Winter Renshaw – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read

Winter Renshaw – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read http://www.books2020.com Thu, 23 Apr 2026 23:01:11 +0000 en-US hourly 1 https://wordpress.org/?v=6.9.4 http://www.books2020.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/09/favicon.png Winter Renshaw – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read http://www.books2020.com 32 32 Love Grows Wild Read Online Winter Renshaw http://www.books2020.com/love-grows-wild-read-online-winter-renshaw Thu, 23 Apr 2026 23:01:11 +0000 https://www.books2020.com/love-grows-wild-read-online-winter-renshaw Genre: Alpha Male, Contemporary, Suspense Authors: Winter Renshaw Advertisement

Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)

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From Wall Street Journal bestselling author Winter Renshaw comes a small-town slow burn about a writer who returns to her roots and the farmer who helps her grow.

Wren Jensen thought she had it all—until she was left at the altar and left with nothing but writer’s block. Out of options, she packs up her five-year-old son and heads back to her hometown of Colton Valley, hoping the quiet countryside will inspire her again.

Hunter McCrae wanted that property for himself. The last thing the grumpy farmer expected was a single mom moving in next door—or how much she’d unsettle his carefully guarded solitude.

Wren isn’t looking for love. Hunter isn’t looking for neighbors. But with every stolen glance and shared moment, the walls they’ve built start to crack.

She’s haunted by heartbreak. He’s married to his solitude. Neither is ready to risk it all.

But sometimes love doesn’t follow rules. It grows wild, right where it’s not supposed to

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

Prologue

Wren

“You sure you want to do this?” My best friend, Reese, frowns from my doorway. She comes bearing cardboard boxes, moving tape, Sharpies, and a wistful expression on her face.

“It’s not optional.” I sip my iced chai and scan the lofty downtown Des Moines condo my son and I have called home for the last four years. Twenty years ago, I left my hometown of Colton Valley—a blink-and-you-miss-it Iowa farming town, got a generic college degree, and somehow along the way stumbled into a career as a romance novelist.

Everything was going well . . . until life happened.

Turns out it’s impossible to write—or at least write well—when your personal life goes up in flames. One of the worst feelings in the world is having a story to tell that refuses to come out. The flashing cursor on a blank white page is a visual that haunts my dreams on a nightly basis.

“You’re sure you’re not doing this because of he-who-shall-not-be-named?” Reese sighs. “It’s just that everything is so fresh, and this decision seems so . . . sudden. I just hope you’re doing it for the right reasons and it’s not some knee-jerk impulse reaction. Don’t let that asshole run you out of the city you love.”

“I’m not running from anything—or anyone.” I tuck the flaps on a cardboard box. “And you can say Nick’s name. It’s not forbidden. He doesn’t get to leave me at the altar and still wield that much power over me.”

Reese sits straighter, satisfied with my answer. While it’s been six months since Nick left me the morning of our wedding day, and the aftershocks of that rug-pull are still shaky, the love is gone.

I don’t miss him.

I don’t wish things had been different.

I just wish I could write again.

I have overdue contracts, and I feel like I’m letting everyone down. My die-hard readers. My agent. My editor. Myself. My son and the life I was building for us . . .

Two months ago, Atticus found me sobbing over my laptop in the middle of the night. He brought me a blanket, his beloved teddy bear, and a glass of water, and then he scampered off to grab his favorite book, telling me I needed some inspiration.

Inspiration was exactly what I needed, just not from between the pages of Goodnight, Goodnight, Construction Site.

“I can’t live here without you.” She sets the boxes on the dining room table and sinks into a chair, half pouting.

“Then come with me. It’s only forty minutes away,” I say. “It’s a cute little postcard town. You’d love it.”

“I’d hate it,” she counters.

“True. But you hated sushi until I made you try it,” I remind her. “Now it’s your favorite.”

The day I left for college, I vowed to myself I’d never move back home. Not that there’s anything wrong with that quaint little Hallmark town. But for me, it wasn’t about that. Leaving home meant pushing myself out of my comfort zone and into the unknown. I was convinced that would be where my life would truly begin. And it did . . . until it started to feel like it was ending too.

Reese uncaps a black Sharpie and takes a whiff, grimacing. “Why do I both hate and love this smell? Make it make sense.”

I tape a box of paperback books and label it office.

“I just can’t picture you living on an acreage. In a farmhouse. You’ve been a city girl ever since I’ve known you. You have this modern industrial loft with these huge ceilings. You eat at the best restaurants. You travel all the time, and you’re ten minutes from the airport. And Atticus goes to that cool preschool over on Walnut. I bet they don’t have schools like that in Colton Valley. And how many restaurants do they have? One? Two?”

I chuckle. “Four, actually. Five, if you count the bar that serves frozen pizza by the slice. I’ve been wanting to learn how to cook more anyway. And their elementary school is one of the best in the state, believe it or not. Atticus is really excited for kindergarten this fall. Plus, my mom works there, so he’ll get to see his grandma every day.”

“Good for Atticus. But you’re going to hate it, and you’re going to be calling me up asking me to pack you up again, and I’m just going to say I told you so.”

“Just wait until you see the property. Cute little white farmhouse. Wraparound porch. Tree-lined driveway. Room for a food garden. The yard backs up to the river, and there’s even a little gazebo. Oh, and there’s a red barn with a little corral. I was thinking of getting one of those adorable mini cows—or maybe a pony for Atticus? And a dog. I should get a big dog.”

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Advertisement Fake-ish Read Online Winter Renshaw http://www.books2020.com/fake-ish-read-online-winter-renshaw Fri, 15 Dec 2023 11:43:33 +0000 http://www.booksnovels.com/fake-ish-read-online-winter-renshaw Genre: Alpha Male, Billionaire, Contemporary Authors: Winter Renshaw Advertisement

Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76470 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >80

Always a bridesmaid, never a bride—and that’s the way I like it.

I may be anti-marriage, but I’m still pro-romance. Case in point? That sexy curmudgeon I met last year during my cousin’s tropical bachelorette getaway.

That grump was Dorian, the groom’s old college roommate, there for the bachelor party. I couldn’t get enough of his messy brown hair and gorgeous turquoise eyes. We connected on a deep level—emotionally and physically.

But the timing wasn’t right. So we made a pact to reconnect in two years. Now I’m starting a new “job.” It’ll take a lot of work and pays really well—I’m talking seven figures here. All I have to do is pretend to be my boss’s new fiancée…and spend eight weeks with his family on their private island. How hard could it be?

Turns out, a lot harder than I thought. Because the man I’m pretending to love? He’s Dorian’s brother, and now all bets are off…

A sizzling romance about two people who fall in love, go their separate ways, and then try to reconnect against all odds.

