Never say never, p.1
Never Say Never, page 1
COPYRIGHT 2015 WINTER RENSHAW
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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.
Cover by Louisa Maggio @ LM Creations
Editing by The Passionate Proofreader
Interior formatting by PK Culpepper
For my readers. Your support means the world to me, and this book exists because of you.
Also, thank you to the amazing writers I’ve come to know as dear friends over the past few months. Your support is priceless, and you know you’ll always have mine.
Winter
I’m placing my acknowledgements at the beginning of my book this time (where they belong), so here they go:
Special thank you to Lana Grayson, Sabrina Paige, Cora Brent, Kaylee Song, and so many other authors who have offered their support, advice, and encouragement. You are all amazingly talented, and I am honored to be in this crazy world of romance writing with you all.
To my beta readers Katrina, Jo, Tessa, and Roxi…you’re all amazing. And fast. And so, so smart. You ladies are invaluable. This book wouldn’t be what it is without your feedback. The fact that you take time out of your busy schedules to help me warms my heart and makes me want to give you a million-bazillion hugs if we ever meet. And if you’re not a huggy person, I’ll kindly buy you an enormous chocolate bar.
Thank you to Louisa Maggio at LM Creations for designing another gorgeous cover. You’re the most talented cover designer in the biz, and I am lucky to be able to work with you.
Thank you to Wendy Chan, the Passionate Proofreader. You’ve been a dream to work with, and I appreciate you squeezing me in despite the fact that I always seem to run late.
Last, but not least, thank you to my readers. Please allow me to get all cheesy and say that your support means the world to me. Those of you who take the time out of your day to send me a message or drop me a line – thank you. I’ll never get tired of hearing from you. And to those of you who pimp me out – Heather Cav, Sierra, Klaire, Dawn and so many more – thank you, thank you. It never goes unnoticed!
Never Kiss a Stranger
Never Is a Promise
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I believe in soul mates but I never wanted to fall in love with mine.
Two men want my heart.
One is everything I want.
The other is everything I need.
One makes me feel safe.
The other makes me feel terrified and wonderful all at the same time.
Both of them have secrets.
But to be fair, so do I.
NOTE: FULL-LENGTH, STANDALONE ROMANCE WITH HEA.
ONE – SKYLAR
TWO – THEO
THREE – SKYLAR
FOUR – THEO
FIVE – SKYLAR
SIX – THEO
SEVEN – SKYLAR
EIGHT – THEO
NINE – SKYLAR
TEN – THEO
ELEVEN – SKYLAR
TWELVE – SKYLAR
THIRTEEN – THEO
FOURTEEN – SKYLAR
FIFTEEN – SKYLAR
SIXTEEN – THEO
SEVENTEEN – SKYLAR
EIGHTEEN – THEO
NINETEEN – SKYLAR
TWENTY – THEO
TWENTY-ONE – SKYLAR
TWENTY-TWO – THEO
TWENTY-THREE – SKYLAR
TWENTY-FOUR – THEO
TWENTY-FIVE – SKYLAR
TWENTY-SIX – SKYLAR
TWENTY-SEVEN – THEO
TWENTY-EIGHT – SKYLAR
EPILOGUE – SKYLAR
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
THANK YOU
PREVIEW – ARROGANT BASTARD
I believe in soul mates.
I believe true love exists and that there’s someone for everyone.
And I’ll never stop searching for him.
I like to think he’s sitting in a coffee shop somewhere in this very city. Maybe he’s looking out the window, watching people pass by and wondering where I am. It’s like an invisible thread connects our hearts, but at the same time, we’re strangers.
I love him, and we’ve never even met. I don’t even know what he looks like, but I know he’s out there.
I go to sleep thinking of this man, this love of my life, this man who makes my heart ache with a longing so real I’m certain my heart is two seconds from exploding in my chest. Maybe it’s silly, but all I know is my feelings are so real they scare me, and I have no other choice but to believe them.
In my mind’s eye, he’s tall, has sandy brown hair, wears glasses. Intelligent. Thoughtful. He sends me flowers for no reason and leaves little notes on my bathroom mirror. We cook dinner together and take midnight walks around the city when we can’t sleep. He has an easy, effortless smile that could melt a glacier, and the way he touches me, like he owns my soul, never gets old no matter how many years go by.
He is absolutely, positively nothing like this well-dressed, upper crust playboy strutting around the apartment I’m showing that Monday morning on the Upper East Side. It’s my first showing as a brand new junior agent at Van Cleef Agency, and my client just so happens to be my boss’ cousin-in-law.
“This isn’t me.” He stands in front of a heavily-draped picture window with one hand on his hip, a thin black belt looped through the tabs of his custom tailored navy dress slacks. His free palm slides down the length of the skinny black tie that’s been functioning as an arrow all morning, drawing my eyes toward the noticeable prominence in his pants. Pastel floral wallpaper is stuck to the walls of the living room without so much as a peeling corner, as if it is protesting its relevance and refusing to budge even after thirty years of quiet servitude. “This isn’t me at all.”
