The Best Man
Winter Renshaw
THE BEST MAN
WINTER RENSHAW
© 2020
Created with Vellum
Contents
Copyright
Important!
Also By Winter Renshaw
All Books Available here!
Description
Preface
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 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Epilogue
Afterword
SAMPLE - The Cruelest Stranger
About the Author
Copyright
COPYRIGHT 2020 WINTER RENSHAW
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
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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.
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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
I didn’t know her name, but I heard her laugh, tasted her lips, felt her warm skin as I held her in my arms. Together we watched our young children playing in the sand, the warm ocean lapping at the shore behind them as the setting sun painted the sky. She was my soulmate and this was our life, our beautiful forever …
Then I woke up—alone in a hospital room, connected to wires and machines.
There was no wife. No kids. Not a single soul waiting for me. That life I dreamt of—never existed.
The woman I loved, the woman I knew better than I knew myself—wasn’t real.
Until she walked into my life six months later …
And it was both the best and worst day of my life because the woman of my dreams—was about to marry my best friend.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: This angsty forbidden romance contains zero cheating and no love triangle. But that’s all I’m going to say.;-)
For the dreamers.
And for Mary Brannian.
“Maktub,” she said. “If I am really part of your dream, you’ll come back one day.”
—Paolo Coelho, The Alchemist
Preface
Ancient Egyptians believed that dreams existed in a place between the living and the world on the other side. Early Romans, Grecians, and Mesopotamians regarded dream interpretation as an art form requiring advanced intellect and divine inspiration. Sigmund Freud is famous for theorizing that dreams are the result of suppressed or unfulfilled desires—particularly ones that are sexual or romantic in nature. Modern science suggests dreams are nothing more than electrical impulses in our brains, pulling random thoughts and images from our memories.
At the end of the day, all we truly know for sure is that dreams are a form of unconscious hallucinations. And while the content may be illusory, the emotions we feel in response to that content can, at times, be all too real.
1
Brie
Numbers don’t lie.
But men like the one beside me? With iridescent copper eyes, a jawline so sharp it could cut diamonds, and muscle-wrapped shoulders made for digging your fingers into as he pushes himself into the deepest parts of you?
They lie.
They lie all the time.
Especially in Hoboken hook-up bars like this one.
He told me his name, but already I’ve forgotten. Men like him don’t tend to give real names, so there’s no point in remembering. He also told me he’s from Manhattan, and that
once a month he rents a car for a weekend so he can get out of the city, breathe some fresh air, and hear himself think.
Sounds made up.
A story you tell someone to impress them, to make them think you’re deep.
Different.
Special.
If I had to guess, he has a wife and a new baby in the ‘burbs. Ridgewood or Franklin Lakes. Maybe his sex life isn’t what it used to be. Maybe the family life wasn’t what he expected. In my mind’s eye I’ve imagined him packing a small suitcase, kissing his family goodbye, loading up in his luxury SUV and hauling ass to a little bar where nobody knows or marital status.
I steal a peek at his left hand.
It’s too dim to spot a wedding band indentation.
“How long are you in town?” He leans in when he speaks to me, his voice smooth as velvet and sending a spray of goosebumps along my neck. The faintest hint of aftershave wafts from his warm skin. Faded with a hint of vetiver and mystique, I enjoy it. But I don’t tell him that. If I flatter him, he’ll think he’s got a ‘nibble’ and he’ll try to reel me in.
I don’t want to be caught. I don’t want to be reeled in.
I want to enjoy my glass of pinot, maybe take a walk around the block, and then head back to my hotel room, paint on a charcoal mud mask, and fall asleep with Seinfeld reruns flickering on my TV screen.
“Not much longer,” I tell him, avoiding eye contact for a myriad of reasons, most of all being the fact that he’s the most beautiful stranger (physically speaking) to ever have purchased me a drink and every time I allow myself to bask in that, I lose my train of thought. “A couple more days.”
“Same.” He sips his drink, something amber in a crystal tumbler. The kind of liquor you savor drop by pricey drop, the kind you don’t rush to finish. “Where did you say you worked again?”
“Phoenix.” I clear my throat. Nothing worse than a man who asks questions but doesn’t take the time to listen.
“No, I remember that part,” he proves me wrong. “I meant where? What company?”
“The Fletcher Firm.” I lie for safety reasons.
I don’t know this man from Adam—no need to give him Google ammo.
“Kind of young to be an actuary, aren’t you?”
His next question catches me off-guard, and I nearly choke on my pinot. Most men—the ones laser focused on securing a piece of ass for the night—rarely remember what I do for a living once they’ve asked me. And the ones that do, have no idea what an actuary is or the education and tests that go into becoming one.
“I am young for an actuary, yes,” I say. I turn my attention toward him without thinking twice. Big mistake. His hazel eyes glint, focused on me. My stomach tightens in response. “I fast-tracked.” Taking a sip, I add, “I don’t recommend it unless you’re willing to sacrifice your social life—or any kind of life you may have—for the majority of your twenties.”
