Fake-ish Read Online Winter Renshaw

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Billionaire, Contemporary Tags Authors:
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Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76470 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
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Briar rolls her sapphire blues. “She’s so dramatic sometimes, but that’s kind of the best thing about her. Never a dull moment. And she means well.”

“Of course.” I sip my beer.

I have nothing against Vivi despite her antics.

If I did, I wouldn’t be here.

I also wouldn’t have helped Benson arrange his elaborate proposal back in Syracuse. I managed to persuade our lead guitarist to come with me and surprise her with a song in their hotel suite. There were candles everywhere. Dozens of red roses. Cristal champagne on ice. And friends waiting outside on the balcony to congratulate them when it was over. It was a scene out of a cheesy romance movie, but I was happy for them.

I still am—even if they’ve been acting like they’re the first people to ever get engaged in the history of the world.

“Do you date now?” Briar asks, blinking at me with her mile-long lashes. “I mean, are you actively dating? Are you on any apps or anything?”

“God, no.” I cringe. “I don’t have time for that. And even if I did . . . I’d rather be single than do any of that. It’s unnatural. People don’t realize how important it is to have that genuine connection. It’s lost completely on our generation.”

“I was reading this article the other day about how people spend more time swiping on those apps than actually going on dates or messaging people. They just browse and browse and browse,” she says. “And it’s the same for a lot of streaming platforms. People will surf for shows for hours, refusing to settle on one, because they’re worried they’re going to miss out on something better, convinced that if they scroll long enough, they’ll eventually find the perfect show. It’s like that with dating apps. Exact same phenomenon. People are worried they’ll choose wrong, so they don’t choose at all.”

“It’s a waste of time.”

“Maybe not for everyone. I’m sure some people find love on those apps,” she says. “Just because they’re not for us doesn’t mean they’re not for other people.”

“You’re not on them either?”

Her full lips press together, and she takes a deep breath like she’s about to delve into some long-winded story.

Then she stops herself.

“You have someone back home?” I ask. I shouldn’t have assumed she’s single. She’s been nothing but cordial and ladylike all evening, though I imagine if she had a man, she wouldn’t have been dancing on me like she was earlier.

Briar shakes her head. “Newly single.”

I swallow a mouthful of beer and then utter the words “His loss” before I can stop myself.

She sits straighter, head cocked and eyes almost squinting, as if she’s questioning if she heard me right.

“Who broke up with whom?” I ask.

“I broke up with him,” she says, adding, “after I found out he was sleeping with my best friend.”

“Let me guess . . . you met him on a dating app?”

Her lips crack into a half smile. “Wish I could say I didn’t.”

“The thing about cheaters,” I say, “is that, deep down, they know they’re not worthy of the person they’re with, so they self-sabotage. That, and they’re too chickenshit to end a relationship. They’re cowards with extremely low self-esteem.”

“Is that true, or are you just trying to make me feel better?”

“Both.” I take another drink, scan the room, and check the score. But the heaviness of her gaze is sending a flush beneath my skin, like the room is ten degrees hotter than it was a minute ago. “But something tells me you don’t need me to do that—to make you feel better.”

“You’re not wrong.” Glancing at the game, she winces. “Ugh, why the hell did they put Devers on first? Who’s coaching this game?”

There’s something about a girl in a sparkly dress in a sports bar getting angry about a losing team that’s sexy as hell—and I’m here for it.

She tosses back the rest of her martini in one angry, impressive gulp.

“They’re going to blow this game if they don’t put him back on third,” she says, throwing her hands in the air. “That’s where he belongs, for crying out loud.”

“The game’s already blown.”

She shoots me a look. “It’s only the bottom of the fourth. What are you talking about?”

“It was blown the second the Yanks stepped foot in front of the Green Monster.”

She leans over to swat my arm. “Whatever. Talk to me five innings from now.”

Briar moves to her water next.

“Thanks for not making us toast with that this time,” I say. “Not about to walk two miles back to the hotel, only for you to make us get back on that godforsaken party bus all over again.”

“Just for that . . .” She mimes like she’s going to clink her glass against mine, but I scoot mine away.

“Speaking of the party bus . . .” I rise from the table and walk toward the wall of windows, scanning the parking lot across the street for that neon monstrosity—which is no longer there. Returning, I drag my hand along my jaw. “Hate to tell you this, but I think they left us.”


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