The apartment is stale and stuffy, and no one has lived there in months. The last person to reside there was a little old lady who hadn’t changed the décor since the 1980s.
He spins away from the window to face me, and my breath suspends as our gazes meet. Even from across the spacious apartment, I can see his eyes are a vivid shade of aquamarine, my birthstone, and his lips pull back just enough for me to see a hint of his dazzlingly white teeth.
“Not a problem, Theo,” I say, brushing white-blonde hair from my face. It spills down my shoulder in one fluid movement. Thick strands of freshly flat-ironed hair cling to the back of my neck, though I’m almost convinced my sudden warmth is due to the way he’s staring at me.
I know what men see when they look at me. Spending most of my life as a shy, chubby, insecure girl had made me hyper aware of the way most people, men in particular, view me. My freshman year of college, I grew tired of being the invisible girl at parties. I became sick of being the fat friend who hid her self-loathing with a smile and stuffed her feelings down her throat along with nightly pints of Ben and Jerry’s.
So I did something about it.
Two semesters of running and eating clean helped me shed the weight I’d carried for far too long, only I wasn’t prepared for the flipside.
Weight melted from every part of my body except my breasts and ass. My previously round face took on a new shape. My hooded brown eyes gradually appeared bigger, rounder, and brighter, and my newly defined jawline began to accent my God-given, bee-stung pout.
Most days I catch myself in the mirror, and I still don’t recognize the stranger staring back at me. But I sure as hell respect the pain and misery she endured to transform herself into the person she was always meant to be.
I grab the listing file from the kitchen island and head toward the door, jingling my keys to cue him that our time in that blast-from-the-past penthouse is coming to an end.
“You’re not going to show me the rest of the place?” His words stop me dead in my tracks.
“You said it wasn’t you.” I lift my brows and shrug, flashing an innocuous smile to keep things light. “There are plenty of other listings I can show you. I’m not trying to waste your time.”
Or mine.
“Yeah, but isn’t this the part where you tell me we could knock down that wall over there that obstructs the view? And we could tear off this God-awful flower wallpaper and bring in a crew to demolish this vinyl-clad kitchen?” His voice echoes, searing through the empty room and bouncing off walls. He steps toward me, slowly yet with intention, and I forcibly ignore any and all superficial attraction I feel beginning to fester under my surface.
He’s not my type. So not my type. He’s so not my type it’s not even funny. But I’m quite positive I’m his type, at least this new-and-improved-on-the-outside version of me.
“I’m particular, Skylar.” The way he says my name makes my knees buckle and sends a faint blush to my cheeks. “I can be a hard sell. I’m not going to be an easy client for you.”
“I’m up for the challenge,” I declare. I pull my shoulders back in an attempt to exude confidence, something I’m still learning to master. “There are thousands of listings in this city.”
“And this is the first one you show me?” His hand runs across his strong jaw, and his lips turn up at the corners. I don’t know if he’s laughing at me or with me. For a brief moment, I’m lost in his eyes, and then I quickly snap out of it.
I don’t want to let my boss down. I don’t want Addison to regret promoting me after I practically got down on my knees and begged her to give me a chance. She told me I wasn’t aggressive enough. She said I was too sweet. I sensed her reluctance, and I vowed then and there to do whatever it took to prove her wrong.
“All you gave me was a price range and a location,” I say gently. “You never mentioned anything about move-in ready.” I want to tell him it’s the best I could do on such short notice. He called the office that morning asking to be shown as many properties as possible as he was only in town for a couple days, and I had exactly thirty minutes to scrounge up a handful of vacant properties that could be shown at a moment’s notice.
I pull a pen and a list of addresses from my bag and scratch off two of the three remaining listings I had planned to show him that morning.
Theo has some serious purchasing power, he needs a place to live, and I need my first sale. I’m sure Addison gave him to me as a favor.
Don’t screw this up.
“You could renovate this place if you wanted,” I say, attempting to channel Addison. I’ve assisted her with several showings, and that woman is a shark. She can sell water to a drowning man. “We could gut this kitchen, install all new flooring throughout, get someone in to remove these drapes. If you knock down the wall between the kitchen and the living room, you could add an island. It’d open up this space. I could recommend some decorators, too. I have a list back at the office.”
“I don’t want it.”
My mouth hangs for a moment in response to his audacity, but I pick it up off the floor before he notices. He dips his hands in his pocket and locks eyes with me. We may as well be locking horns.
I force a renewed smile across my lips and brush it off. “All right then. Let’s head to the next listing. It’s just up the street. We can walk if that’s okay with you.”
“Good idea, Skylar.” He says my name yet again, infusing it with an electric impulse that sends heat straight to my core against my mind’s wishes.
He follows me out, waiting as I lock up. He’s standing close enough behind me that the heaviness of his energy radiates through our shared space, clinging to my skin and jumbling my thoughts.
