The Best Man Read online Winter Renshaw

Categories Genre: New Adult, Romance Tags Authors:

Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 68309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 342(@200wpm)___ 273(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)

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The Best Man

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Winter Renshaw

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I didn’t know her name, but I heard her laugh, tasted her lips, felt her warm skin as I held her in my arms. Together we watched our young children playing in the sand, the warm ocean lapping the shore behind them as the setting sun painted the sky. She was my soulmate and this was our life, our beautiful forever …
Then I woke up—alone in a hospital room, connected to wires and machines.
There was no wife. No kids. Not a single soul waiting for me. That life I dreamt of … never existed.
I’d been in a devastating wreck, a nurse told me when she rushed in. Comatose for weeks. I’d have a long road to recovery, but I was going to make it.
From that moment on, the dream haunted me. I saw that woman’s face every time I closed my eyes, searched for her in every crowd, ached to be with a stranger I felt I’d known my entire life … and I swore that if I ever found her, I’d do anything to make her mine.
Anything. Then I found her.
And it was both the best and worst day of my life because the woman of my dreams … was about to marry my best friend.
Books by Author:

Winter Renshaw

“Maktub,” she said. “If I am really part of your dream, you’ll come back one day.”

—Paolo Coelho, The Alchemist


Ancient Egyptians believed that dreams existed in a place between the living and the world on the other side. Early Romans, Grecians, and Mesopotamians regarded dream interpretation as an art form requiring advanced intellect and divine inspiration. Sigmund Freud is famous for theorizing that dreams are the result of suppressed or unfulfilled desires—particularly ones that are sexual or romantic in nature. Modern science suggests dreams are nothing more than electrical impulses in our brains, pulling random thoughts and images from our memories.

At the end of the day, all we truly know for sure is that dreams are a form of unconscious hallucinations. And while the content may be illusory, the emotions we feel in response to that content can, at times, be all too real.



Numbers don’t lie.

But men like the one beside me? With iridescent copper eyes, a jawline so sharp it could cut diamonds, and muscle-wrapped shoulders made for digging your fingers into as he pushes himself into the deepest parts of you?

They lie.

They lie all the time.

Especially in Hoboken hook-up bars like this one.

He told me his name, but already I’ve forgotten. Men like him don’t tend to give real names, so there’s no point in remembering. He also told me he’s from Manhattan, and that once a month he rents a car for a weekend so he can get out of the city, breathe some fresh air, and hear himself think.

Sounds made up.

A story you tell someone to impress them, to make them think you’re deep.



If I had to guess, he has a wife and a new baby in the ‘burbs. Ridgewood or Franklin Lakes. Maybe his sex life isn’t what it used to be. Maybe the family life wasn’t what he expected. In my mind’s eye I’ve imagined him packing a small suitcase, kissing his family goodbye, loading up in his luxury SUV and hauling ass to a little bar where nobody knows or marital status.

I steal a peek at his left hand.

It’s too dim to spot a wedding band indentation.

“How long are you in town?” He leans in when he speaks to me, his voice smooth as velvet and sending a spray of goosebumps along my neck. The faintest hint of aftershave wafts from his warm skin. Faded with a hint of vetiver and mystique, I enjoy it. But I don’t tell him that. If I flatter him, he’ll think he’s got a ‘nibble’ and he’ll try to reel me in.

I don’t want to be caught. I don’t want to be reeled in.

I want to enjoy my glass of pinot, maybe take a walk around the block, and then head back to my hotel room, paint on a charcoal mud mask, and fall asleep with Seinfeld reruns flickering on my TV screen.

“Not much longer,” I tell him, avoiding eye contact for a myriad of reasons, most of all being the fact that he’s the most beautiful stranger (physically speaking) to ever have purchased me a drink and every time I allow myself to bask in that, I lose my train of thought. “A couple more days.”

“Same.” He sips his drink, something amber in a crystal tumbler. The kind of liquor you savor drop by pricey drop, the kind you don’t rush to finish. “Where did you say you worked again?”

“Phoenix.” I clear my throat. Nothing worse than a man who asks questions but doesn’t take the time to listen.

“No, I remember that part,” he proves me wrong. “I meant where? What company?”

“The Fletcher Firm.” I lie for safety reasons.

I don’t know this man from Adam—no need to give him Google ammo.

“Kind of young to be an actuary, aren’t you?”

His next question catches me off-guard, and I nearly choke on my pinot. Most men—the ones laser focused on securing a piece of ass for the night—rarely remember what I do for a living once they’ve asked me. And the ones that do, have no idea what an actuary is or the education and tests that go into becoming one.

“I am young for an actuary, yes,” I say. I turn my attention toward him without thinking twice. Big mistake. His hazel eyes glint, focused on me. My stomach tightens in response. “I fast-tracked.” Taking a sip, I add, “I don’t recommend it unless you’re willing to sacrifice your social life—or any kind of life you may have—for the majority of your twenties.”

So much of life passed me by. Semesters blurred into one another. Weekend invites were turned down in favor of studying for the next exam. In the end, I was racing to a finish line for no other reason than it felt like a safe choice in a world filled with so much uncertainty.

Go to college. Get a career. Everything else will fall into place …