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

CHAPTER ONE

BRIAR

One Year Ago

“You can’t tell me all of these people are having fun.” A turquoise-eyed stranger sporting a five o’clock shadow and messy chocolate-brown hair takes the barstool beside mine. He swirls the amber-hued liquid in his lowball tumbler before pointing around the bar. “They’re all pretending. They have to be.”

Stealing a better glimpse of my new neighbor, I recognize him as the man who mostly kept to himself in the back of the party bus, even when one of the bride’s college friends shamelessly tried twerking in his face. The way he looked through her, she might as well have been invisible. As soon as we stepped inside this place, he ordered two fingers of whiskey and disappeared—until now.

“I don’t know.” I scan the dark and neon space that surrounds us. He and I are the only ones not singing, dancing, or falling over drunk. “Hate to say it, but I think we’re the wet blankets.”

“There’s a reason we’re an hour into this thing and these people are already trashed. It’s the only way you can have fun at a joint bachelor-bachelorette party.”

A Lil Jon song comes on, and behind me, the sash-and-tiara-wearing bride-to-be begins whoo-hooing and grinding against her fiancé, who is so hammered he can’t stand upright without stumbling backward. His near fall is broken by one of his big-muscled buddies, who swoops in to catch him. A few seconds later, the groom is back with his beloved, pretending to slap her ass to the rhythm of a song about sweat dripping down someone’s balls.

“Glad to see romance isn’t dead,” I say.

The night is young, and these people remind me of sheltered church-camp kids sampling freedom and adulthood for the first time.

“Twenty bucks says at least one person in our group will be throwing up before midnight,” I say.

“I’ve never understood the whole joint-bachelor-bachelorette-party thing,” the guy beside me continues, turning away from the spectacle behind us. “They said it’s more cost effective and the more the merrier, but you know damn well the bride and groom don’t trust each other, and that’s the real reason.” He takes a generous drink before sliding his empty glass toward the bartender and giving a nod. “How can you marry someone you can’t trust?”

I don’t disagree with any of what he’s saying—I would just never say those things out loud . . . to a fellow partygoer . . . at the actual party. Everyone here knows about Vivi and Benson’s colorful relationship saga, which is peppered with unproven cheating allegations and more breakups than any of us can count on our fingers.

“Even toxic love is love,” I say. “Just be happy for them. That’s all we have to do.”

“Hard to do that when odds are they won’t make it to their fifth wedding anniversary. It’s like watching a train wreck about to happen and doing nothing to stop it.”

“It’s not our train wreck to stop. And you never know, maybe they’ll beat the odds?” I say this knowing damn well those odds against them couldn’t be stacked higher. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I caught your name.”

“Dorian.”

“Briar,” I say. “How do you know the groom?”

“We were college roommates a lifetime ago. Syracuse. How do you know the bride?”

“Vivi’s my cousin.” I sip my blackberry mojito, catching a lime seed in the straw. I swallow it like the bitter little pill it is, trying not to make a face.

“So you’re here out of familial obligation.”

“I mean, I’m also in her wedding,” I say. “Just here to show my support like everyone else.”

The bartender tops off Dorian’s whiskey, using a bottle he grabs off the highest shelf.

How this painfully attractive grouch of a man can be drinking expensive liquor at a flashy club in the Caribbean is beyond me. He should be tossing them back, hitting on beautiful women, and living his best life—god-awful music be damned.

“What would you be doing right now?” I ask. “If you weren’t here?”

He exhales, contemplating his response. “Probably catching some shitty sleep in a tour bus, making sure the bassist doesn’t try to quit again.”

“You’re in a band?”

“No,” he says. “I manage one.”

“So you’d rather be working right now?”

“They do better when I’m there to keep them in line,” he says.

“What band is it?” I ask.

“Phantom Symphony.”

“Stop.” I smack my palm against the bar top. “You manage Phantom Symphony? Are you serious? I have their entire album and their new EP in my iTunes. I was just listening to them on the flight this morning. I must’ve had that new song . . . ‘Moon Drop Envy’ on repeat for a solid hour earlier. When I tell you I’m ob-sessed . . .”

Fishing into my clutch, I pull out my phone to show him, but he waves me off like he doesn’t need proof.

“You and everyone else,” he says.

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Advertisement Dear Stranger (Paper Cuts #3) Read Online Winter Renshaw http://www.books2020.com/dear-stranger-paper-cuts-3-read-online-winter-renshaw Mon, 09 Oct 2023 12:39:58 +0000 http://www.booksnovels.com/dear-stranger-paper-cuts-3-read-online-winter-renshaw Genre: Contemporary Authors: Winter Renshaw Series: Paper Cuts Series by Winter Renshaw
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Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 89820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >92

Online lovers … offline rivals.

Ambitious and career-driven, I have zero time for dating until Blind Love—an app designed for those seeking genuine romantic connections without the hassle of awkward first dates—hooks me in. The only catch? Ninety days of anonymous messaging are required before identities are revealed.

I connect with Stranger88 immediately, and before long our flirty banter becomes a welcome escape from my demanding schedule.

Soon I’m desperate to know his true identity, so I go digging—only to discover that Stranger88 … is no stranger at all.

In a cruel twist of fate, it turns out the mystery man consuming my every thought is fellow attorney Brooks Abbott—a sharp-tongued devil in a three-piece suit, my biggest office rival, and the one obstacle standing between me and the promotion of my dreams: a job Brooks has every intention of landing.

Behind the screens, there’s no denying our electric chemistry, but at work, our rivalry grows stronger than ever.

But when passion meets profession, will we redefine the Law of Attraction … or will our hearts face a ruthless cross-examination with no chance of appeal?

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is a standalone romance. You do not need to read HATE MAIL or YOURS CRUELLY first.

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

1

I’ve spent almost two-thirds of my life in hell—kind of.

My mother used to tell me goals were a necessary ingredient of life, but equally important was celebrating—and enjoying—the little achievements along the way. She said failing to recognize those wins would be doing myself a disservice; that it’d be the equivalent of glazing over the journey and living solely in pursuit of the destination, thereby missing all of the good stuff. In my youthful naivety, I staunchly disagreed with her. When “ambition” is your middle name, the destination is the only thing that matters. Screw the journey. It’s a means to an end. I brushed her advice aside back then, razzing her about her obsession with self-help books and motivational posters.

Now that I’m a little older, I’ve learned the hard way that the she was right.

But breaking up with my ambition would be akin to severing a limb. It’s a necessary and vital part of me and has been for as long as I can remember—beginning with one particular Christmas morning. I sprinted downstairs, expecting to burst at the sight of colorfully wrapped gifts under our sparse little Charlie Brown tree. Only there was nothing. I quickly learned my mother’s boyfriend at the time had lost his job the day before and my mother had to return all the gifts so we could pay our rent. Later that day, over a meager dinner of toast and eggs, I heard the two of them discussing how to fight his wrongful termination—except they couldn’t afford a lawyer.

