winfrey herself. Their picture perfect family is their brand, and as the oldest Aldridge daughter, I’m the official brand ambassador.

  During the week, I’m a button-up, philanthropic good girl, and once upon a time I was a buttoned-up, philanthropic good girl. Now she’s just a role I play, an outfit I wear, and a skin I step into and remove the second no one’s looking.

  “All right,” he says, studying me. “What were you doing at Goldsmith by yourself?”

  I lift a shoulder to my ear and offer a coy smile. “It looked like a nice place to have a drink, and I felt like I could use one. What about you? You stood someone up tonight.”

  “I did.” His teeth graze his lower lip, as if he’s biding his time until he can finally devour me. “He’ll get over it.”

  I realize now, that I haven’t thought about Rhett since we walked in here. Keir is distracting, exactly as I’d hoped, and this is a good sign.

  I know enough about Keir to know he isn’t a lover, not in the literal sense of the word. He isn’t a serial monogamist. He isn’t a relationship guy or the kind who brings flowers and takes a girl out on a picnic date. He’s the guy you screw when you’re trying to get over the one who broke your heart. He’s the guy that makes you forget the other guy, the one that pushes you forward when you find yourself treading the same dark and lonely waters that once nearly drowned you.

  Keir isn’t Rhett, this much I know to be true.

  Rhett was a career politician with presidential aspirations, one of the youngest senators ever to be elected in Georgia. His gentle charisma, old-fashioned manners, and charming, southern burr made him feel like a safe choice. I should’ve listened when he warned me not to fall in love with him, but I stupidly assumed it was just one of those things guys said.

  “What?” he asks, mouth twisted. “Why are you looking at me that way?”

  “What way?” My nose wrinkles. I didn’t mean to stare.

  “Like I remind you of someone.”

  I roll my eyes, fighting a smile. “I’m thinking about how much you don’t remind me of someone.”

  His eyes light. “I hope that’s a good thing, Rowan.”

  “It’s a very good thing, Keir.”

  Chapter Two

  Keir

  I tug the zipper of her dress, and she exhales, her body melting against mine as she gazes out the window before us. Rowan presses a hand against the cool glass, steadying herself, and my hand slinks up her belly and between her round breasts before stopping above her collarbone.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” I ask. It’s called consent, and it’s called one last chance to save herself because I won’t be going easy on her. I don’t make love. I fuck. And I made that perfectly clear two minutes ago when she slipped her panties off and tossed them aside with reckless abandon and a single raised eyebrow. With her face cupped in my hand and my thumb pressed beneath her jaw, I feel her swallow. And then she nods.

  Over the past hour, Rowan has informed me that her parents have no idea she’s here in the city, and they have no idea she’s ever tasted liquor. Or a man. The restrictions placed upon her are suffocating. She’s bored with convention and conservatism. She’s a rebel. A girl after my own heart.

  And she hasn’t said it, but she’s a girl with a broken heart. I see it in her eyes. Those round-as-saucers baby blues that look clear through me every time she finds herself lost in thought. I don’t even think she knows she’s doing it half the time, but she is. She stares at me, and she’s here, but she isn’t.

  Rowan takes the tip of my finger between her lips, gently sucking, rolling her tongue around the pad, and my cock swells, pressing against my suit pants.

  “I want to make something very clear tonight, Rowan,” my voice is low against her ear. “After tonight
, you’ll never hear from me again.”

  “Do you promise?” She turns to face me, eyes lifted onto mine.

  My mouth pulls in the corner. Seems as though there’s a very good chance we’re on the same page. Then again, this wouldn’t be the first time some pretty little thing waltzes into my life pretending to be the perfect one-night stand.

  Rowan bites her lip. “I just want to have fun. I don’t want to walk out of here wondering when you’re going to call me or if you like me. I only want tonight. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  “Do you have any idea how many women say that?”

  “I mean it.” Her palms flatten against my chest, and her eyes are stormy, and her brows furrow. “I don’t want anything from you after this.”

  I tug on the sleeve of her dress until it slides down her body and pools at her feet. Her skin is hot to the touch, and her pouty, fuck-me lips are begging to be crushed. My hand lifts to her jaw, and I’m milliseconds from going in for the kill when her clutch begins to vibrate.

  She pushes away from me, gazing across the room, and I exhale, releasing her from my hold.

  “Take it.” I don’t disguise my annoyance.

  “No, it’s okay.” She moves close to me again but her eyes are over there.

  “You sure?”

  Her head bobs. And then she sighs. “Just . . . give me one second. I’m sorry.”

  I take a seat in an overstuffed Chesterfield armchair, watching Rowan slink across my apartment in nothing but a matching lace bra and thong set the color of sin. It’s all I can do to keep from eating my fist right now, and as soon as she’s finished with her phone call, I’m going to make her turn the fucking thing off.

  “Hannah, slow down.” Rowan paces the kitchen, circling my island. “I can barely here you. Where are you?”

  She ends the call a minute later and rushes across the room, grabbing at her dress on the floor by the window.

  “I’m so sorry,” she says. “My sister . . . she goes to Georgetown and she’s at a party, and she’s drunk, and I think she’s on something or maybe someone slipped her something. I don’t know. I could hardly understand her. I need to go find her and get her home.”

  Rowan shimmies into her skintight dress, and I mourn the sexiest piece of ass I’ll never know. After she tugs everything into place, she turns to face me. Her lips part, like she’s going to say something, but she stops.

  “What?” I ask.

