Everything I’ve ever wanted is right here, in this moment, and the beauty and privilege of that is not lost on me.
“So you think you’ll ever throw one of those epic pool parties back here?” I ask, referring to a comment he made forever ago, “Now that it’s done?”
“We will,” he says. “All our friends and family will be here. We’ll have a live DJ. Cake. Champagne …”
It isn’t an epic party Nevada’s describing.
It’s our wedding reception.
“One thing at a time, ‘vada,” I tell him, though he knows full well that if he asked me to marry him, I wouldn’t be able to say yes fast enough. “I haven’t even moved in with you yet.”
“Were you waiting for a written invitation or something?” he asks. “Dove, you can move in anytime you want. Hell, you practically live here anyway. You’re here every day.”
“Just can’t stay away,” I say.
“Then let’s make a deal. You move in with me and when the time is right, we’ll do the thing we should’ve done a long time ago.” His lips curl at the sides and I could kiss his dimples right now. “We’ll make it official. You and me. Forever. Deal?”
“Deal.”
Epilogue
L.O.V.E.
Nevada
Two Years Later
Getting married for the second time probably meant something different for both of us. There were bittersweet moments that mixed in with the joyful ones. Her mother along with Hunter gave my new bride away, and we lit a candle for her father as well as a candle for Griffin and a candle for Estella.
We wouldn’t be here, starting this new chapter in our lives, if it weren’t for those two.
But we married on a perfect, balmy Saturday in late May in the backyard of the Conrad mansion. The reception that followed was epic … just as I’d always planned. I even surprised her by flying in her favorite band out of LA. I also had a dance floor installed beneath a tent filled with hanging lights, and we partied the night away with our closest friends and family.
And Bryony … she had the time of her life, working her charm on some of my single NBA buddies who flew in for the occasion—one of which she still talks to.
I think there might be something there …
Lying on their tummies across a muslin blanket covered in elephants are our six-month-old boys, Oliver and Vaughn. Together with their big sisters, the first letters of each of their names create the word “love.”
L. O. V. E.
Oliver is the spitting image of myself, and truthfully, but he somehow looks more like Essie than he does his own twin. Vaughn takes after the Devereaux side, their pointed, finer features and big blue eyes.
Yardley rests in the shade in the grass with our boys, and I stand back, watching them play, grabbing at each other and giggling.
“I’m going to pick up Len from school,” I tell her after a moment. “Essie wants to come with. Thought we’d stop by The Sew Shop on our way home and pick up those outfits your mom made for the girls.”
Yardley’s mother opened up an online boutique selling little girls’ clothes about a year ago. Business has been booming lately, to the point where she’s had to hire additional help. They were even able to lease additional space next door, making part of it a showroom of sorts.
“Oh, hey. Didn’t even hear you come outside,” she says.
Glancing up, she shields her ocean eyes, drinking me in the way she does, wearing a smile that says she still has to pinch herself to make sure this is real, that we’ve made it this far and that we’ve got the rest of our lives to spend together—God-willing.
The feeling is mutual.
“Maybe after dinner tonight we can visit Mom,” I propose, hands resting on my hips. She’s been doing well since her stroke, but she hasn’t quite made a full recovery. I managed to convince her to give up her mountainous brick home in the country for a nearby ranch, and I threw in a personal assistant for good measure.
So far, so good.
I crouch beside the three of them, tickling the boys and making silly faces, and then I come for my wife, pressing my mouth against hers and tasting a hint of the peach tea she’s been sipping on all afternoon.
These days we’re filled with carpooling, doctor’s appointments, and taking turns staying up with the twin-of-the-week-who-refuses-to-sleep, but we never fail to steal an hour or two for ourselves when we can.
Sometimes we collapse on the sofa in the family room in a heap of exhaustion. Other times we’re all over each other like dogs in heat.
Every single day with her is different, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I no longer hate Yardley Devereaux.
And it turns out, I never really did.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Dear Reader,
Thank you so much for reading my first book of 2018! I sincerely hope you enjoyed it!
Fun facts: I based the little city in THE REBOUND off of my hometown of Newton, Iowa. We actually had a little section of town called “Lambs Grove,” which I always thought was so cute. While I kept some of the details true to Newton — the cornfields that surrounded the area, the race track, the courthouse lights, and the factory (the real one was Maytag) that moved overseas and left our local economy devastated, everything else is purely fictional.
Anyway, as a token of my appreciation and for a limited time, I’ve included my #1 best seller of 2017 (COLD HEARTED) as a bonus (a $3.99 value!). It’s steamy, tragic, and angsty and one of my personal favorites.