I made up my mind then and there that I was going to be a lawyer someday. And not just any lawyer. One with power and influence and a big, fat bank account. I’d see to it that my family would have to worry about money again. We would be happy.

At twenty-eight, I’m so close to achieving that goal I can almost taste it.

And while I’m proud of myself, I have to admit it doesn’t feel the way I thought it would. Every A, every debate team win, every trophy, and every hood, stole, and cord I’ve worn as I’ve walked graduation stages—have all felt like ticking a box before moving on to the next thing.

Now that I’m on the verge of a life-changing promotion, the prospect of not having any more boxes left to tick has been weighing on my mind lately along with a single glaring question: what comes next?

I’m standing at the front door of my apartment, where my dry-cleaning has been delivered and is waiting on the hook on my door. Every week, it’s like clockwork.

Same gray, black, and navy suits, same white blouses, same old routine.

I grab the plastic-wrapped bundle and step inside the abyss of my dark apartment, dropping the clothes, bag, and keys on the floor and fumbling for the light switch on the wall. When I finally flip it on, my gaze lands on the pyramid of cardboard boxes in the corner. If a person didn’t know me, they’d think I only recently moved in, but the fact is I’ve lived here for over a year already, ever since finishing law school at the University of Maine and starting as a junior associate at Foster and Foster, one of Maine’s most prestigious law firms.

It’s nearly midnight and I’m dead on my feet after another twelve-hour shift. But that’s what a girl has to do if she’s going to make partner at Foster and Foster and start cashing the big paychecks. Once I’m promoted, I’ll start getting bonuses. Big bonuses—not the laughable ones they give out to juniors and associates and paralegals at Christmas time. Bonuses that will allow me to pay off my mom’s house so she can finally retire. Bonuses that will allow me to donate to all of my favorite causes and not think twice. Bonuses that will allow me to finally book that girls’ trip to Paris with my best friends and not have to worry about checking my bank account as we live like queens. Bonuses that will allow me to pick and choose my clientele so that I can help people going through the same hardship my mother went through a lifetime ago.

Trudging to my fridge, I come face-to-face with Bevin, my roommate from USM, in the form of a wedding invitation tacked to my fridge. In the image, she’s gazing adoringly into the eyes of a tall man with a trimmed beard and quirky bowtie, both of them looking deliriously in love. While I’m thrilled for her, it’ll be yet another wedding I’ll be attending… alone.

And it’s not even that I mind going to these things alone. I can talk to anyone about anything. It’s the fielding questions part that sucks. Everyone wants to know why I’m single, as if it’s some medical condition or I’m trying to make some statement. Inevitably, when I explain that I’m married to my job and don’t have time to date, I’m always met with the same reaction—pity. Even if the person asking doesn’t say anything, it’s still written all over their face.

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Advertisement Yours Cruelly (Paper Cuts #2) Read Online Winter Renshaw http://www.books2020.com/yours-cruelly-paper-cuts-2-read-online-winter-renshaw Thu, 14 Sep 2023 21:21:54 +0000 http://www.booksnovels.com/yours-cruelly-paper-cuts-2-read-online-winter-renshaw Genre: Contemporary, Drama Authors: Winter Renshaw Series: Paper Cuts Series by Winter Renshaw
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Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98485 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >102

The message said, “Remember me?” But the sender was someone I’d rather forget.

Alec Mansfield haunted my memories like a cruel specter. In high school, he was my tormentor and the bane of my existence. When he wasn’t defying authority alongside my older brothers, he was sabotaging my dates and sending me “anonymous” emails signed “yours cruelly.”

Alec was merciless, an emerald-eyed devil spending his daddy’s money and wreaking havoc over our hometown of Sapphire Shores like he owned the place. But mostly, he hated that I didn’t fawn over him like all the other girls did.

It’s been ten years since he left town.

But now he’s back, working as an ER doctor at the local hospital, and in a strange twist of fate, we match on a dating app. I agree to meet up, but only because I want to tell him off for making my life a living hell all those years ago. But four cocktails, one tequila shot, and a shared Uber later, I find myself about to have scorching-hot hate sex with my sworn nemesis.

The next morning, I leave before the sun comes up, slamming the book on that chapter of my life forever.

Except a few weeks later, I discover our story has an epilogue—one that starts with two pink lines on a pregnancy test.

Turns out there are things more life-altering than hooking up with Alec Mansfield … like having his baby.

NOTE: This is a complete standalone that can be read without reading HATE MAIL first, though it's strongly recommended if you want to avoid spoilers.

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

1

Stassi

I’m not one to call people losers, but the guy slumped over the bar, giving me sleepy-eyed come-hither looks over his beer? It’s not looking good for him.

“You should go talk to him,” Madison, my roommate-slash-ride-or-die, kicks me under the table. “He has this clueless Bambi thing going on. It’s kind of endearing actually.”

“Did you forget to wear your contacts again?” The guy has serial-killer eyes and a neck that rivals most giraffes. On top of that, his nostrils keep flaring like two ever-expanding black holes. I’m two drinks in, but I’m not that desperate. Not yet, anyway. “Maybe you should go talk to him.”

She considers my suggestion, sipping her strawberry basil mojito through the stirrer straw. “I’m already dating Joe though.”

I give her a look. Two random meetups and a screw in the back of a movie theater shouldn’t constitute dating in my book, but then again, what do I know? I’m in a dry spell so arid it rivals the Sahara.

As if reading my mind, Mad says, “He’s better than Bryson.”

She’s not wrong.

My last blind date—the one I got by swiping right—wound up having stale coffee breath I could smell from across the table every time he opened his mouth. But that wasn’t the worst of it. Throughout our date, he insisted on referring to himself in the third person. “Bryson Winward wants to order calamari. Bryson Winward would love to escort you home.”

At first I thought he was trying to be funny … so I laughed.

Turns out, he wasn’t.

Before our appetizer had a chance to arrive, I faked an emergency phone call and ordered an Uber faster than a person could say “mozzarella sticks with extra marinara.”

Every one of my last few dates has come in a distant second place to a book, a bubble bath, and a cold tub of Ben & Jerry’s AmeriCone Dream.

“I don’t know if I’m made for this dating scene anymore,” I say. “I thought about looking into some convents.”

“Stassi.” Tenley, one of my oldest friends, offers me a sympathetic look as she places her hand over mine. “You’ll find the right guy when you least expect it. That’s how it always goes. Once you stop looking—bam. They waltz into your life and you suddenly can’t remember life before them.”

Easy for her to say—Tenley resembles a Hadid sister, makes working at an award-winning, high-pressure law firm look like a cakewalk. On top of that, her problem is the opposite of mine. Every time she turns around, she’s getting asked out by handsome strangers and turning them down because she’s already married … to her job.

I glance at old Googly Eyes, who is now picking his teeth with his fingernail.

“Anyway,” I say. “I didn’t come out to find a guy. I came to hang with my best friends.”

