Cold Hearted

by Winter Renshaw

  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 I have included in this book … simply page ahead to begin reading!

  Also, for a *limited time* I’ve included a copy of my book, PRICELESS because from February 4-7, 2017, HEARTLESS, the first book in that series, is free! That’s a combined savings of almost $8!!

  xoxo—

  Winter

  PS - I’ve included a small preview of DARK PROMISES just past Priceless. For easy navigation, use your table of contents to take you there. Once there, please be sure to tap the center of your page to ensure you’re out of page flip mode.

  PPS - Curious about what’s coming next? Be sure to …

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  Locke Hearted

  A Novella

  1

  Locke

  “You’re making a liar out of me.” I glance into the car seat beside me to see my two-year-old daughter’s blinking bright eyes. All I do is brag to anyone that’ll listen about how perfect my daughter is and particularly how she started sleeping through the night at six weeks old, but somewhere just past the eighteen-month point, we hit some sort of sleep regression, and now every night is a giant question mark. “Time for night-night, Joa.”

  I flip through the satellite radio stations in the back of the town car as my driver, Roderick, cruises the emptied Manhattan streets.

  Slipping my finger into her hand, she gives it a squeeze and then giggles.

  “You’re lucky you’re adorable,” I whisper. “Now, go to sleep.”

  Joa shakes her head and gives me the clearest, “No!” I’ve ever heard before kicking her legs to a Taylor Swift song.

  “That’s it,” I say. “You’re having way too much fun.”

  Reaching for the radio dial, I pull up the talk radio stations. She’s too young for politics and entertainment gossip, the sports stations are all off the air. I need to find the most mind-numbingly boring talk radio channel in existence. It’s the only way I’m going to get her to conk out tonight.

  “Oh, yes, there it is.” I tune into The Love Channel and grab my bottled water from the cup holder. Taking a swig, I nearly spit out my drink when I see the name flashing across the radio’s display.

  Bostyn Beckford – The Single Girl’s Guide

  “Hi, everyone, welcome back. If you’re just tuning in, you’re listening to The Single Girl’s Guide to Love and Dating,” she says, her voice buttery smooth and sensually velvet. “I’m your host, Bostyn Beckford.”

  I knew she had a radio show because she wouldn’t shut up about it last time I saw her at Rhett and Ayla’s in Philly, but I never took the time to look it up because, let’s face it, I have more important things to do than concern myself with some self-proclaimed relationship advice guru’s radio show.

  I’m two seconds from changing the channel when I glance down at my daughter and spot her eyelids flutter and fall. A moment later, she’s yawning and burrowing her cheek against the side of her car seat.

  I’ll be damned.

  Bostyn’s voice is putting her to sleep.

  Fuck it.

  Sinking back in the seat, I decide to let Roderick drive around another fifteen minutes just to be sure Joa’s completely out, and then we’ll head back.

  “Okay, we have a caller on line one,” Bostyn says. “Hi, welcome to the Single Girl’s Guide, who do I have here?”

  “Hi, Bostyn! Huge fan,” the girl says, breathy and chipper. “So I’ve been with my boyfriend for five years now and we live together, and recently, I was putting away some laundry and I found an engagement ring tucked into a sock in his sock drawer. He was engaged before me, so I flat out told him, I found the ring, and when I asked him if was hers or if it was for me, he got all bent out of shape.”

  Bostyn exhales. “Sweetheart. No good ever comes from snooping.”

  “It was an accident. I wasn’t snooping.”

  “You were snooping.”

  The girl is quiet for a moment. “Fine. I was snooping.”

  “Anyway,” Bostyn says. “Let me get this straight. You’ve been living together for several years?”

  “Yes,” the girl says.

  “And he knows you want to get married more than anything in the world?” Bostyn asks.

  “Yes! He’s seen my Pinterest board and the stack of wedding dress magazines next to my bed. My parents bug him about popping the question every time they see him. He knows I’m ready.”

  “And you do his laundry?”

  “Yes. And the cooking and the cleaning. I want to show him I can be exactly what he needs.”

  “That’s your problem right there,” Bostyn says with a haughty laugh. I can almost picture her smirking, those full pillowed lips and those deep dimples in her cheeks. “You’re giving it away for free, my love. He’s not in any rush to propose to you because why should he be? You’re not standing there with one foot out the door, demanding he make a decision because you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him. You’re playing the part of the perfect little wife already. Furthermore, by doing that, you’ve inadvertently reached what I call, The Comfort Zone Point of No Return.”

  I roll my eyes. Sounds stupid.

  “When dating a man,” Bostyn says. “Number one, you have to let them know that you always have one foot out the door—until they put a ring on it. Sweetheart, make them work for you. Secondly, no one ever appreciates the free stuff in life. It’s treated like, well, junk. Free stuff is disposable. And you, my dear, gave him a wifey and a comfortable little life for absolutely free.”

  “Oh, god. Bostyn, you’re so right. That’s exactly what I did.” The woman sounds crushed. “So now what? How can I fix it?”