  “I was going to say call me sometime,” she says. “But I don’t want to give you my number because I don’t want to wait around for your call. And I don’t want your number either because then it’s a thing, and I don’t want to make this into a thing.”

  “You’re a smart girl, Rowan Aldridge.”

  She steps into her heels, her height lifting an extra several inches as she turns to face me. “Well aware.”

  “You have a smart mouth,” I tell her, sipping my bourbon. “If your kid sister weren’t being such a cock block right now, I’d be putting it to good use.”

  Rowan chuffs, moving toward the door. “You’re exactly like I expected.”

  I begin to ask her to explain. I’ve always been curious about my reputation in this city, and I’ve yet to find a single person unafraid to give me the straight truth. But she’s gone. She doesn’t care what I have to say. The door closes behind her, and I don’t chase after her because, well, I don’t chase.

  Retrieving my phone from my pocket, I drag my thumb across the screen and type her name into a search engine. I might not be running after this woman, but my curiosity is officially peaked. And that’s a first.

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  Never is a Promise

  The Never Series - Book Two

  COPYRIGHT 2015 WINTER RENSHAW

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher or author. If you are reading this book and you have not purchased it or received an advanced copy directly from the author, this book has been pirated.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or, if an actual place, are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Cover by Louisa Maggio @ LM Creations

  Editing by The Passionate Proofreader

  Created with Vellum

  For my mom, for being the best personal cheerleader in the whole wide world.

  Winter

  Description

  Country music god Beau Mason has just announced his retirement from the business at age 30, and I’ve just scored the interview of a lifetime. My network is flying me to Kentucky for his final interview, and at his request, I’ll be spending a few days with him at his ranch.

  I should be thrilled. But I’m not.

  Beau and I have a history, and I haven’t seen him since he broke my heart at the tender age of 18. I don’t think I can do this. I don’t think I can see him again.

  But I don’t have a choice. My career – my promotion – my dignity. Everything rests on this one interview with the man who turns me into liquid desire and corded steel resentment all at the same time.

  It’s just a few days, right? What’s the worst that could happen?

  Soundtrack

  YouTube link

  Budapest by George Ezra

  Faithfully (Journey Cover) by Matt the Electrician

  Laundry Room by The Avett Brothers

  Bella Donna by The Avett Brothers

  Home by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes

  Hold On by Alabama Shakes

  Each Coming Night by Iron and Wine

  Fire Meet Gasoline by Sia

  Trapeze Swinger by Iron and Wine

  Tree by the River by Iron and Wine

  Down in the Valley by The Head and the Heart

  Who You Love by Katy Perry and John Mayer

  Chapter One

  I wasn’t her, and I hadn’t been her since the day I left Kentucky.

  “Name please?” the airline agent asked over the phone as I booked my flight home. I’d have asked my intern to book it for me, but my producer had her knee-deep in research on some upcoming fluff piece on fitness in the workplace.

  “Coco – sorry, Dakota,” I said, running my fingers over the plastic raised imprint of my name as it was printed on my credit card. “Last name is Bissett.”

  “Please read off the numbers on the front of your card, ma’am,” she said.

  I rattled them off one by one, speaking slowly as if it could possibly prolong the inevitable. I didn’t want to go home. I fought long and hard with Harrison about it, but any fight with him was a losing battle.

  I scribbled my confirmation number along with the flight details on thick cardstock with my monogram across the top; a “B” in the middle that stood for Bissett flanked by a “C” on the left for Coco and an “E” on the right for Elizabeth.

  “You’re doing the right thing, Coco.” Harrison christened me with the nickname “Coco” when I landed my first news-anchoring job. At the time, it was nothing more than a nickname, but over the years it had morphed into a brand. Coco Bissett was officially a household name.

  Harrison slipped his hands over my shoulders and rubbed the knots out as if he were still my doting husband. We’d been divorced for two years now, but the lines between us remained hazy and blurred.

  “As your producer and your biggest fan, I can assure you this is going to take you to unimaginable heights. This interview will secure your chair on the weekday show,” he said, his words flavored with ambition.

  “I know,” I breathed. No one ever aspired to be a weekend anchor. The big stories and th
e interviews worth watching happened on the weekdays.

  “They’re so close to making their decision.” Harrison released my shoulders from his grip and pinched his fingers together. The network had been quietly discussing my promotion for months, but Harrison insisted I needed to prove myself a little more before they were willing to replace America’s sweetheart, Susannah Jethro, with a fresh face like myself. “Do you know how many people were scrambling to land Beau Mason’s final interview? And he handpicked you. You of all people. I don’t understand your reluctance, Coco. I really don’t.”

  Perhaps it was because I neglected to tell him that Beau and I had a history. One that spanned years. A past defined by young love, dashed hopes, and scar-tissue pain. We were forever tied by an invisible thread and marked by an unrequited kind of love that refused to fade away no matter how many years had passed.

  Beau Mason’s name was a permanent tattoo across my heart, and I hated the hell out of that fact.

  “Oh, forgot to tell you that I won’t be joining you on this trip,” he added. “I’ve got nothing but meetings all next week, and since you dragged your feet on doing this interview, I can’t reschedule any of them.”

  I released the breath I’d been harboring. Harrison usually accompanied me on all my work trips, but I’d been trying to figure out how to explain why I didn’t want him to come this time.

  “I think I’ll survive,” I assured him. Only a small part of me knew I was really trying to convince myself.

  In every dark night and every lonely moment, my heart ached for Beau and what might have been. My thoughts scattered in every direction all day long, but in the still, quiet moments, they always went to him and that burning August night and the months that followed when everything changed.