Campbell, the only married one of our group, lifts a shoulder. “There’s no unwritten rule that says you can’t do both.”

Best friends since kindergarten, I always imagined Campbell would be an old spinster-type, home on weekends with her various animals and eclectic interests. She’s always been the quirky one with the oddball sense of humor. Growing up, she rarely showed romantic interest in anyone, though in college she made out with a few guys. I didn’t think she had a flirtatious bone in her body—until she showed up last year sporting a glimmering diamond ring, a mile-wide grin, and the most shocking news she’d ever delivered: she was engaged—and to a devastatingly gorgeous billionaire, no less.

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Advertisement Hate Mail (Paper Cuts #1) Read Online Winter Renshaw http://www.books2020.com/hate-mail-paper-cuts-1-read-online-winter-renshaw Wed, 16 Aug 2023 21:45:12 +0000 http://www.booksnovels.com/hate-mail-paper-cuts-1-read-online-winter-renshaw Genre: Alpha Male, Billionaire, Contemporary Authors: Winter Renshaw Series: Paper Cuts Series by Winter Renshaw
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Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 74730 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >77

In the Wakemont family, it’s tradition to arrange a marriage before the ink is dry on your birth certificate. I was five hours old when my father promised me to the son of a man with “more money than God.”

As we grew older, my future groom and I were encouraged to exchange “love letters” to get better acquainted—except the correspondence he sent read more like hate mail.

Slade Delacorte hated the arrangement.

But more than that, he hated me.

He was moody, intense, arrogant, and darkly gorgeous. A villain—not a prince. The last man on earth I’d ever marry (if I had the choice).

On my 24th birthday, we exchanged vows in front of six hundred guests who had no idea we weren’t every bit the blissful couple we pretended to be.

But as we began our new life together, I soon learned there was only one thing worse than marrying the man I’d hated my entire falling in love with him.

AUTHOR'S NOTE —This angsty, steamy contemporary romance is a complete standalone with a happily ever after.

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

1

Campbell

“Please tell me this is some kind of joke.” My mother’s face falls the instant I emerge from the fitting room in a black lace wedding dress.

The soft filtered sunlight streaming through the lace curtains, racks of designer gowns, Chopin faintly playing from hidden speakers, endless flutes of Veuve Clicquot, and perfumed, lily-of-the-valley air should be enough to make this one of the most beautiful moments of anyone’s life, only this has to be one of the worst moments of mine.

Six months from today, I’m to be married to Slade Delacorte—an arrangement my parents made with his before either of us were old enough to protest.

“Nico said black is the trending wedding dress color this year.” I wink at my fitting room attendant, silently willing him to help me out here, only he looks like a deer in headlights. “Right, Nico? Weren’t you just telling me that?”

“It … it’s true, Mrs. Wakemont,” he stammers in his posh English accent as his hooded gaze settles on my mother’s horrified expression. “There was an article a while back in Bride magazine. I could find it if you’d like to have a read.”

Turning, I step onto the raised platform and examine my reflection in the three-sided mirror, ignoring the commotion going on behind me as my mother attempts to get my bridesmaids on her side.

“White is classic though,” Tenley, my best friend since preschool, chimes in. Love her to death but she’s always been weak-spined, especially when it comes to powerful, intimidating women like my mother. “You can’t go wrong with white.”

“Black is bold and sexy,” my former college roommate, Elise, offers. She’s always been quick to take my side in all matters—even when I’ve been wrong—because that’s the kind of person Elise is. “You could wear traditional white for the ceremony and do an avant-garde black for your reception.”

“I like it,” Stassi, my best friend from high school, chimes in. “I wouldn’t wear it personally, but I like it. It makes me think of a black swan. Chic and elegant.”

Stassi offers a pained smile, though her pain has nothing to do with my dress or this awkward situation we’re in. Last year, she found out her fiancé was cheating on her a few months before the wedding. They were about to buy a condo in Manhattan together and everything. Their entire lives were ahead of them and I’d never seen her happier—until it all came crashing down.

Inevitably the wedding was called off and Stassi moved back home to Sapphire Shores for a “break,” but her sabbatical has turned into something akin to a semi-permanent situation.

She used to take the subway to work and broker high-dollar deals.

Now she makes crappy pizza at a local parlor and lives in the run-down apartment above it—by choice.

But I digress.

“You girls are doing Campbell a disservice by being generous with your praise,” my mother tells my friends. The girls exchange looks, though not a single one of them dares to rebut her. Mom clasps her French manicured hands in her lap, over her elegantly slanted crossed legs. “Let’s get on with this, darling. Please.”

I run my hands along the silky onyx lace that hugs my hourglass hips and makes me feel rebellious and brave.

There’s not a single piece in this entire boutique that could hold a flame to this one.

Not only that, but it’s a statement.

Marrying Slade is essentially a funeral for my future.

I’m in mourning, even if I have to plaster a smile on my face and pretend I’m not.

Also, a woman has to have a sense of humor about these kinds of things if she wants to stay sane—a decision I landed on years ago, when I learned my parents were never going to change their stance on this ridiculous marriage arrangement.

“Is there a matching veil for this?” I ask Nico.

He glances at my mother, who rolls her eyes.

Hesitating, he mutters that he’ll be right back.

Poor guy—stuck between a rock and a hard place.

Welcome to my world …

“Campbell Elizabeth Wakemont, I’m not buying you a black wedding dress.” My mother tosses back a mouthful of champagne before checking the glimmering diamond Rolex on her left wrist. “We have brunch reservations after this and then we’re meeting with the florist to finalize flowers. Please don’t waste any more of everyone’s precious time. Take that horrid thing off and try on some of the gorgeous gowns Nico pulled for you.”

I twist around, peering over each shoulder as I examine myself from every angle in the mirrors. The dress is sexy yet understated, the way it hugs and drapes and exposes the perfect amount of decolletage and bare shoulders. It moves when I move, fluid yet fitted, holding me like it never wants to let me go.

I feel like I could conquer the world in this thing—or run away in it.

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Advertisement You or Someone Like You Read Online Winter Renshaw http://www.books2020.com/you-or-someone-like-you-read-online-winter-renshaw Sun, 30 Jul 2023 16:00:57 +0000 http://www.booksnovels.com/you-or-someone-like-you-read-online-winter-renshaw Genre: Alpha Male, Billionaire, Contemporary Authors: Winter Renshaw Advertisement

Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81170 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >86

From Wall Street Journal and #1 Amazon bestselling author Winter Renshaw comes a fast-paced, emotional romance about what happens when the wrong twin falls for the right man. Being an identical twin has its perks, but when my sister asked me to sub in for a date with Roman Bellisario, I wasn’t exactly thrilled. Sure, he’s sinfully handsome and successful, but he also got me fired from my dream job three years ago. This time, my sister’s promotion is riding on this date, so I have to say yes. And as it turns out, we’re strangely perfect for each other. I sell art. He collects it. We’re both obsessed with the same obscure, mysterious artist that most people don’t even know exists. Roman is guarded, though, and I can understand why. He’s a widowed single dad. But as one date leads to another, he starts to let me in, and I can’t help but fall for him. The problem is Roman still thinks I’m my sister. Is our twin swap going to be the best thing that ever happened to me and Roman—or the lie that tears us apart?

