Yours Cruelly (Paper Cuts #2), page 1
Yours Cruelly
Paper Cuts Book 2
Winter Renshaw
Contents
1. Important!
Also By Winter Renshaw
Description
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Epilogue
About the Author
COPYRIGHT 2023 WINTER RENSHAW
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or, if an actual place, are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
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Also By Winter Renshaw
THE NEVER SERIES
Never Kiss a Stranger
Never is a Promise
Never Say Never
Bitter Rivals
THE ARROGANT SERIES
Arrogant Bastard
Arrogant Master
Arrogant Playboy
THE RIXTON FALLS SERIES
Royal
Bachelor
Filthy
Priceless (Amato Brothers crossover)
THE AMATO BROTHERS SERIES
Heartless
Reckless
Priceless
THE P.S. SERIES
P.S. I Hate You
P.S. I Miss You
P.S. I Dare You
THE MONTGOMERY BROTHERS DUET
Dark Paradise
Dark Promises
PAPER CUTS
Hate Mail
Yours Cruelly
Dear Stranger (October 2023)
BOX SETS
The Best of Winter Renshaw
His & Hers
STANDALONES
Single Dad Next Door
Cold Hearted
The Perfect Illusion
Country Nights
Absinthe
The Rebound
Love and Other Lies
The Executive
Pricked
For Lila, Forever
The Marriage Pact
Hate the Game
The Cruelest Stranger
The Best Man
Trillion
Enemy Dearest
The Match
Whiskey Moon
Stone Cold
The Dirty Truth
Love and Kerosene
You or Someone Like You
Fake-ish (December 2023)
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Description
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 rebellious older brothers, he was sabotaging my dates and sending me “anonymous” messages signed YOURS CRUELLY.
Alec was merciless, an emerald-eyed devil spending his daddy’s money and wreaking havoc over our hometown like he owned the place, hating that I didn’t fawn over him like all the other girls did.
It’s been ten years since he left Sapphire Shores.
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 a few beers, 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 his apartment, slamming the book shut on that chapter of my life forever.
Only 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’s one thing more life-altering than hooking up with Alec Mansfield—like having his baby.
1
Stassi
I’m not one to call people losers, but the guy slumped over the bar, giving me sleepy-eyed come-hither looks over his beer? It’s not looking good for him.
“You should go talk to him,” Madison, my roommate-slash-ride-or-die, kicks me under the table. “He has this clueless Bambi thing going on. It’s kind of endearing actually.”
“Did you forget to wear your contacts again?” The guy has serial-killer eyes and a neck that rivals most giraffes. On top of that, his nostrils keep flaring like two ever-expanding black holes. I’m two drinks in, but I’m not that desperate. Not yet, anyway. “Maybe you should go talk to him.”
She considers my suggestion, sipping her strawberry basil mojito through the stirrer straw. “I’m already dating Joe though.”
I give her a look. Two random meetups and a screw in the back of a movie theater shouldn’t constitute dating in my book, but then again, what do I know? I’m in a dry spell so arid it rivals the Sahara.
As if reading my mind, Mad says, “He’s better than Bryson.”
She’s not wrong.
My last blind date—the one I got by swiping right—wound up having stale coffee breath I could smell from across the table every time he opened his mouth. But that wasn’t the worst of it. Throughout our date, he insisted on referring to himself in the third person. “Bryson Winward wants to order calamari. Bryson Winward would love to escort you home.”
At first I thought he was trying to be funny … so I laughed.
Turns out, he wasn’t.
Before our appetizer had a chance to arrive, I faked an emergency phone call and ordered an Uber faster than a person could say “mozzarella sticks with extra marinara.”
Every one of my last few dates has come in a distant second place to a book, a bubble bath, and a cold tub of Ben & Jerry’s AmeriCone Dream.
“I don’t know if I’m made for this dating scene anymore,” I say. “I thought about looking into some convents.”
“Stassi.” Tenley, one of my oldest friends, offers me a sympathetic look as she places her hand over mine. “You’ll find the right guy when you least expect it. That’s how it always goes. Once you stop looking—bam. They waltz into your life and you suddenly can’t remember life before them.”
Easy for her to say—Tenley resembles a Hadid sister, makes working at an award-winning, high-pressure law firm look like a cakewalk. On top of that, her problem is the opposite of mine. Every time she turns around, she’s getting asked out by handsome strangers and turning them down because she’s already married … to her job.
I glance at old Googly Eyes, who is now picking his teeth with his fingernail.
“Anyway,” I say. “I didn’t come out to find a guy. I came to hang with my best friends.”
Campbell, the only married one of our group, lifts a shoulder. “There’s no unwritten rule that says you can’t do both.”
Best friends since kindergarten, I always imagined Campbell would be an old spinster-type, home on weekends with her various animals and eclectic interests. She’s always been the quirky one with the oddball sense of humor. Growing up, she rarely showed romantic interest in anyone, though in college she made
I’m happy for her, but damn—talk about a plot twist none of us saw coming.
Now that Mad is seeing Joe and Tenley is too consumed with work to care about her personal life, I’m the only truly single one in the group, and there’s nothing drunk friends like more than going to clubs and trying to set the single one up. It’s basically a competitive sport in this neck of the woods.
