Coming January 31st
I wish I could say our meeting was happenstance.
I wish I could say we took one look and we just knew.
I wish I could say falling for him was the best thing that ever happened to me.
But none of that would be true.
Rhett Carson was as cold as the ice on which he skated. He was as calloused as the hands that shot the goals that won world titles. He was also damaged. And broken. And he didn’t know it, but I knew all about him.
I knew why he was so bitter and angry.
I knew why he was so coldhearted.
But I didn’t know why I allowed myself fall in love with him, and I didn’t know why I couldn’t stop…even when he told me to.
And that’s when everything changed.
I wish I could say we took one look and we just knew.
I wish I could say falling for him was the best thing that ever happened to me.
But none of that would be true.
Rhett Carson was as cold as the ice on which he skated. He was as calloused as the hands that shot the goals that won world titles. He was also damaged. And broken. And he didn’t know it, but I knew all about him.
I knew why he was so bitter and angry.
I knew why he was so coldhearted.
But I didn’t know why I allowed myself fall in love with him, and I didn’t know why I couldn’t stop…even when he told me to.
And that’s when everything changed.
“I should probably get your number,” I say.
He wrinkles his nose. “Why?”
“I don’t know. In case I wind up pregnant or something. You came a lot. And condoms aren’t always one hundred percent.”
His expression turns to ash until he realizes I’m kidding.
“Anyway.” I pull my blouse over my head and fluff my hair around my shoulders. “Thanks for that.”
I’m halfway to the door with my purse over my shoulder when he says, “Thanks for that? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It’s just an expression. What am I supposed to say?” I shrug. If I tell him it was amazing and we should do it again, then it’s going to turn into a thing. A big, ugly, complicated thing that I won’t be able to explain my way out of.
“Nothing,” he says. “Just say nothing. You don’t have to make it all awkward by thanking me for sex. Who does that?”
“I’m sorry. Does that make you feel used?” I hide my chuckle with my hand, and he comes at me with a giant smirk on his face, pressing his hard-as-steel chest against my body until my back’s against the door.
“God, you have a smart mouth.” His hand lifts to my face, and he drags his thumb along my lower lip, his eyes fixated there as if he’s replaying the last thirty minutes in his head.
I’m painfully aware of the fact that our mouths are inches, maybe even mere centimeters apart. If he wanted to kiss me again, I’d let him. I wouldn’t say no. I wouldn’t protest or try to stop him, even though it’d be the right thing to do.
Kissing Rhett feels different from any other man, and I’m not sure if it’s because of his his powerful, complicated aura—or the fact that something so morally, ethically wrong could feel so dangerously good.
I want to ask what he’s doing when our gazes catch. I want to know what this is. And why me? But I know this can never be anything, so asking would be pointless. Besides, more than likely he’s just a horny guy who saw a girl in a bar and decided to go in for the kill.
He wrinkles his nose. “Why?”
“I don’t know. In case I wind up pregnant or something. You came a lot. And condoms aren’t always one hundred percent.”
His expression turns to ash until he realizes I’m kidding.
“Anyway.” I pull my blouse over my head and fluff my hair around my shoulders. “Thanks for that.”
I’m halfway to the door with my purse over my shoulder when he says, “Thanks for that? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It’s just an expression. What am I supposed to say?” I shrug. If I tell him it was amazing and we should do it again, then it’s going to turn into a thing. A big, ugly, complicated thing that I won’t be able to explain my way out of.
“Nothing,” he says. “Just say nothing. You don’t have to make it all awkward by thanking me for sex. Who does that?”
“I’m sorry. Does that make you feel used?” I hide my chuckle with my hand, and he comes at me with a giant smirk on his face, pressing his hard-as-steel chest against my body until my back’s against the door.
“God, you have a smart mouth.” His hand lifts to my face, and he drags his thumb along my lower lip, his eyes fixated there as if he’s replaying the last thirty minutes in his head.
I’m painfully aware of the fact that our mouths are inches, maybe even mere centimeters apart. If he wanted to kiss me again, I’d let him. I wouldn’t say no. I wouldn’t protest or try to stop him, even though it’d be the right thing to do.
Kissing Rhett feels different from any other man, and I’m not sure if it’s because of his his powerful, complicated aura—or the fact that something so morally, ethically wrong could feel so dangerously good.
I want to ask what he’s doing when our gazes catch. I want to know what this is. And why me? But I know this can never be anything, so asking would be pointless. Besides, more than likely he’s just a horny guy who saw a girl in a bar and decided to go in for the kill.
In my heart of hearts, I know our time together was more about convenience than poetics.
“I should go,” I say, releasing a sheltered breath.
His smirk fades, along with the dimples I’m just now noticing, and his steely gaze darkens.
“Yeah,” he says, as if he’s suddenly drawn the same conclusions but for reasons all his own. “You should.”
“I should go,” I say, releasing a sheltered breath.
His smirk fades, along with the dimples I’m just now noticing, and his steely gaze darkens.
“Yeah,” he says, as if he’s suddenly drawn the same conclusions but for reasons all his own. “You should.”
Wall Street Journal and #1 Amazon bestselling author Winter Renshaw is a bona fide daydream believer. She lives somewhere in the middle of the USA and can rarely be seen without her trusty Mead notebook and ultra portable laptop. When she’s not writing, she’s living the American dream with her husband, three kids, and the laziest puggle this side of the Mississippi.
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