  “The way I see it, you have two options,” Bostyn says, her tone ripe with confidence. “You immediately cease all cooking, cleaning, and laundering and see if he’s still the man of your dreams when you’re no longer playing House. Or. You can throw in the towel because any man who can’t decide whether or not he’s going to pop the question after five years of playing House, probably doesn’t want to. You need a man who loves you so much he wants to lock it down as soon as possible. The man who takes forever popping the question? He’s biding his time until something better comes along. The man who locks it down right away? He knows he’ll never have anything better than what he’s got right in front of him.”

  The girl is quiet again. I imagine she’s devastated. Bostyn doesn’t sugarcoat. And why should she? This spitfire, no-nonsense, know-it-all persona of hers is what pays the bills. And judging by the few times I’ve been around her, she believes her own bullshit. She sips her own Kool-Aid. And that, in my extremely humble opinion, is why she’s still single.

  “Bostyn, you’re so right,” the girl says, only she doesn’t sound despondent at all. She sounds renewed, reinvigorated. Hopeful. “I’m dumping him. Tonight. He doesn’t deserve me.”

  “You’re right, sweetheart. Know your worth and you’ll hold the power in each and every relationship.” I imagin
e Bostyn lifting a fist in the air with some kind of girl power solidarity, and I almost gag.

  While I’d never in a billion years admit that Bostyn had some points and that the guy probably had zero intention of popping the question, I personally think it’s shitty to commercialize other people’s problems. Although, I do find it fist-bitingly sexy that she’s so adamant in her beliefs.

  Regardless, this is why the two of us would never work: I bring people together via dating apps. She tears them apart with her “sage” advice.

  “All right,” Bostyn says. “We’re going to take another caller.”

  “Mr. Carson, is it okay if we head back?” Roderick asks from the front seat.

  Glancing down at my daughter, I nod. “Yeah. She’s out. Let’s head home.”

  On the ride back, I listen to Bostyn dole out more words of wisdom, this time telling a woman who’s on her fifth divorce in twenty years that it’s a-okay to be single, that maybe she’s not the marrying kind and there’s nothing wrong with that. She then proceeds to tell her to own her truth—that she’s a serial monogamist. And to embrace it and go into future relationships without expecting rings and wedding bells just because they make it past the one-year mark and buy a house together. The woman thanks her profusely, as if the realization had never occurred to her before, and Bostyn directs her conversation toward one of her producers, Lara.

  “Let’s do random questions. You want to do random questions?” Bostyn asks.

  “Yes! Love random questions,” Lara says. “I’ve got one. Have you ever kissed a stranger?”

  Bostyn laughs. “Yes. Once. I mean, he wasn’t a stranger in the literal sense of the word. I’d only met him an hour before. He was the younger brother of this guy my friend was dating. Some up-and-coming tech mogul who’d developed this dating app and thought he was suddenly God’s gift to women everywhere.”

  “Oh, geez.” I can almost hear the producer rolling her eyes. “One of those.”

  “Yes,” Bostyn says. “One of those. Anyway, we were chatting over drinks and he was insulting me left and right, so I got up to leave. He chased after me to apologize, and then he kissed me!”

  “No!”

  “Yes. He pinned me up against this brick wall in an alley outside the bar, and he kissed me.”

  “How was it?”

  “Honestly? It was one of the hottest kisses I’ve ever had in my life.” Bostyn’s confession makes my ears prick. I stare at the radio, holding my breath, wondering if I’m imagining this. “I’m talking a toe-curling, panty-melting, can’t-see-straight kind of kiss. His hands in my hair. Soft lips. Total control.”

  “Okay, so what happened next?”

  “Nothing.” Bostyn pauses for a beat. “He was an asshole. And I decided my convictions meant more to me than a night with him.”

  “Wow.” Lara laughs. “Talk about self-control. Did you ever run into him after that?”

  “Yeah,” Bostyn says. “A few times.”

  “Did you … reprise the kiss? For old times’ sake?”

  “I honestly don’t think he remembers it. He was pretty wasted. And I’ve spent the last, I don’t know, four years, trying to pretend it didn’t happen. We’re oil and water. It would never, ever work. He’s the type who only wants physical relationships.”

  “Ugh,” Lara groans.

  “I know, right? You date one playboy, you’ve dated them all. No thanks.”

  Playboy? I resent that.

  I haven’t been a playboy since the day I found out I’d accidentally knocked up up-and-coming popstar, Alexi Elektra, and that fatherhood was a short seven months away. I’d met Alexi through my dating app, Date Snap, and after a torrid seven-night stand, we parted ways. It took her months to track me down, and at the time, she wanted to carry out the pregnancy in secret and give the baby away, but I refused to allow it.

  Being a single father of a toddler these days doesn’t exactly allow time for my previous playboy tendencies. Besides, that kind of life doesn’t appeal to me anymore. It’s like when you stop eating sugar, you stop craving it. And once you taste it again, it’s way too sweet. Disgustingly sweet almost. And you never want it again. That’s how I feel about meaningless sex with strange women.