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

CHAPTER ONE

SLOANE

“Can I just say . . . you make one hell of a me.” My twin, Margaux, eyes my reflection from across the room before flinging her lavender velvet comforter off her legs. “Ugh.”

Dashing to the hall bathroom, my sister’s bare feet skitter and slide against the slick hardwood floors of our Midtown apartment. The clank of the toilet seat hitting the ceramic tank behind it sounds next, followed by god-awful retching that sends a flash of sympathy nausea to my middle. In the midst of everything, my stomach rumbles as if to remind me I haven’t eaten since breakfast—not the wisest move when I’m about to go on a blind date with a total stranger on Margaux’s behalf.

Dating—in and of itself—is hard enough.

Serving as someone’s dating avatar? It’s a whole new level of insanity that’s going to require a substantial amount of liquid courage.

“I’m never eating leftover sushi again,” Margaux says when she returns. Climbing beneath her blankets again, she rests her arm across her forehead like a sickly Victorian woman on a fainting couch. She’s always been a glutton for sympathy, though. Anytime she has so much as a sniffle, you’d think she were dying of the Black Plague. Pointing across the room in my direction, she adds, “And I mean it this time.”

“Sure you do.” I wink and fix my attention on the pearl buttons on the cardigan I’m borrowing from her closet before running my palm along my fresh honey-blonde highlights.

“You should curl your hair,” Margaux says. Food poisoning aside, she can’t help but micromanage me. Despite being a mere two minutes older than me, she takes her big-sister role seriously, often wearing it like a badge of honor. At least that’s what I tell myself. It very well could be that Margaux is just a control freak who lives to call the shots.

“What? No.” I wrinkle my nose and fasten the last button on my sweater. Despite it being June and an agreeable eighty degrees out, she insisted that this is what she had planned to wear.

“I literally curl mine every single day,” she says. “You can’t play the part without dressing the part, and that includes how I do my hair.”

“But if he’s never met you, how would he know you curl your hair every day?”

I was twelve the first time I attempted to wield a curling iron. It was an utter and complete failure of an ordeal, and I walked away smelling like singed hair and sporting a burnt spot the size of a postage stamp in the middle of my forehead. I’ve been curling iron celibate ever since, and I’ve vowed to embrace my stick-straight hair until my dying day.

My sister can pry my flat iron from my cold, dead fingers.

“It’s not about that,” she says. “It’s about authenticity. You’re standing there in my heels, my skirt, and my cardigan. You’re wearing my bracelet and my perfume and my lipstick. Your modern bob just looks low-key jarring with everything else going on.”

She’s not wrong about that last part. The lace and pearls on the sweater juxtaposed with the dainty gold tennis bracelet, hip-hugging wool pencil skirt, and classic red lip would be better served with loose, cascading waves, something romantic and feminine.

But there’s no time.

And even if there were, I’d still give her a hard and resounding no.

“I thought you weren’t trying to impress this guy? I thought you were just going on a date to appease your boss? I don’t see how any of this matters.” I bite my tongue to keep from pointing out that control-freak Margaux has entered the building, and she needs to take a back seat because she’s knee deep in a bad case of food poisoning and I’m five minutes from climbing into an Uber, walking into a restaurant, and meeting some stranger as her.

She’s not exactly in a position to be running the show.

“I just got my hair done this morning,” I add, “which means I won’t be curling a single strand.”

The last time I pretended to be Margaux, I was twenty-one, and we were college seniors back in Ohio. She’d hit the frat parties a little too hard during finals week and all but promised me her firstborn child if I’d take her art history exam as her. Seeing how art history was (and still is) my favorite subject in the entire world, it was an easy yes. Hell, I’d have done it for fun because that’s the kind of nose-in-a-book, head-in-the-clouds girl I was back then. I lived and breathed art in all its forms. Contemporary. Renaissance. Neoclassical. Cinematic. Literary. Undiscovered. Controversial. If it had a creative pulse, I couldn’t get enough.

Meanwhile, Margaux lived and breathed boys, boss-girl besties, and being seen.

We may share facial features and a shoe size, but that’s where our similarities end. Our personalities are night and day. If we didn’t look undeniably identical, I might question our genetic relation.

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Advertisement Stone Cold Read Online Winter Renshaw http://www.books2020.com/stone-cold-read-online-winter-renshaw Tue, 17 May 2022 21:20:07 +0000 http://www.booksnovels.com/stone-cold-read-online-winter-renshaw Genre: Contemporary, Romance, Taboo Authors: Winter Renshaw Advertisement

Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 66080 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >68

Read Online Books/Novels:	Stone Cold
Author/Writer of Book/Novel:	Winter Renshaw
Language:	English
Book Information:
The most humiliating moment of my life begins with an early morning message from my ex’s notoriously heartless best friend. Jovie— In no way does this mean my opinion of you has changed. I’m reaching out because sometime in the middle of last night you tagged yourself in Jude and Stassi’s engagement photo. I don’t care if you were drunk or it was unintentional. I suggest you remove it immediately since the wedding is in two months (which I’m sure you know since you were clearly FB stalking them). The damage is done, but no reason to make things more awkward. You’re welcome. Stone I waste no time removing my accidental tag before the sharp-tongued novelist in me fires off a response to the man who harbored extreme and inexplicable hatred of me during the three years I dated his best friend in college. Only I didn’t expect him to respond. And nothing could have prepared me for what he would say … … or for all the ways this gorgeous villain with cruel icy blues would become the biggest plot twist my life had ever known.
Books by Author:	Winter Renshaw

Chapter One

Jovie

* * *

Three back-to-back text message chimes wrench me from the deepest sleep I’ve ever known. My head throbs as I lift my cheek from the pillow and squint toward my nightstand where my phone glows in the early morning darkness of my room. Heaviness sinks into my bones and my vision is bleary, but I grow more awake with each passing second.

A fourth chime beckons me, followed by a fifth.

Inching across my bed, my legs tangled in hot sheets, I grab the electronic banshee, tap in my code, and attempt to find out what all the fuss is about.

MONICA: Jovie … omg!

MONICA: Girl, wake up. It’s urgent …

MONICA: Seriously. This. Is. Not. Good.

MONICA: Okay, you really need to wake up now. Everyone is seeing this.

MONICA: This is legit a personal emergency of the worst imaginable kind. If I don’t hear back in two minutes, I’m coming over.

