Tomorrow the five of us are spending the day in downtown Philly and Sunday, after they leave, we’re heading to New Jersey, where Bryce is buried because it happens to be his birthday.
He would’ve been twenty-nine.
Rhett’s been working on forgiving Bryce over the last year, and he’s making progress. I’ve gotten him to open up a few times, telling me so many stories about my brother that I almost feel like I knew him.
One of these days, he says, he’ll tell me everything I need to know. Until then, he asks for my patience and understanding.
He doesn’t mention Damiana at all really, though her mother and father came to visit shortly after our wedding. I think he has forgiven her in his own silent way. Her parents are good people. Kind and compassionate. They wanted to meet me, and they seemed happy for him.
The sliding back door pulls open. Bostyn trudges in, talking a million miles a minute, followed by Locke, who is clearly defending himself over something.
“Guys, guys,” I say, sitting up. “How about we just relax?”
“You never should’ve brought it up,” Rhett says, nudging me.
“I couldn’t help myself. When you see something, you say something,” I defend myself.
“I don’t think that applies to this.” He chuckles.
Bostyn plops into one of the armchairs by the fireplace and Locke takes the one beside her for lack of seating options.
“The only way in hell I would ever consider going on so much as a coffee date with you is if you’d delete all those dating apps on your phone,” she says to him.
“Never.”
Her jaw falls. “I don’t date guys who are dating multiple other women.”
“I don’t have the apps on my phone because I use them,” he says. “I invented them. They’re like little trophies. And I check them from time to time when the people who bought them have questions about the code or want me to test glitches and stuff.”
Bostyn’s quiet, studying him.
“So you ... you actually want to take me on a date?” she presses a finger into her chest, brows lifted and forehead lined.
“Yeah,” Locke says. “I do.”
“But ... why?” she asks.
We all laugh.
“Because I think you’re pretty. And you’re smart. And Joa clearly approves,” he says. “And I also really want my sister-in-law to stop bringing it up every time you come around.”
Rhett elbows me, but I ignore it. I’m glued to these two. Mark my words, they’re going to be hitched in the next two years. I’d bet my next book on it.
“I’ll think about it,” Bostyn says.
I exhale, slamming my palm against my forehead and shaking my head. “For the love of God, Bostyn, just go on a date with him.”
She rises, and I spot a hint of a smirk on her mouth that goes unnoticed by the guys. When her gaze passes over mine, I catch a wicked little glint.
Ohhhh.
It’s crystal clear what she’s doing.
“I said I’ll think about it,” she says to me, giving me a wink as she heads to the next room.
I know exactly what’s going on: she does like him, and now she’s going to give him the chase of a lifetime.
Let the games begin.
——
* * *
Dear Reader,
I sincerely hope you enjoyed COLD HEARTED! As a special thank you, I’ve written a novella called LOCKE HEARTED, which you can obtain for FREE by visiting here.
xoxo-
Winter
The Cruelest Stranger
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.
One
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 an 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.