The Redo (Winslow Brothers #4) Read Online Max Monroe

Categories Genre: Contemporary, Funny, Romance Tags Authors: Series: Winslow Brothers Series by Max Monroe

Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 140767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 704(@200wpm)___ 563(@250wpm)___ 469(@300wpm)

Read Online Books/Novels:

The Redo (Winslow Brothers #4)

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Max Monroe

Book Information:

Put a finger down if you’ve ever been a single woman who got stuck in a New York City elevator in the middle of a summer blackout with your former high school sweetheart—whom you haven’t seen in years—while pregnant with a baby that isn’t biologically yours. And you can’t believe how handsome that blast from your past is, so you unwittingly flirt with him a little even though your life is so crazy complicated you’re barely keeping your head above water, but everything about him makes you think you could totally still be in love with him.
*puts a finger down*
What? Just me? Needless to say, my current status is thorny. And no, I didn’t miss how close that word is to another one.
Even though he’s the epitome of tall, dark, and incredibly handsome, Remington Winslow has been a single bachelor for most of his life. It’s clichéd and basic—until you consider the fact that once upon a terrible time, he got left at the altar.
He doesn’t do relationships. He definitely doesn’t fall in love. And I’m just trying to survive a tangled web of unexpected motherhood and running one of the top real estate firms in the city that never sleeps.
He’s the jaded guy who doesn’t want to settle down, and I’m the career-focused woman with more baggage than a 747 can hold.
We’re just two friends who used to be in love. Now, if someone would tell my hormones I’m not a teenager anymore, I’d be set.
Books in Series:

Winslow Brothers Series by Max Monroe

Books by Author:

Max Monroe


It’s official. I’m not losing my mind; the fucker is already gone—hydrated, packed, and halfway across the universe on its journey to another dimension.

I stare up at a big neon sign. It blinks obnoxiously with the words “Fortune Teller,” and it takes everything inside me to keep the pucker out of my asshole.

A year ago, I stood in this very spot, my three brothers dragging me here after we’d hit up a strip club and eaten Taco fucking Bell. Jude had said it was something fun to do as part of my big bachelor party bash, and I was just a blissfully happy, completely naïve bastard who had no idea his life was about to be flipped upside down. At twenty-nine years old and only a week away from getting married, I was ready to settle down and commit myself to Charlotte for the rest of my life.

I thought I had the world by the ass. Hell, I thought I’d won the game of life.

But I was wrong. I didn’t know shit.

Apparently, though, she knew. She knew all of it.

Now, I’m thirty, and as is evidenced by the fact that I’m back here again, I’m still a dumb fuck.

I shake my head and look at the sign again, this time noting the small wooden plaque that sits below the neon letters and reads Miss Cleo’s Prophecies.

Am I really doing this? Have I really been reduced to a man who seeks out a fortune-teller because she just so happened to predict the demise of his relationship?

At this stage in my pathetic existence, what do I have to lose?

You already lost the girl. Why not lose your sanity too?

On a sigh, I reach out and grip the door handle, swinging it open on a whoosh of air that blows across my face. The familiar smell of incense and stale dust assaults my nostrils.

Moody, dramatic lighting still makes it difficult to see all the knickknacks lining the walls, and those ancient-looking burgundy curtains are still here, tied back by gold-tinted ropes.

The place hasn’t changed a lick.

I blink several times, urging my vision to adjust to the low light, but before it can, a female voice fills my ears from somewhere behind a closed curtain on the opposite end of the room.

“Remington Winslow. I knew you’d come back.”

Instantly, I’m on edge. Creeped out. No way this woman should know my name without seeing my face and, beyond that, recognize me this quickly after a year of time has passed.

I look around the room, seeking out the security cameras that must be hidden somewhere with fucking facial recognition. The corners of the ceiling are empty, and I don’t see any of those beady little boob cams anywhere either. They must be outside the entrance door.

Silent, I stand there, rooted to my spot in the center of the room and wait for the woman of the hour to show her face. I refuse to move deeper into her lair without locking her in my sights first. Of course, she takes her sweet-ass time, the lingering faux-loneliness of my wait putting me even more on edge until she finally appears.

The curl of her red-tipped finger is the first of her I see, followed quickly by the twinkle of her bright-green eyes as they meet mine. A hint of an annoying-as-fuck smile crests one corner of her mouth.

Yep, she’s the same know-it-all, pain in the ass too. Her dark hair is pulled back beneath the same velvet hood, and her mysteriously youthful skin still doesn’t match her age. If anything, she looks younger than she did a year ago.

I don’t know whether it’s plastic surgery or fortune-teller voodoo, but I know she’s at least a decade older than she looks. I don’t know how I know that, but I do, and that’s probably her fault too.

She sits down in her chair that presides over a small table covered by a black silk cloth. A set of Tarot cards is stacked in the corner, but I get the sense they’re just for show. Last time I was here, she didn’t use them on my brothers or me. And the layer of dust that sits atop them whispers a tattle about their infrequent use.

“Please, sit down,” she instructs and gestures with one hand toward the empty seat across from her. And for some shitfucked, insane reason, I do.

“It’s good to see you. I had a feeling you’d come alone this time.”

I shrug. Only a masochist would bring my brothers back to this place a second time.

“Today’s events aren’t a bachelor party.”

The last thing I needed was my brothers thinking I’ve officially lost my mind. Lord knows I’ve been an insufferable hermit ever since Charlotte decided she didn’t want to marry me…on our fucking wedding day.

A cloud passes over Cleo’s eyes, dulling the brightness of their green momentarily. “I’m sorry about that, my dear. It truly broke my heart reading those events in you.”