Enemy Dearest - Winter Renshaw Page 0,3

it alive, but you’ll never be the same after.

Unfortunately, those odds weren’t in my Aunt Cynthia’s favor when she dated August’s father decades ago. She didn’t come out of it alive—which is exactly the reason my parents forbid me from going anywhere near this family.

I steal one last glimpse of the wickedly handsome Monreaux boy, at his broad shoulders and chiseled jaw and messy hair, at the shiny fragments broken glass surrounding him, and I make a running leap for the fence.

Within seconds, I’m dashing home, to the side of town where people keep bars on their windows and police sirens double as bedtime lullabies. Where air conditioners break and water bills sometimes go unpaid. Where no one hires house sitters because vacations are the kind of thing you only do when you win a little bit of cash from a scratch-off card or your tax refund is a little more than you were anticipating that year.

By the time I get to our little gray bungalow on North Fifth Street, the soles of my feet are on fire, and my lungs burn in sympathy. I toss my tattered flip flops in the garbage can by the back door and sneak inside.

My father is working nights, and Mama’s asleep in her room, the TV blaring and ceiling fan whirring. They’ll never know about my little escapade tonight, thank goodness.

On my way to my room, I catch my reflection in the mirror in the hall, cringing at my blonde waves that have dried into a frizzy lion’s mane of a look. A second later, I peel off the damp dress and toss it on the back of my desk chair.

Tiptoeing to the kitchen, I fill a plastic cup with ice water from the fridge and drink it all in one go. Returning to my ninety-degree room, I crack a window, switch on a box fan, and collapse on my lumpy mattress.

My breath eventually settles despite my adrenaline-soaked blood, and the events of the past hour play in my mind like a surreal fever dream.

Everything happened so fast.

Half asleep and semi delirious, I stare at the stained ceiling above as a loopy grin claims my face. The whole thing is kind of funny. Trespassing and skinny dipping is the last sort of thing anyone would ever think I’m capable of doing, Monreaux estate or otherwise. In fact, I can’t think of a single soul who’d believe any of this anyway.

Guess it’ll have to be my little secret …

And honestly, I’ve always wanted to see a Monreaux. Maybe it was all those times my parents whispered about them when they thought I wasn’t listening. Or maybe it was the way strangers always looked around the room before they’d start talking about them in public, like they had ears in every corner of this town. They were a mysterious enigma placed on the highest shelf, just out of reach.

At least now I can say that I saw one.

And if I’m lucky, I’ll never see him again.

Chapter Two

August

* * *

“Way to go, asshole. Better clean this shit up before Dad and Cassandra get back.” I’m awoken by a familiar voice in my ear followed with a sharp kick to the shin.

Gannon.

I sit up from the pool lounger chair, lifting a hand to my throbbing temple as my eyes adjust to the searing sun overhead. Instinctively I reach for my phone, only to find it in my brother’s possession.

He waves it. “You can have your phone back when you grow the fuck up.”

“Fuck you.”

“You’re pathetic, you know that?”

I smirk. “That’s news to me.”

“Maybe you should think about actually doing something with your life instead of chugging stolen beers and getting high by the pool.”

I don’t get high. I can’t stand that head-in-the-clouds, floating sensation. It’s too cheery for me. But he can think what he wants to think. It’s all the same.

“And hooking up with a different girl every night. You forgot that part,” I add.

“You fucking wish.”

If he only knew …

I’ve gotten more ass this summer than Gannon’s had in his entire life. And that’s including the college-aged nanny he lost his virginity to at fourteen.

“Dad’s going to be home in a few hours,” he says. “Pick this shit up. Take a shower. Put on a clean shirt. Wash your damned hair. You look like you have fucking mange.”

I’ve been called a heartless bastard more times than I can count, but put me next to Gannon and I’m a purring, milk-drunk kitten.

“At least I don’t look