Monica is my best friend and I love her dearly, but she’s also the queen of personal emergencies. Everything is urgent in her world.

I tap her name and lift my phone to my hear.

“Oh, my god, you’re awake,” she says in one long gasping breath.

“What’s going on?” I ask, glancing at the time and wondering if she realizes it’s not even 6 AM. I attempt to pull in a long, deep breath only to forget that my nostrils aren’t working thanks to this nasty head cold I’ve been battling all week.

After several days of not getting an ounce of sleep, I make an executive decision to down some heavy-duty cold medicine I found in the back of my cabinet and slept like a log … until now.

“I tried signing on to your Facebook account but you must have changed your password,” she says, which only begs an entirely different realm of questions.

“Why would you need to log into my account? Is it Chauncy?” I ask. Her husband is a bona fide ladies’ man with a shameless wandering eye, and she is equal parts jealous and loyal. It’s a toxic combination and this wouldn’t be the first time she’s needed to do some internet sleuthing via my account.

“No, no. Jovie, this isn’t about me,” she says. “It’s about you.”

I sit up, my heart inching up the back of my throat. “Wait … I’m confused.”

“So you didn’t do it on purpose?”

“Do what?”

“Tag yourself in Jude and Stassi’s engagement photo.” Her words blur together and sound far away at the same time.

“Mon, I would never,” I say with a chuckle. While last night is a bit of a Nyquil-induced haze—and I’ve been known to social media creep my exes out of sheer boredom—tagging myself in my college boyfriend’s engagement photo is the last thing I’d do.

“But you did,” she says. “It’s there. It’s there for all the world to see. Well, at least his eleven hundred twenty-seven friends, her six hundred and two friends, and your seven-hundred eighty-nine friends. “Hang on.”

My phone buzzes five seconds later, gifting me with a screenshot of a smiling Jude looking down at his blushing-bride-to-be, his arms wrapped around her whittled waist as she gazes up at him with stars for eyes.

I put the call on speaker.

“Zoom in,” Monica says.

I pinch and zoom, inspecting the image.

And then I see it.

My name in the upper lefthand corner of the image, parallel to the orange-sicle sunset in the background.

“H … how?” I manage. “This is … I didn’t do this.”

“Then who would?” she asks.

“I … I don’t know?” I sit up, brushing the hair from my face as I study the image. I haven’t spoken to Jude in years.

Five years, to be precise—not that I’m counting. It’s basic math.

He dumped me shortly after our college graduation, after going on a guys’ trip to Tulum with ten of his closest friends. While most of them came back with things like suntans and gift shop t-shirts and hangovers … Jude came back with her.

Stassi Guinness.

They met at a bar the second night of the trip (she was there for her sister’s bachelorette party) and they were inseparable from that point on (or so I’m told). In the blink of an eye, our three-year relationship came to a screeching, grinding halt. My place in Jude’s heart was replaced by a head-turning leggy blonde with family money and access to her daddy’s private jet at all times.

Not that I’m bitter.

I just didn’t expect for my steady, no-frills, drama-free college relationship to go down in a blaze of humiliating glory accented by every cliché in the book.

Two months before his trip, we were ambling through the local mall, hand in hand, sipping matching matcha lattes, window shopping for engagement rings, and talking about what our next move was going to be.

And then … plot twist … Stassi happened.

No one saw it coming—but once it did, it was all anyone could talk about in our overlapping social circles. For months, my inbox blew up with messages from people I hadn’t talked to in years. The worst ones were from friends who thought they were doing me a favor by sending me screenshotted photos from Stassi’s private Instagram account. They’d always come with a message like, “Ugh, she’s insufferable” or “if she were any more plastic she’d be a human Barbie.” They meant well, but after a while I had to ask them to stop sending me those.

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Advertisement The Match – A Baby Daddy Donor Romance Read Online Winter Renshaw http://www.books2020.com/the-match-a-baread-online-daddy-donor-romance-read-online-winter-renshaw Sat, 03 Apr 2021 19:56:46 +0000 http://www.booksnovels.com/the-match-a-baread-online-daddy-donor-romance-read-online-winter-renshaw Genre: Alpha Male, Billionaire, Contemporary, Romance, Sports Authors: Winter Renshaw Advertisement

Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >79

Read Online Books/Novels:	The Match - A Baby Daddy Donor Romance
Author/Writer of Book/Novel:	Winter Renshaw
Language:	English
Book Information:
All I wanted was a baby. No daddy? No problem. That’s what anonymous donors are for … But when the fertility clinic accidentally sends me a letter addressed to a man whose ID matches my paperwork, I discover my child’s father is none other than world-renowned tennis champion Fabian Catalano—famous for his gorgeous face, chiseled abs, and broody, wildcard reputation. Only everything changes when the clinic calls us in for damage control—and Fabian drops the bombshell of the century. Turns out the intense Adonis wants to get to know his daughter. So I invite him to stay with us—temporarily. Ground rules and all. And our arrangement is simple … until it isn’t. Between 2 AM feedings and stolen kisses, my sweet little simple life has taken a very complicated left turn. But oh, baby. What happens next—is a game changer.
Books by Author:	Winter Renshaw

Prologue

Two Years Ago

* * *

Rossi

* * *

“Hey, what about this one?” My sister, Carina, slides a piece of paper across my dining room table. “Donor A77462J. Trilingual Sailor.”

I cringe. “When I think of a sailor, I think of a hot guy screwing beautiful women all over the world, and then that makes me think of STDs.”

“The agency isn’t going to give you a sperm donor with STDs.” She rolls her eyes.

“I know. I’m just telling you those are my connotations.”

“Ooh.” She plucks another from the pile. “Eager Engineer.”

I wince. “Makes me think of a socially awkward genius.”

“Smart is good though. You want smart. The father of your child should be a freaking prodigy.”

“Yeah, but what if he’s one of those guys who are so freakishly intelligent they lack common sense and street smarts? Like your last boyfriend?” I wink. Reminding her about the time the poor guy got mugged in New York City and thought he could use intelligent conversation to convince his attacker to drop his knife and run away isn’t necessary.

My sister crumples the page before hurling it across the room. “Moving on. Okay, what about this guy … Donor K87338L … This donor puts God above all else and is always willing to help those in need. In his free time, he volunteers at local nursing homes and youth clubs, as well as fosters homeless elderly cats—”

“—stop.” I lift a palm. “He clearly has a saint complex. And he sounds too good to be true. Pass.”

My sister chuckles, retrieving the next page from the stack. “Pile’s getting thin here …”

“Who’s next?”

“Donor W44321G … Ambitious Athlete … Tall with chiseled cheekbones, dimples, and a sun-kissed bronze complexion, this donor is not afraid to stand out in the crowd. Naturally athletic, physically fit, intellectually gifted, and driven, there’s nothing he can’t do once his mind is set. He would describe himself as adventurous and well-traveled, with a focus on collecting experiences, not things. Heritage: Italian and French.”