I’ve also included a tiny little sneak peak afterwards of my next book, PS I HATE YOU, as well as the cover … which I have to say *might* be my favorite one to date! SIGH. It’s … everything.
xoxo—
Winter
Cold Hearted
Copyright
COPYRIGHT 2017 WINTER RENSHAW
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
COVER DESIGN: Louisa Maggio
EDITING: Wendy Chan, The Passionate Proofreader
COVER MODEL: Travis Saam
PHOTOGRAPHER: Wander Aguiar
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
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.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
Epigraph
“And long after I have given up, my heart still searches for you without my permission.”
—Rudy Francisco, poet
Prologue
Rhett
I toss her on the bed—recklessly—the very same way she treated my heart.
Reaching for her jeans, I yank them down her thighs, my calloused hands rough against her tender skin. My bad. Was that careless of me?
Her panties are next.
I rip those straight down the middle, not unlike the very thing she did to me. It was almost too easy. Was it that easy for her?
“Rhett,” she breathes my name, holding me in her wanton gaze, but I mute her with a rough kiss, my hand knotting in her hair as I control her mouth.
I won’t be kissing her softly tonight. Nothing about this is going to be gentle. This isn’t a jaunt down memory lane—far from it.
Running my finger beneath the left strap of her bra, I pull it taut before letting it snap her skin. Even in the dark, I see the beginnings of a welt, but it’s only minor, and it’ll fade with time. Nothing like the mark she left on me.
Unfastening my jeans, I shove them down
and climb over on top of her, crushing her lips over and over, sucking the air from her lungs and digging my fingers into the curved flesh of her perfect fucking ass.
Her thighs hook around mine.
She wants this. She wants me.
Hate to break it to her, but I’m not the man I used to be.
I position her beneath me, dominating her and spreading her legs apart, teasing her clit with the tip of my swollen cock before dragging it to her entrance, pressing just enough to torture her.
Yeah. I want to fuck her. That feeling never quite subsided no matter how much I tried to force it away, but I can’t fuck her like I used to. She might get the wrong impression.
I rise, pulling my body off hers. “On your knees.”
She hesitates before rolling over and pressing herself up on all fours. Tonight I’m going to fuck her like a dog so I won’t have to feel her staring at me. I don’t want to see that little sliver of hope in her eyes that has abso-fucking-lutely no business being there.
Grabbing a condom from my jeans pocket on the floor, I rip the packet with my teeth before rolling it down my shaft. I’ve waited a long time for this, and I’m so fucking hard my cock aches.
Tracing my fingertip along her seam, I watch as her body shivers, and as soon as she exhales, I thrust deep inside her with one forceful move.
Ayla sighs, falling to her elbows and pressing her cheek against the bed as she grips the sheets.
My hands clutch the flesh of her hips, leaving rosy imprints where I squeeze, and soon the slap of my skin against hers mixes with the scent of her arousal and the soft breathless sighs escaping her traitorous mouth.
Deeper.
Faster.
Harder.
I fuck her until we lose track of time; until she’s screaming into the sheets, telling me how good I feel inside her and begging me not to stop. She’s having quite the experience, but I don’t feel a fucking thing.
I’m numb.
When it’s over, I pull out, toss the condom in the trash, and hit the shower.
I need to wash her off of me.
Chapter One
18 months earlier…
Ayla
The asshole died.
He died before I had a chance to meet him.
“Sorry for your loss,” my half-brother’s landlord says in a thick Brooklyn accent. His lips are drawn into a sagging frown as he hands me a set of keys, and his hooded dark eyes are glassy. I can tell he was a fan of my brother, and by fan, I mean an actual, loyal-to-the-end Bryce Renner enthusiast. He’s wearing a replica New York Spartans hockey sweater with RENNER across the back in bold lettering, and he hasn’t removed it since the funeral this morning. “His lease was paid through the end of the year, so take your time. Let me know if you need anything. I’m in 12A at the end of the hall.”
“Thank you.” I take the keys, squeezing them tight in my palm.
The landlord stops in the doorway, taking in my brother’s place like it’s the last time he’ll get to see it like this, exactly the way Bryce left it.
“He was a good kid, your brother,” the man says.
“That’s what I hear.” I lie, offering a bittersweet smile and watching as he smooths a palm along the interior frame of the door.
“Don’t believe anything anybody tells you about him.” He exhales, then clenches his fist like he’s angry with God before disappearing down the hall. I close and lock the door behind him.
Dirty dishes fill the sink and random stacks of mail litter the counter tops. A half a dozen pairs of sneakers are thrown in a pile next to a shoe organizer by the entryway, and a heap of sweat-scented hockey sweaters rest in a laundry basket beside the closet door in the hall.
I’m positive that beneath the grime and clutter, this is a nice place. The building is a centuries-old limestone with a big black awning that extends all the way to the sidewalk, there’s a doorman and twenty-four-hour security, and I’m a ten-minute walk from Central Park.
Shuffling across the concrete floors, I take in the city view as night descends and the lights begin to flicker and shine. This must be what they call a million-dollar view.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, pulling me out of my exhausted, jet-lagged little daze, and I smile when I see it’s my mom calling.
