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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I browse more new releases before settling on some space documentary narrated by Neil deGrasse Tyson.

I’ve had enough emotions for one long weekend.

I need facts and figures.

One hour and fifty-four minutes later later, I make sure Mom is still resting comfortably, kiss her forehead, and head out.

Climbing into my car, I recall the way Mom’s face lit up when she talked about seeing Campbell again.

I need to fly her out here—sooner than later for obvious reasons.

Pulling up my phone, I pick a wistful, sullen playlist that fits my mood perfectly. Listening to other people sing about their woes has always helped me feel less alone in this world and more understood.

Tonight, I've lied to my dying mother, pretended to be in love, and discovered an inexplicable curiosity about my soon-to-be wife.

It's been a strange day, and as I drive off into the night, I can't shake the feeling that things are about to get a whole lot stranger.

.

Slade—

Last week was our junior high winter formal. My mom is insisting that I send you a picture of me with my date, Jake. She also insists that I tell you Jake is just a friend. She says honesty is the best policy. I’m sure once you get this picture you’ll rip it up anyway. But whatever. Here’s some food for your paper shredder.

Campbell (age 13)

Campbell—

Jake looks like a tool. And why is your dress light purple? You look like an Easter egg.

Slade (age 14)

Slade—

My mom picked the dress. She says it’s my color. I’d have gone with blue. My dad says blue brings out my eyes. Do you have winter formals at your school?

Campbell (age 13)

Campbell—

Yes. And I was forced to go. Dances are stupid and awkward. Anyway my mom is making me include a picture of me with my dates—Tabitha and Greer. Yes, they’re twins. Yes, they both like me. Yes, it’s weird. Please don’t reply because this exchange is already boring me to tears. Going forward, I’d appreciate if you only sent me letters when you have something interesting to say.

Slade (age 14)

Slade—

Did you know that during adolescence, a boy’s reward system in his brain is wired to seek more novel and exciting experiences? That’s probably why you took two girls to the dance instead of just one. Also, increased sensitivity to peer influence at your age can make you feel you have to conform to societal expectations in order to fit in—which is probably why you went to the dance even though you think they’re “stupid and awkward.”

I don’t know about you, but I found those facts interesting enough to warrant writing you another letter.

Campbell (age 13)

Campbell—

Please cite your sources. No one likes a plagiarist.

Slade (age 14)

Slade—

I haven’t learned how to do citations yet. Please find enclosed photocopies of the articles from Psychology Today that support my previous letter.

Campbell (age 13)

11

Campbell

“Ms. Wakemont, welcome.” Slade’s housekeeper, Fiona, greets me at the door when I arrive. A few days after he left Sapphire Shores, he texted me saying I should come to Palm Beach soon to iron out a few household things as well as spend time with his mother. I wasn’t able to see her last time as she was out of town, but apparently she’s beyond excited about our impending nuptials and has been wanting to spend some one-on-one time with me.

Delia has always been a delight to be around. Effervescent and filter-free, her smile can light an entire room and instantly puts even the sourest of souls in a good mood.

They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, but if it weren’t for their uncanny resemblance, I’d wonder if Slade fell from Delia’s tree at all.

I suppose he has his mother’s dark and angular features and his father’s, uh, winning personality.

Victor is as straightlaced and serious as they come.

Minimal sense of humor.

Always in work mode.

I wheel my suitcase in. I brought a big one this time seeing how I’ll be here for an entire week. It’s warmer here than I expected. The weather called for highs in the upper seventies but the balmy atmosphere makes it feel much warmer.

“Please,” Fiona reaches for my suitcase. “I’ll take this to your room for you. Make yourself at home. Mr. Delacorte should be home from work any minute.”

“Thank you, Fiona.” I remain planted in his white-on-white foyer while she wheels it down the hallway, disappearing around the corner. Arms folded, I kick off my shoes and set them neatly on the rug. Everything here is so … perfect.

With nothing else to do, I take a self-guided tour, seeing if I can remember where everything is.

To my left is the living room, looking just like I remember from last time—magazine worthy and untouched. A shiny black grand piano takes the spotlight in the far corner, leading off a wall of arched windows with an unblocked view of the ocean.


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