The message said, “Remember me?” But the sender was someone I’d rather forget.
Alec Mansfield haunted my memories like a cruel specter. In high school, he was my tormentor and the bane of my existence. When he wasn’t defying authority alongside my older brothers, he was sabotaging my dates and sending me “anonymous” emails signed “yours cruelly.”
Alec was merciless, an emerald-eyed devil spending his daddy’s money and wreaking havoc over our hometown of Sapphire Shores like he owned the place. But mostly, he hated that I didn’t fawn over him like all the other girls did.
It’s been ten years since he left town.
But now he’s back, working as an ER doctor at the local hospital, and in a strange twist of fate, we match on a dating app. I agree to meet up, but only because I want to tell him off for making my life a living hell all those years ago. But four cocktails, one tequila shot, and a shared Uber later, I find myself about to have scorching-hot hate sex with my sworn nemesis.
The next morning, I leave before the sun comes up, slamming the book on that chapter of my life forever.
Except a few weeks later, I discover our story has an epilogue—one that starts with two pink lines on a pregnancy test.
Turns out there are things more life-altering than hooking up with Alec Mansfield … like having his baby.
NOTE: This is a complete standalone that can be read without reading HATE MAIL first, though it's strongly recommended if you want to avoid spoilers.
Excerpt
Stassi
I can’t believe I’m doing this.
I’m sitting in the back of the Uber I called, Houlihan’s on one side of me, the Portland harbor on the other, glistening in the moonlight. It’s so frigid that the exhaust from the car makes a hazy cloud around me. My palms are on fire and my heart is beating so hard it’s practically crawling up my throat.
Like a moron, I dressed up. I’m wearing a sweater dress that I only wear when I want to impress people. As if I care about this person.
Which I don’t.
I stopped caring about Alec Mansfield a long time ago.
I made peace with his cruel ploys to get my attention.
I close Charlotte’s Web, slip it into my purse, and exhale in an attempt to compose myself before I tackle this giant.
The driver, likely a local college student considering the nose ring and the just-got-out-of-bed look, glances in her rearview mirror. “You did say Houlihan’s, right?”
“Yeah …” Somehow, our old haunt looks way more intimating than it did, even just last night. “Just trying to get the courage to go inside.”
“Blind date?” The girl’s eyes widen with sympathy. “That’s how I met my boyfriend. You never know.”
I nod so I don’t have to explain our complicated history; one I’ve replayed in my head more times than I could ever begin to count.
“You’re my last ride of the night, so take as long as you want. I’ll even stay out here for a few minutes if you want,” she says. “If he’s a total troll and you want me to take you home, say the word.”
I don’t tell her that Alec Mansfield in no way resembles a troll or that he has the opposite effect on women—they insist on running to him, as fast as possible.
The reason I’m rooted to the back seat of this Toyota Yaris is because I’m afraid of being one of them.
I check my phone. It’s 8:29, now.
He might already be in there.
Then again, the boys used to say he’d be late to his own funeral. That’s why I said 8:30. Not so much to make him go through the trouble of leaving the ER early, but because 8:30, in his eyes, might as well be nine. That and I figured if I got here before him, I could suck down a quick drink to steel my nerves before he got there.
My hand is on the door handle when I spot a tall form in a pea coat and scarf, striding through the shadows on Commercial Street, heading straight for the bar. I can tell by his confident lope, his hands dug into the pockets of his coat, and the hooded eyes squinting under the glare of the street lamps that it’s Alec.
He doesn’t see me, so I get a chance to really look at him. He has less facial hair than in that photo—just enough stubble to make him look outdoorsy and rugged. The baseball cap is gone—as are his wayward dark curls that used to toss around in the wind.
Also absent is the Panthers hockey jersey he used to wear 24/7—he’s replaced that ratty, dingy old number 9 with a little more upgraded fashion sense, as evidenced by his plaid scarf, slim-fit dress pants, and loafers.
He stops outside the front door and checks his phone,sucking on the inside of his cheek—an old habit of his that made his mouth quirk up on one side in an unbearably sexy way.
Is he nervous to see me?
Contemplating his apology?
Checking a text from some sexy cheerleader he swiped right on after taking my advice?
I shake my head, refusing to get ahead of myself—or get my hopes up since those hopes have no business being anywhere but down when it comes to this man.
I was always such a sucker for that little smolder of histhough. Sometimes I used to lie in bed and dream about how it would feel focused on me. That was before my junior year, when I learned that fairytales only happened to people with names like Rapunzel and Cinderella.
I shiver. “Oh. Um … there he is.”
Predictably, my Uber driver lets out a low whistle as Alec opens the door to Houlian’s, holding it for a couple of cougars in short skirts who giggle their thanks.
“That’s your date?” my driver meets my eyes in the rearview. “Girl, he is fine. Get your ass in there.”
Gritting my teeth, I thank her and step out. Only the second I do, a cold burst of night air slips its way under the hem of my dress, more or less pushing me toward the entrance. I guess someone up there thinks this is a good idea? Because right now, I swear I feel my thickest fleece pajamas, some vanilla-spiked chai, and Charlotte’s Web calling to me.
Hugging my purse tight to my body, I brace against thewind and yank on the solid wooden door. It swings wide open, delivering me and a gust of snowflakes inside before slamming shut with such force it garners the attention of everyone inside.
So much for a graceful entrance.
Before my eyes can fully adjust to the dim lighting, a velvet voice says, “Hey.”
I glance towards the bar, where Alec’s standing, snowflakes in his hair, uncoiling the scarf from around his neck, looking like he stepped off the pages of the latest J. Crew catalog.
He slips his scarf off and leans in to kiss my cheek when I approach.
It’s awkward, because we’ve never greeted each other before with more than a grunt of hello and even then, that was rare.
I guess this is the new, mature, adult Alec?
Can’t help but wonder if this Alec would write cruel anonymous messages to an unsuspecting girl who didn’t have a mean bone in her body …
His lips barely graze my cheek. Or maybe I don’t feel it because my skin’s numb from the cold. Good God, he smells like heaven though. Despite the fact that I’ve hated him for years, I have a momentary urge to lean in close and drag his intoxicating, masculine scent into my lungs one more time.Body wash. Soap. Cologne. Aftershave. I expected him to arrive in scrubs, smelling like bleach and antiseptic. Now that I think about it, he’s dressed for a date. Did he get off early and shower … for me? Or is he meeting someone after this?
“I thought you’d be late,” I break the silence that’s lingered between us for a decade.
“I dodged out of work early.” He scratches above his brow, his eyes fixed on mine. “
I don’t know why that warms my heart a little.
But only a little.
It’s still frozen stiff at its core, just the way Alec left it a lifetime ago.
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About Winter Renshaw
Wall Street Journal and #1 Amazon bestselling author Winter Renshaw is a bona fide daydream believer. She lives somewhere in the middle of the USA and can rarely be seen without her trusty Mead notebook and ultra portable laptop. When she’s not writing, she’s living the American dream with her husband, three kids, and the laziest puggle this side of the Mississippi.
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