  Roderick pulls into the underground parking garage beneath my penthouse. I gently unfasten Joa from her car seat as he kills the engine and Bostyn’s voice disappears from the speakers.

  A burst of satisfaction fills my chest and puts a little pep in my step as I carry my daughter to the elevator. The fact that my kiss was one of the hottest she’s ever had feels like an achievement worth celebrating, as I’d sworn for the last four years that this woman hates my freaking guts.

  Next chance I get I’ll make damn sure to let her know that I remember that kiss.

  I remember the hell out of that kiss.

  2

  Bostyn

  TGIF.

  Each night this week, from eight to ten PM, I’ve been taking calls, helping women clean up their hot mess love lives. Don’t get me wrong—I love my job. It just leaves me drained most of the time, that’s all.

  For instance, yesterday some woman wanted justification for snooping around in her boyfriend’s sock drawer which turned into the staunch realization that he had no intentions of proposing to her anytime soon and tonight some woman refused to comprehend that any man who demands all of her passwords is crazy and not crazy-in-love. It took some time, but I think she saw the light by the time I was finished.

  My producer, Lara, instant messages me to tell me we have time for one more caller.

  God, no.

  I need a break.

  I’ve been doing this show for two months now, and I get this way about this time each Friday. It was different when it was just the column in Beauty Mark magazine. I’d answer five relationship questions each issue, and I had a month to answer them.

  This one’s question after question, hour after hour, and since we’re a satellite radio station, we don’t stop for ads.

  “You must really hate me,” I type back to her.

  She sends back an angel emoji and tells me there’s a guy on line one.

  “A guy?!?!?” I write back. “And you’re sure he’s not a pussy power psycho?!”

  I glance up, watching her through the glass as she sits with the rest of the production team, and she’s waving her hands frantically. Shit. I’m so bad at wasting airtime. Really need to work on that. I hope we weren’t lingering in silence too long …

  “Okay, we’ve got time for one more. Line one, I’m told you’re a caller of the gentleman variety. Welcome to The Single Girl’s Guide. How can I help you?” I ask, forcing a smile in my voice.

  “Hi, Bostyn.” He says my name like he has all the time in the world. God, he sounds hot. Really, really hot. I can almost hear a wicked little smile in his voice.

  I shake my head, slapping myself out of this.

  Must. Be. Professional. At all times. No. Matter. What. Or else.

  I glance at the little yellow Post-It note taped to my computer screen where I’ve written those very words in that very way. It’s meant to remind me to keep cool, to not lose my shit when some caller decides to scream at me and tell me what a pathetic moron I am (it happens), but in this case, it still applies.

  “Hi, caller,” I say. “What seems to be the problem?”

  “There’s this girl,” he says, voice low yet confident, like the kind that makes your ear drums buzz when he’s lying on top of you, his breath warm on your cheek. God, I need to get laid. How long has it been now? He clears his throat, a gentle rumble. “And I’ve known her for several years. I really want to ask her on a date, but she’s convinced we’re all wrong for each other.”

  “It takes two, Caller,” I say. “If she’s not feeling it, you have to respect that. You’re probably not her type.”

  “No, no,” he says. “I’m her type. She just doesn’t know it yet.”

  I laugh. “I like your determination, Calle
r, but that’s not up to you.”

  “See, when we first met,” he ignores me. “We rubbed each other the wrong way.”

  “Been there. That happens.”

  “And over the years, we’ve continued to rub each other the wrong way,” he says. “But aside from the fact that we have differing opinions on just about everything and every conversation we start turns into a heated debate, I still can’t get this girl out of my head.”

  “Ah, unrequited love,” I say.

  He huffs. “It isn’t love. Not yet. But I think maybe it could go in that direction if she’d give me a chance. How can I get her to give me a chance?”

  “Have you thought about just calling her up and asking her?”

  “She’d hang up on me. Trust me.”

  “But you haven’t tried. So how do you know?”

  “Because I know her.”

  “How often do you see her? Maybe you should try to pull her away for a moment, talk to her in private?”

  “She’s a tough one to lasso,” he says, and I can practically envision the panty-melting wink on his face. “You see, I kissed her once. The first night I met her. She slapped me when it was over. Told me I was drunk. Called me an asshole. Hailed a cab. Got the hell out of there.”

  Oh, my god.

  “She probably thinks I don’t remember the kiss,” he says. “But I do. That kiss was … it was everything.”

  I’m blushing now. I glance up at Lara, who’s sitting there with her mouth hanging, reading the expression written all over my face.

  “Is that him?” she messages me.

  I bite my lip, writing back, “I think so.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t feel the same way,” I say. “If the kiss meant more to her, I imagine the two of you might be together by now.”

  “You don’t know her like I do,” he says. I bet there’s a sarcastic smirk on his full lips to match the sarcastic tone in his rich voice.