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’m fine,” I assure him. “Just grateful to be here with you.”

39

Slade

I wake up before the sun and roll to my side, watching my wife sleep. We’ve been home for almost a week, and despite the fact that Oliver was located and taken into custody four days ago, I find myself hypervigilant and overprotective of Campbell.

For as long as I live, I’ll never forgive my uncle for what he did, but Campbell likes to remind me that being angry won’t change what happened.

Regardless, I can’t stop ruminating, thinking about what would have happened if Fiona hadn’t seen Oliver cruising around town that day and hadn’t had the gut instinct to check for us at home.

I let my wife sleep, trekking downstairs to make myself a coffee. In the time that we’ve been back, I’ve forgone my militant morning routine because I haven’t been able to stomach the thought of leaving Campbell alone. Never mind that the threat is neutralized—I can’t wrap my head around the fact that I never saw it coming.

Before, I could’ve listed a million shady things Oliver was capable of, but murder would never have been among them. He had issues just like everyone else, but he was always so happy, nice, fun, the kind of guy who lived in the moment and never had a care in the world.

I don’t know if I’ll ever look at anyone the same after this.

Seated in the breakfast nook, I peer out the windows at the ocean waves crashing in the distance and the various assortment of boats lining the horizon. Rising, I close the shades with a dramatic pull before skulking back to the table. I can’t even enjoy the view from my own house without being reminded of that weekend.

For two years, I’ve called this house my home and I was beginning to look forward to sharing it with Campbell—only now, much like the cars in my garage that are covered with Oliver’s grimy fingerprints, it’s tainted.

I have no choice but to sell everything.

We need a clean start.

I finish my coffee, rinse the mug, and place it in the jam-packed dishwasher. I gave Fiona a month off, paid, as a small token of our gratitude, but I intend to do much more for her once I get my bearings. The house might be a little less sparkling than usual and we’re ordering takeout like it’s our job, but it’s the least I can do for Fiona after everything.

Grabbing a dishwasher tablet from under the sink, I spot the crystal vase Campbell’s aunt and uncle gave us for our wedding. I remember her aunt saying something about her husband giving her flowers every week for the first year of their marriage, and how it was important to have traditions.

Heading outside to the terrace next, I clip a handful of vibrant purple bougainvillea before returning inside to make Campbell’s breakfast. Ten minutes later, I’m carrying a tray of oatmeal, avocado toast, and fresh flowers upstairs.

“Oh, good, you’re up,” I say when I find her in the bathroom washing up. I place the tray on the bed. “I made you breakfast.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” she says when she returns, greeting me with a spearmint-flavored kiss. “But thank you. Where’d the flowers come from?”

“The terrace.”

“You did that arrangement yourself?”

“If by arrangement, you mean I cut them and put them in a vase with water, then yes.”

She laughs. “I’m impressed.”

“You recognize the vase?”

Chewing, she inspects the flowers closely. “Aunt Beth’s vase?”

“Yep. I thought maybe we could start our own tradition.”

“I like that,” she says, “but let’s make it our own. I love flowers, but I don’t think something should have to die just because it’s pretty. Kind of cruel not to just … let it live, you know?”

“Fair enough. Any ideas?”

Placing the breakfast tray aside, she leans over and reaches for me, pulling me back into bed.

“I have a few,” she says with an impish smirk as her hands dip beneath my waistband. Kissing me, she strokes my cock. “Morning sex. Morning sex should be our tradition.”

“I could get on board with that.” I abandon her mouth and work my way down her neck before pulling her shirt over her head. Lately she’s been sleeping in nothing but a T-shirt. Stopping, I take a second to admire her in all her exposed glory.

“What?”

“I wish you could see how fucking sexy you are,” I say. “If you had any idea, I think you’d just … your mind would be blown.”

Campbell laughs, swatting at me. “Stahhhp.”

“Stop what? Telling my wife how smoking hot she is?” I scoff. “Never.”

She rolls her eyes, humble as ever, though the smile she’s fighting tells me she secretly enjoys when I fawn over her. The first time we made love, she made it clear that all she wanted was to feel like I desired her.


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