Hate Mail (Paper Cuts #1) Read Online Winter Renshaw

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Billionaire, Contemporary Tags Authors: 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)
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No one has ever spoken to me that way before—like I’m a sexual being and not just someone’s friend or daughter.

He holds my stare with his, and as much as I try to look away, I can’t.

My curiousness has me powerless, frozen.

“Am I supposed to be flattered?” I strengthen my resolve and break my silence, refusing to melt in his hands. Even if I’m promised to him, he still has to work for me. Not to mention, this doesn’t change anything. He’s still rude. And arrogant. And self-centered. And obsessed with money. Nothing I’d ever want in a husband.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Are you?”

Flattered? No.

Turned on? Strangely … yes.

But that’s between me, myself, and I.

My mouth runs dry as my focus turns to his lips. His hand slinks down to my neck, his fingertips slipping into my hair while he looks like he’s seconds from making a meal out of me.

“Oh, there you two are.” A voice that belongs to neither Slade or myself slices through the viscous tension in the room.

It’s my father.

Without hesitating, I lunge for the remote and pause the show on the off chance Rose Byrne gets down and dirty again.

“Your mother said you two were in here watching a movie,” he says, completely oblivious to what was about to take place a moment ago. “Hadn’t seen either of you since this morning. Just wanted to say goodnight before I headed to bed.”

We exchange goodnights, and my father leaves, taking the tension we’d been building up for the last forty-five minutes along with him.

The moment is gone.

Though maybe it’s for the best.

“I’m getting a little tired myself. Should probably call it a day.” I fake a yawn. My body’s still reeling and I don’t trust myself to sit next to Slade for the next forty-five minutes without doing something stupid like offering myself to him on a silver platter because he’s mastered the art of verbal foreplay.

“You never go to bed this early.” He frowns. Of course he would know what time I hit the hay. The man notices everything I do.

“First time for everything.” I rise, folding my throw blanket and resting it on the arm of the sofa. Collecting my Diet Coke and sticking the bucket of popcorn under my arm, I give him a wink. “Better luck next time.”

.

Slade—

I haven’t heard from you in a while. I hope your mom is okay. My mom said she sent your mom her favorite flowers—daffodils. They had to be imported from south of the equator because they only grow in the springtime here. Hope she likes them.

Campbell (age 11)

Campbell—

My mom is still sick. She said thanks for the flowers.

Slade (age 12)

8

Slade

I’m adjusting the starched white collar of my tuxedo Saturday morning when my phone vibrates with a text from my uncle.

OLIVER: How goes it? You alive up there? Making sure you didn’t freeze to death.

ME: That joke is as lame today as it was last month. Need to come up with some new material.

OLIVER: Whatever. Just checking on you. Haven’t heard from you in days. Forgive me for giving a damn about your uptight ass.

ME: Blythe has me on a tight schedule with all of this wedding planning shit.

OLIVER: Don’t act like you’re not enjoying every second of it. Every little boy dreams about his wedding day. This is your time to shine, buddy!! This is your moment!! It’s gonna be the best day of your life!! [bride and groom emoji] [church emoji] [flowers emoji]

ME: Says the guy who left his bride at the altar four years ago. Also, what thirty-five-year-old man uses those emojis? I’m embarrassed for you.

OLIVER: In my defense, I’d just found out my bride slept with my best man. Traded one cliché for another. And I’m secure enough in my manhood to use those emojis. Feel free to take a page from my book.

I roll my eyes and place my phone aside so I can finish getting dressed. The sooner I emerge from this fitting room, the sooner the tailor can make his markings and we can be on our way.

“How’s it going in there, Slade?” Blythe calls from the other side of the curtain. “Need anything?”

“I’ll be out in a minute,” I say.

“You sure about that?” Campbell adds from out there. “Because it sounds like you’re on your phone in there.”

“Slade, darling, please tell me you’re not working on a Saturday,” Blythe groans like it’s the worst thing in the world. I vaguely recall years ago my parents talking about how Blythe gave Cedric an ultimatum about his work schedule and Saturdays were sacred. My mom would have never done that to my father.

Delacortes are work horses.

We never take a day off.

It’s not in our blood.

Even my uncle Oliver, who lives off a small yet comfortable trust fund, runs a small yacht business as a side hustle despite not needing to work at all.


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