So much of life passed me by. Semesters blurred into one another. Weekend invites were turned down in favor of studying for the next exam. In the end, I was racing to a finish line for no other reason than it felt like a safe choice in a world filled with so much uncertainty.
Go to college. Get a career. Everything else will fall into place …
“You love it though, right?” he asks. “It was worth it?”
I nod. “I do love it.”
Whether it was worth fast-tracking is another thing. If I could go back and do it differently, if I could slow down and spend more time with my sister before her unexpected passing, I’d do it in a heartbeat.
He covers my hand with his palm for half of a second before waving to the bartender. “Your drink is low.”
“No, no. I’m good,” I say, shaking my head at the bartender to cancel the order. “I’m going to head out soon.”
The man checks his watch, a reflective silver piece with an oversized bezel and a simple, classic face before wrinkling his nose. “It’s only nine-thirty …”
For a second, I imagine his wife gifting him with that timepiece on their first anniversary. Or the day of his first big promotion. Or the day she told him she was pregnant.
Deep down, I know this is a story I’m telling to myself to make myself feel better for not taking a risk. At the end of the day we’re always justifying everything, all of the time, in our own individual ways.
I turn away from him and stare at the purple remnants in the bottom of my chalice.
One sip and it’s gone.
One sip and I’m out of here.
One sip and I’ll never see the man with the gold-flecked irises again.
I must admit, I’m quite flattered by the fact that out of all the lovely and beautiful women in this bar tonight, this dashing Adonis approached me.
“I realize I’m in a singles bar on a Friday night,” I say, “but I can assure you, you’d have better luck casting your line in another direction.”
He half-laughs. “What?”
“You’re fishing. You want sex.” I blink. “Not judging you. Just saying, you’re wasting valuable time and energy on me.”
His brows meet. His gaze snaps to my left hand. “You’re taken?”
I bite my lip, shake my head. “No.”
“Then, what? You aren’t into men?”
“I’m into men. I just don’t sleep with people I don’t know.” I sit taller. “I don’t do one night stands. Nothing personal.”
“Fair enough. Dare I ask why?” He squints, and for a second, I think he might be genuinely interested in my answer because he doesn’t take his attention off of me for one moment. I’m also impressed that he isn’t shrinking away from the sting of rejection or denying that he was, in fact, only after one thing.
The world needs more people like him—at least, assuming he’s every ounce the single, sex-prowling man he claims to be.
“A woman’s odds of orgasming during a hook-up with a stranger is a paltry twenty-two percent and the average duration of said encounter is seven minutes. I can do better on my own.
Not to mention, over forty percent of men have had dozens of partners—and a third of those men have had over one hundred.”
Once again … numbers don’t lie.
“Why’d you come here then?” he asks.
“Because drinking alone in my hotel room on my birthday would’ve been a new low for me.” This time, I don’t lie to this stranger. I have no reason to. Besides, stating anything other than this would be lying to myself.
I take full responsibility for not doing my research on this bar. I also take full responsibility for not walking out the door the instant I set foot in here and immediately overheard a couple of guys talking about how this was the “hottest hook up bar on Washington street.”
This place is walking distance from my hotel—and by walking distance, I mean it’s practically connected. Their walls are sandwiched together on a busy strip of downtown street, the New York City skyline in the distance and the faint stench of the Hudson River infused into every breath.
I stay in this neighborhood every time I travel here for work.
It’s familiar. I know what to expect.
I toss back the final few milliliters of my pinot and place the goblet on my cardboard coaster before sliding it away.
“Happy birthday,” he says.
I meet his gaze. My breath catches in my chest with the gusto of a silly school girl with a two-second crush. Heat blankets my body.
If I were an adventurous woman, his mouth would be on mine by now. My fingers would be deep in his sandy hair. We’d be going at it in the bathroom, his back against the door to keep unsuspecting patrons from barging in. Or maybe they would barge in, but we’d be going at it so hard we wouldn’t notice or care. Maybe when it’s over, we’d sprint to my hotel room for round two followed by breakfast in bed and round three in the morning. We’d go our own ways, sore and satisfied, and I’d file the entire encounter away in my memory.
But I’m not that girl.
And I’ll never be.
I rise from the bar stool and collect my things. “Thank you for the drink. And for your honesty. It’s refreshing.”
He chews the inside of his lower lip, studying me. “So you’re just going to go back to your hotel room now? Spend the rest of your birthday alone?”
I offer a surrendering shrug and lift my brows. “Yep.”
“Where’d you get those numbers? Those statistics?” he asks.
“On one night stands?”
He nods.
“I don’t know … some article I read a few years back. Why?”
“Because they’re bullshit.” His eyes glint. “I’m not in the forty-percent, I can tell you that. And I can promise you, I last a hell of a lot longer than seven minutes. And there’s nothing I love more than making a woman come—whether it’s on my cock, my fingers, or my tongue.”