“Let me see that.” I feast my eyes on Donor W44321G’s profile. “Athleticism is good because we definitely don’t have that on our side of the family … and ambition is never a bad thing. Dimples are a bonus.” I purse my lips, studying the rest of the limited details. “He’s six two. Black hair. Brown eyes. It says his closest celebrity lookalikes are Eddie Cibrian, Eric Bana, and Benjamin Bratt.”

“So basically he’s hot as sin.”

A strange flutter tickles my chest, but I remind myself that I’ll never see his face, that he’ll be nothing more than the other half of my future child’s DNA. And then I quiet the palpitations and get back to business.

“You know, Dad was full-blooded Italian and Mom’s mom emigrated from Normandy,” she says, sharing things I already know. “Maybe it’s a sign?”

I lift a brow. She isn’t wrong. But she’s also been combing through these with me for the past six weekends. I’m sure a part of her is ready to be done with this exhaustive search. I know I am. But this isn’t the kind of thing I can take lightly. This is the biological father of my future child we’re talking about. I can’t pick someone who’s good enough.

He has to be perfect.

“There’s no such thing as the perfect match.” My sister waves Ambitious Athlete’s profile like a white flag in front of my face. “But this is pretty damn close.”

I examine his paper, reading through the sparse information as if I could possibly glean something extra, something subtle, something hiding in plain sight. Closing my eyes, I picture his face, a mish-mash of handsome actors with the kind of fist-biting, knee-weakening physique you only see on giant billboards in New York, Paris, and Milan.

“You said Dr. Wickham matched you genetically to these donors?” Carina asks.

“He has some kind of state-of-the-art algorithm that pairs us genetically,” I say. I read all about it in the brochure months ago when I first embarked on this single motherhood journey. A week after I met with the doctor’s team and signed the contract, they mailed me a mountain of questionnaires focused on genetic history, psychological tendencies, and personality traits, and once I’d finished, they brought me in for bloodwork. After months of analysis, they sent me a semi-thick manila envelope of prospects.

And now here we are.

“Well, my vote is for Ambitious Athlete.” She leans back in her chair, finished. “Don’t think it gets better than that.”

I read his description once more.

“You’re smiling.” My sister points at my face. “Did you make your decision?”

Laughing, I clutch the page against my chest. “Yeah. I think so. He’s the one.”

Chapter 1

Present Day

* * *

Rossi

* * *

I read the letter three times.

* * *

Dear Fabian Catalano—

* * *

Per your request, we have destroyed the remainder of your frozen donation. Please know that your specimen has been utilized successfully in the past. For your records, your donor number is W44321G. Please also know that your donor number is registered on the National Donor Sibling Registry in accordance with the Hemlock-Patterson Act of 1997. Should you choose to connect with any offspring in the future, you may do so via the aforementioned organization.

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Advertisement Enemy Dearest Read Online Winter Renshaw http://www.books2020.com/enemy-dearest-read-online-winter-renshaw Sun, 17 Jan 2021 19:49:04 +0000 http://www.booksnovels.com/enemy-dearest-read-online-winter-renshaw Genre: College, Contemporary, Romance Authors: Winter Renshaw Advertisement

Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 70584 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >73

Read Online Books/Novels:	Enemy Dearest
Author/Writer of Book/Novel:	Winter Renshaw
Language:	English
Book Information:
I loved him. I lost him. And now he’s back. August Monreaux was a stormy sea of a man, the dark between the stars, an electric chill cutting through a crowded room—all wrapped into one wicked, beautiful package. He was also off-limits. My entire life, I was kept a safe distance from the notoriously virulent Monreauxs, banned from so much as breathing the same air. And like the good daughter I was, I obeyed those rules. Until the one time I didn’t … Only while I sampled him, he devoured me like the forbidden fruit that I was. And in the blink of an eye, my worst enemy became my first love. His poison became my antidote. His touch, my addiction. After we severed our ill-fated ties, I thought I’d never see him again. Until he crashed back into my life at the worst possible moment—and asked me to marry him. But it wasn’t that simple. It never is. Turns out marrying a wealthy powerhouse of a man comes with a price. But walking away, could cost me everything.
Books by Author:	Winter Renshaw

I know

nothing but peace,

understanding

this.

* * *

—Tyler Knott Gregson

Chapter One

Sheridan

* * *

I sink to the bottom of the glimmering midnight pool, the cashmere-soft water swallowing me whole. With a lungful of sticky night air held tight in my lungs, I wait until my toes scrape the concrete bottom before floating to the surface.

My father always says, “Nothing good ever happens after midnight.”

But it’s 1 AM.

And this is divine.

I brush a ribbon of chlorine-soaked hair from my face, take a deep breath, and close my eyes, letting the full moon paint my body as I float on my back. Muscles liquid. Mind emptied of the day’s worries. Naked as the day I was born and as free as a dove.

I could stay here forever—which is ironic because I shouldn’t be here in the first place.

Technically, I’m trespassing.

Eyes shut, I inhale the distinct scent of pool water and nearby rose bushes, and try to imagine what it must feel like to be a Monreaux, growing up behind these privileged iron gates, a world away from us ordinary locals.

Not that there’s anything wrong with being ordinary.

In fact, I’m quite content being a nobody.

There’s more to life than having the world at your fingertips. It’s okay to struggle, to want for things. Mama says it builds character; gives us the grit we need to get through the runaway rollercoaster that is life. Or maybe that’s what she’s had to tell herself all her life to get through the of inflictions God saw fit to gift her—a rare vagus nerve disorder that makes her body overreact to even the mildest stressors, a weak heart that makes everyday tasks feel like scaling Everest, and just this year he thought it’d be fun to throw in a bout with Guillain-Barre syndrome.

Mama also said no one every promised life would be fair for everyone. We all have our crosses to carry and comparing them doesn’t do us any good. She also said that if all we have is each other, that would be enough. We don’t have much in terms of money or possessions or bragging rights, but we have our loyalty and love, and for us, it’s all we need to get through this life.

Squinting, I study the blanket of stars above, distracted by Cassiopeia’s flickering constellation and the rich section of Milky Way that runs through her—until a light flips on near the back of the Monreaux estate.

A second later, a door slides open with a jarring slick before slamming shut with so much force the sound echoes off the water. My heart beat ricochets in my chest before whooshing in my ears so loud it drowns out my panicked thoughts.

Righting myself, I swim to the closest ledge, half-obscured by a manmade waterfall trickling over a boulder grotto.

Heavy footsteps pound the pavement, growing louder, closer.

I hold my breath—as if that could possibly make me invisible—and pinch my eyes shut.

“Show yourself,” a man’s voice booms over the trickling water splashing around me. “I know you’re out here.”