“Hey,” I answer.
“How was it?” Her voice is sweet and low and laced with worry. I’m not sure why everyone is so worried about me. It’s horribly tragic that he died, but I didn’t know him. Honestly, the most heartbreaking part about this whole thing is that I’ll never know him, and it’s not for a lack of trying. He wanted nothing to do with his father’s illegitimate love child, and he made it abundantly clear each time I tried to reach out to him over the years.
“It was a beautiful service,” I say, tracing my finger across the crystal clear floor-to-ceiling window before me. Everything is so crisp and clean, like I could just reach my hand through and touch the building across the street. The windows seem to be the only remotely untouched thing about this place, and I wonder if he ever took the time to stand here and take in all this beauty. “There were a ton of people there. Hundreds, maybe a thousand? Back of the church was standing room only.”
“Who gave the eulogy?” she asks.
“His coach.”
“It’s so sad that he had no one in those final hours, you know?” she asks, voice fading. “No one by his side at the hospital. Breaks my heart that he died alone.”
“He could’ve had me.”
“I know, sweetheart.” She sighs through the phone, not in the mood to rehash the conversation we’ve had a million times before, but it’s okay, because neither am I. “How are you holding up? I know you have a lot on your plate now with cleaning out his place and handling his estate and everything.”
“I’m fine, Mom. I’ve got it.”
“Well, at least he’s with his family now. They’re all together again, may they finally rest in peace,” Mom says, and I can mentally picture her making the sign of the cross. It’s funny to me that she would speak so casually about the couple whose marriage she all but destroyed some twenty-plus years ago.
I leave the window and take a seat in one of his leather chairs. The leather is supple and smooth, void of cracks and creases, and I wonder if he ever thought about hanging up his skates and resting on his laurels for a bit.
There’s a soft, brisk knock at the door, and I think I’m imagining it until it happens again a few seconds later.
“Someone’s at the door, Mom. I’ll call you later, okay?” I whisper, ending the call before she has a chance to protest.
Brushing my dark bangs into place and straightening my shirt, I rise on my toes and peer through the peephole, my hand steady on the deadbolt and my breath suspended. There’s a man on the other side, dressed in a black suit with a Spartan-green tie, most likely one of Bryce’s teammates.
Clearing my throat, I unlock the door and pull it open. “Hi.”
The guy towers over me, and with watery, red-rimmed eyes he stares so deeply at me I feel like he’s examining the contents of my soul. There’s anguish written all over his face, and he looks like he hasn’t slept in days.
“You’re Bryce’s sister?” he asks.
I nod.
“I’m sorry,” he says, running a goliath palm through his short coffee-brown hair. An overabundance of aftershave clouds the air between us. “I don’t know your name.”
Probably because Bryce didn’t want anyone to know I existed ...
“Ayla,” I say. “Ayla Caldwell.”
I feel that my brother would want me to make it crystal clear that we did not share the same last name even if we did share the same father.
“Didn’t even know he had a sister until Coach mentioned it to me today. Bryce never really talked about his family,” he says, eyes searching mine. “Anyway, just came by because a bunch of us are going to grab some drinks. Not, like, going out or anything, just having a drink for old times’ sa
ke ... celebrating Bryce’s life, that sort of thing.”
“Yeah. I get you.” I bite my lower lip, staring down and trying to decide my fate for the night. A half hour ago, I wanted to lock myself in the guest room, take a hot shower, and call it an early night.
“It’d be on us,” he says, as if money were the main objection here. “You know, ‘cause you’re his family and all, and we take care of our own.”
“I’m going to be honest ...” I offer an apologetic smile and watch his face fall just enough to make me feel like the world’s biggest asshole. Maybe when he looks at me, he sees Bryce, and maybe he feels like I’m the final link to a man he’ll never see again in this lifetime. He didn’t have to come all the way here, to his dead friend-slash-teammate’s apartment, asking his estranged sister to come out for complimentary drinks. He did it out of the kindness of his mourning heart. I can’t say “no.” It’d be uncouth.
I suppose I can make one final toast to the life of the man who hated me so much he almost turned me into the police for cyberstalking when all I’d done was send him a Facebook message out of the blue.
“I’m extremely exhausted, and it’s been a long couple of days,” I say, suddenly more aware of the way the waistband of my pantyhose is digging into my stomach. I want to change out of this depressing dress and these skintight nylons, but I also want to do the right thing. “But I’ll come out with you guys for one drink.”
He smiles through glassy green eyes, and I imagine he’s thinking he’s doing his old pal a solid by including me when it’s likely quite the contrary. But I won’t say anything. I won’t tarnish Bryce’s legacy because despite the fact that he resented the hell out of me and my existence, in a messed up way, I still loved him.
The Rebound Page 20