Manhattan is full of attractive men who walk the streets in tailored suits with their expensive haircuts and their chiseled features, and I need to place Theo in that category. I need to ignore the way my body responds to his presence.
It was two years ago when I first met Theo Van Cleef. I sat in the fifth pew on the bride’s side of St. Bartholomew’s church, watching my boss marry her soul mate, Wilder. Theo stood flanking Wilder’s right side as his best man, and I caught myself smiling as he gripped Wilder’s shoulder and flashed him an excited smile before Addison walked down the aisle with her mother. At the reception that evening, Theo was the first guest out on the dance floor cutting a rug, and I stood back and observed, thoroughly entertained, as he danced the night away with Addison’s mom, an enormous smile on his face. He was pure magnetism in a three-piece suit. Charismatic. A bright light in a dark night.
I stifle a laugh as I think about the night of the reception and how no one was dancing until Theo drew them out like the Pied Piper of Hamlin.
What changed?
We ride the elevator down to the street, and from the corner of my eye I see Theo give a friendly nod to the doorman.
At least he’s not a complete asshole.
“So this next one is in a pre-war building,” I begin to say. “It’s a co-op, so you would just own a share of the building and there are monthly maintenance fees that will cover property taxes, staff salaries, and building expenses. But the good thing is those fees are tax deductible. Generally you get more for your money when you go the co-op direction.”
“Money’s not an issue.”
“O-oh, okay then.” I press on, my heels clicking on the pavement as I attempt to keep up with him. He’s tall. Perhaps a good six inches taller than me. And his strides are long. He walks with purpose, and I find it quite telling that he’s taking the lead, not knowing where the next property is located.
He stops, and I nearly pummel into him. “I’m not like that.”
“Not like what?”
“I’m just stating a fact, not trying to make myself sound like I’m richer than God.”
I’m used to people in Manhattan having insane amounts of money and flinging it around like candy at a parade. Everyone with more than seven zeroes on their balance sheet loves casually bragging about their house in the Hamptons, their cabin in the Berkshires, and their Christmas vacations in St. Barths. At first it got under my skin, but then I got used to it. It doesn’t faze me. I’m not a corn-fed Iowa girl anymore. I live on an entirely different planet with its own customs and culture, and people like Theo are just par for the course.
“I understand.” The wind whips my hair around. It’s a beautiful spring day, and I’m grateful to be out of the office even if it means spending the day with Theo.
“Coffee?” He peers over my shoulder toward a Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf with a line out the door. Before I can respond, he’s halfway inside. I wait outside, finding a conveniently vacated bench next to a Wall Street Journal newsstand, and anticipate his return. Throngs of New Yorkers and suburban commuters make their daily trek to work and soon the streets will clear, if only marginally.
Birds flitter about in the tree to my left, sending down a fluttering green leaf that lands on my shoulder. I pick it up and run my fingertips along its velvety veins. It’s a birch tree I think. Back home in Iowa, we have all kinds of trees. Big, thick, ancient trees grow tall and green and serve as wind barriers and shelters for farm animals and sprawling country estates. In the city, a certified concrete jungle, the trees only serve as a reminder that there’s a whole other life outside those busy streets.
I miss home, but I haven’t been back since I left. I’m not sure I’m welcome back.
“Here we are.” I glance up, dropping the leaf and letting it helicopter to the ground. Theo stands before me with an iced coffee in his hand, pushing it toward me. “It’s an iced mocha. I’ve never met a girl who doesn’t take chocolate in her coffee. If you don’t like it, you can have my tea.”
I love iced mochas…
“Thank you.” I rise, accepting his act of kindness, and I almost take back all the rude things I’d been thinking about him all morning.
We merge back into the sidewalk traffic, fitting ourselves between a group of gawking tourists and a man with a thick Brooklyn accent spewing profanities into his cell phone.
“It’s going to be a long day,” he says. He’s slowed down a bit, walking at my pace. “Just got notice of a last-minute meeting tomorrow morning before I fly out. I’m going to need to see every listing you have today.”
My stomach drops with jarring clunk. He’s asking a lot of me, a junior agent with no pull in this city. I don’t know if I can deliver on that, but I’m going to try. “I’ll certainly see what I can do.”
“Even if we have to see ten places, that’s okay,” he continues. “I fly back to L.A. tomorrow afternoon. I’d like to nail down a place today. My condo in West Hollywood has been sold and I’ll be moving to the city next week.”
“Next week?”
“I can stay in a hotel for a little while, but I want to make this happen quickly. Can you do that for me, Skylar?”
He says my name again. No one’s ever said my name the way he says it; savoring it and rolling it off his tongue like a fine wine. The ironic part is, my real name is Whitney. My middle name is Skylar. I dropped Whitney along with all the pudge I shed back in college. Kids were cruel growing up, and when you’re called “Whitney the Whale” every single day of your young little life, it’s only natural to want to ditch such an unflattering moniker as soon as possible.
