Love Grows Wild Read Online Winter Renshaw

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Contemporary, Suspense Tags Authors: Winter Renshaw Advertisement

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Sometimes I wish I was.

But I’m not.

I’m a hopeless romantic in the most tragic sense of the word; a woman who’s made a living writing about love and devotion and men who move mountains to be with the women they adore—and I’ve never had any of that for myself. Not once. Not even close.

And somehow, I’ve always been okay with it. I’ve always made peace with the idea that maybe I was meant to write the stories, not live them. That the fantasy was always better than the reality anyway. The men I write about in my books are fictional for a reason. They don’t exist in the real world.

But then came Hunter.

Rugged, broody, and heroic, driving up in a big white pickup instead of riding up on a big white horse, though it’s all the same.

At first glance, he seems impossible to read. He’s not warm or flirty. He doesn’t make big declarations or play games or give false hope—at least not on purpose. But every once in a while, he looks at me like he wants to rewrite every rule he’s ever lived by.

God, I can only imagine how it must feel to be chosen by this man . . .

I exhale and rise to my feet, heading inside, flicking off porch lights one by one until the house is cloaked in warm darkness and filled with the distant rumble of the generator outside.

On my way upstairs, I peek my head into my son’s room. Atticus is fast asleep upstairs, sprawled diagonally across his little bed, dreams probably filled with ponies and tire swings and frogs caught in mason jars.

I should be exhausted, but for some reason I’m not. My mind is whirring, replaying tonight’s exchange again and again, wondering if I misread any signs or if there’s more I could’ve read between the lines of our conversation.

I tiptoe downstairs and make my way to my office, that little sanctuary where the words are starting to come easier now thanks to the man who somehow feels the need to both rescue me and keep me at an arm’s length.

Scanning my desk for my sunflower notebook, I don’t see it where I left it. I check under stacks of papers, a pen-filled mug, and various framed photos. It’s nowhere to be found.

Panic sears through me, hot and forceful.

I toss a throw blanket off the chair.

Not there either.

My heart climbs into my throat. I always leave it right here—in the center of my writing desk, where I can’t miss it, where it sits out in the open, silently reminding me there are always words needing to be written.

Just when I’m about to tear the place apart, I spot the white-and-yellow edge peeking out from beneath a pile of mail on the bookshelf.

I don’t remember putting it there . . .

Sometimes Atticus plays in here, so there’s a chance he moved some things around, but panic lingers inside me like a warning bell regardless.

If I lost this thing, it’d be akin to losing a diary. A writer’s personal words are more precious than gold. They come from a different part of them altogether. A deeply personal place that can’t always be easily accessed. The idea of losing this and someone finding it and reading all the things I never meant to share—especially if it’s one person in particular . . .

I can’t finish the thought.

I center myself with a deep breath and reach for a pen before taking a seat. Cracking the notebook open, I flip past the last letter and find a fresh page.

Emotions swirl with feelings, both in and under my skin, scorching and pressing, full of hope, doubt, disappointment, and determination as I write yet another letter to a man who’ll never read it. But the sooner I get these words on paper, the sooner I’ll get them out of my head, and that’s the only way I’m going to get any real sleep tonight.

Hunter—

You could’ve stayed.

I would’ve let you.

We could’ve sat on the porch until the moon traded places with the sun. I’d have poured you more wine, even if you didn’t want it. I’d have asked more questions and you would’ve pretended to be annoyed but you’d have answered them anyway. During bouts of silence, we would’ve listened to the frogs by the river as the space between us kept getting smaller.

And eventually—if we were both brave enough—we would’ve closed that space altogether.

You could’ve kissed me.

And I would’ve kissed you back.

Soft. Slow. Like the world was holding its breath just for us.

We could’ve let our guards down for once. Yours built of silence and solitude, mine built of stories and curiosity.

Instead, you left.

And I told myself it didn’t hurt.

I told myself I didn’t care.

But I’m writing this, aren’t I?

Which means I must.

So maybe this is just my way of creating the moment I didn’t get to have.


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