This morning I ran out for coffee for Mama and overheard someone talking about how the Monreauxs were on their annual trip to St. Thomas this week—which was partly why I saw fit to scale their six-foot fence and dip my toes into these forbidden waters. That and it’s been hot as Hades all week, and our air conditioner decided it’d be the perfect time to kick the can.

More footsteps.

I wince.

It has to be a property caretaker. Or maybe a house sitter. People like this don’t just leave their massive homes sitting empty while they’re snorkeling off some island in the Caribbean. Their staff doesn’t take a vacation just because they do. I know that. I guess I figured whoever was here would be fast asleep this time of night …

“You can’t hide in there forever,” he says with a voice too sharp, too young-sounding to be someone left to tend to a multi-million dollar estate in its owners’ absence. He exhales, shoes shuffling closer. “Come on. I don’t have time for this. Get your shit and get off my property.”

He must’ve spotted my dress, bra, and panties, resting in a heap on one of the lounge chairs.

I swim out from behind the waterfall, keeping everything below my neck beneath the surface. Scanning the length of the mystery man, I start at his designer sneakers and trail up his ripped jeans before stopping for a brief detour at his broad shoulders, which are hardly contained in his gray t-shirt. Lastly, I arrive at his moonlit glare.

His dark brows angle in as he captures my stare, his expression unreadable. A warm breeze plays with his mussed, sandy blond waves and star-cast shadows frame his chiseled features.

He’s beautiful, obscured in moonlight and all.

But his eyes glint, unamused.

And he doesn’t smile.

I brace myself for a lecture or a cruel handful of words to be thrown in my direction, but the handsome figure simply takes a swig from the thick beer bottle in his hand, keeping his attention trained on me. My gaze falls to the complicated mess of tattoos covering the exposed skin of his left arm. And when I dare to meet his cold stare, I discover two small barbells piercing his right eyebrow.

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Advertisement Trillion – A Fake Relationship Romance Read online Winter Renshaw http://www.books2020.com/trillion-a-fake-relationship-romance-read-online-winter-renshaw Sun, 17 May 2020 01:57:33 +0000 https://www.test123.demo2.xyz/?p=3289 Genre: Alpha Male, Billionaire, Romance Authors: Winter Renshaw Advertisement

Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76810 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)

<<<<1 2 3 11 21 >79

Read Online Books/Novels:	Trillion - A Fake Relationship Romance
Author/Writer of Book/Novel:	Winter Renshaw
Language:	English
Book Information:
Trey Westcott—devastatingly gorgeous. Intimidatingly brilliant. Powerful beyond belief. A man with all the money in the world—literally. As the first trillionaire in existence, my boss lives a life most people can only dream of. Anything he wants—anything at all—is a snap-of-the-fingers away. But when the coldhearted magnate snaps his fingers and requests me for a six month stint on his arm playing the role of his devoted fiancée, he makes an offer I can’t refuse. And so I don’t. But I make it clear that for the next 180 days, he’ll have my time, my body, my attention, my discreet professionalism—everything except my heart. It’s not for sale. Because all the money in the world can’t change the secret I’ve kept the last ten years. A secret that complicates the very business deal I’m to help him secure. A secret that makes the undeniable tension between us all the more forbidden. Trey Westcott can have anything he wants ... but he can never have me. Even if he’s all I’ve ever wanted.
Books by Author:	Winter Renshaw

One

Sophie

Past

“Before you leave, I need to make something crystal clear.” My mother uncaps a tube of half-dried red lipstick as our reflections connect in the tiny bathroom mirror. “There’s love … and then there are things like love. Most people spend their entire lives confusing the two.”

“How do you know the difference?” My attention drifts to my cleavage, distracted by the way her vintage dress makes me look bustier than I actually am. The zipper almost didn’t zip, and the hemline is dangerously revealing when I sit, but this is all we have. I’m taller than her by four inches. Curvier than she was at this age—at least going off of the faded pictures in the photo album she keeps beneath her bed, the ones that paint a portrait of a woman with unrivaled vivacity, naivete in her idyllic soul, and an entire life ahead of her.

Blissfully unaware that the core of her beautiful life was mere years from rotting.

I wish I’d known her then, before she was a ghostlike shell of a woman.

I recall a certain memory of her perched on the end of my father’s heirloom sailboat on a late August afternoon. Wind whipping her sun-bleached hair. Skin as bronzed as it could get for a girl with her Swedish-Irish complexion. She grinned so wide it had made my cheeks ache in response.

She stopped smiling like that after he left us.

And I spent most of my teenage years bleaching my dishwater-blonde hair in hopes it would remind her of him a little less every time she looked at me. Though, of course, she thought I was going through some typical rebellious stage. I didn’t tell her the truth. I didn’t want to make her more sad than she already was.

“There’s no way to know for sure. I can tell you real love is rare, and there are a lot of fakes.” Mom exhales after being lost in thought. Her weary blue-gray irises turn glassy. I imagine she’s thinking of my father. The bastard. “If there’s anything I can teach you before I go—”

“Mom.” I cut her off and snatch the bullet of Revlon Ravish Me Red from her bone-thin fingers and ignore the fact that she’s wasting away by the second beneath her tattered terrycloth robe. I don’t like to talk about this. About the return of her cancer. About what could happen this time.

She’s not going to die.

I won’t allow it.

Swiping the color across my mouth, I purse my lips until it blends. Then I touch up a couple of spots with the pad of my ring finger, the way she used to do a lifetime ago.

“You don’t have to do this, Soph. You know that, right?” There’s a lack of confidence in her whisper-soft tone. “We can figure something out.”

“It’s fine. I promise.” We trade lies. I force myself to smile and hope she doesn’t hear the nervous rattle in my words. My fingers twitch. My heart gallops. My soul quakes. “I’m sure it’ll be fun. It’s just dinner.”

She and I both know this is the only way.

We’re less than a week from being evicted. And between her meds, our groceries, and my youngest sister’s physical therapy, there’s a very real possibility we’ll find ourselves on the street at some point in the near future.

“I’ll be home by ten,” I add, “and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Mom winces.

I don’t think she wants to hear all about it.

I don’t think she likes me pretending this is some date with a boy from school when in actuality some forty-something Rolls-Royce-driving businessman in a custom suit is whisking her seventeen-year-old virginal daughter off for a “dinner date.”

He promised it would only be dinner.

And he’s offering five hundred dollars for five hours of my time.

A hundred dollars an hour.

It takes me four weekend shifts at the café to make that kind of cash. Besides, if I wasn’t doing this tonight, I’d be lounging in my room blaring All-American Rejects and mindlessly scrolling Insta. This way, I can at least contribute to our bottom line and take a load off my mother’s chemo-drained mind.

“He’s super nice,” I tell her in an attempt to lift her spirits and quiet my nerves at the same time. He’s dined at the restaurant where I wait tables more times than I can count over the past several months.

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