I should’ve known this night out on the waterfront in downtown Portland was a mistake.
I hold up my hands. “Guys. I’m fine being—”
“Right,” Mad says, cutting straight through the lie. “We get it, Stass. You don’t need a man, but you do need someone to keep your bed warm sometimes and spoil you with fancy dinners and the occasional weekend away. As your roommate, I’m officially making it my mission to find you one.”
She starts scanning the place like the Terminator searching for John Connor, her eyes practically glowing laser-red. I don’t tell her she’s wasting her precious energy. Houlihan’s used to be a popular hangout when we were at USM, but the youngest person here is easily ten years older than us. All the “cool” kids must have moved onto whatever the hottest new place is. Other than a couple of beer-bellied, balding guys at the bar and Bug Eyes, it’s slim pickings.
I groan and slip out of the booth. “We need another pitcher.”
The moment I step away, they lean together, whispering. I don’t have to guess what the topic of their gossip is: What can we do to help our poor, lonely, sad Stassi? She must be miserable. She needs to get laid. I don’t know why she’s being so stubborn? Do you think she’s still hung up on Mason?
My phone buzzes as I’m placing my order at the bar. I glance down in time to spot an incoming message from my dating app.
I sniff a laugh.
Talk about divine timing.
I’m about to delete the app off my phone when I catch sight of what the message says.
DocMansfield: Remember me?
I wrack my brain.
The Doc part doesn’t ring a bell.
But Mansfield?
The only Mansfield I know is Alec—a guy who, years ago, tore out my heart and used it for target practice … amongst other things.
I refuse to believe I could’ve matched with him. We aren’t even oil and water. He’s some toxic chemical that will burn your skin right off your bones.
Thumbing to his profile to investigate, I find a photo of a guy lying back on what looks like a neon yellow surfboard, staring up at the sun, his rippled abs glistening like he just slathered them in tanning oil.
I vaguely recall swiping right on him, but only because he was undeniably hot and I was on my third glass of vino.
I swipe to the next photo and zoom in, noting his barely-there five o’clock shadow, polished aviator sunglasses, and disarming smile. That and his backwards Yankees ball cap.
I’ve always been a sucker for a hot guy in a backwards hat.
No wonder I swiped on him.
I flick to the next image—an upper body shot. Shirtless, of course. His cheeks are more chiseled in this one, and his muscled shoulders veer into corded steel biceps and finish with bulging veins that snake up his forearms. There’s a hint of a tattoo, peeking up from the collar of his t-shirt. Though it was a little blurry, it showed promise. Plus, I must’ve seen the Doc in his handle and my brain prematurely went, “Oooh, Grey’s Anatomy in real life” before I read the rest of it.
Shit.
I swiped right on Alec Mansfield.
There’s no way he’s a medical doctor though …
Medical doctors save lives and help people, and Alex doesn’t have a obliging bone in his body unless you’re in desperate need of an orgasm and then he’s your man—or so I was told back in the day.
I refuse to believe someone so merciless and cruel grew up to be the kind of person people respect and admire.
I mean, people change all the time … but Alec?!
Sure, he had the smarts for it.
The drive.
The pushy parents.
The abundance of Mansfield money to pay his way through med school.
But with all the hating I’d done on him before and after he moved away, I’d hoped karma would’ve smiled on me and bit him in the ass by now. In my mind, he was bald, sporting an extra fifty pounds, and working on his fourth marriage, living the kind of life no amount of spit could shine into something impressive.
The bartender pushes a fresh pitcher of margaritas over to me. I lay the cash on the bar, all the while contemplating what would be a good response.
Go to hell?
Screw you?
Die, loser?
But alas, I’m a public relations guru by trade and uncouth is not my style. Once the words are written and sent, you can never take them back and screenshots are forever, so I’ve always been extra careful.
The best response would be none at all.
The first rule in public relations is if you ignore a problem, nine times out of ten, it eventually goes away.
But I’m not sure how or even if that translates to … this.
My chest constricts as I pick up the pitcher, silently chastising myself for the hold my dickhead childhood crush still has over me.
Not only that, but now he probably thinks I still like him.
When I slide into the booth, the girls are talking about some trashy Netflix reality dating show, which apparently, is all Mad’s life is about these days—when she isn’t hooking up with Joe. I’m so in my own head that I’m not paying attention as I open my phone and type a response. While I should leave him on read, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t the tiniest bit curious about what became of my childhood nemesis.
Shutton07: I wish I didn’t. What do you want?
The moment I hit “send”, Mad reaches over the table and grabs the phone from my hand.
“Um, who’s that?” She gawks at the photo, her jaw slack and her eyes as round as saucers. “You matched with him?”
She passes the phone around so everyone can see, and each reaction is some version of the same thing—oohs, aahs, gaping mouths, glimmers of excitement in their eyes. If Alec were here to see this, his head would swell so big he wouldn’t be able to fit it through the door.
“Okay, Stas. You have to go on a date with him.” Tenley grabs onto my arm and shakes it like her life depends on me completing this mission. She reads from his profile. “Listen to this. File me somewhere between McDreamy and Pepper. He’s funny. You know, humor is a sign of intelligence.”
Mad frowns. “I don’t get it.”
“He’s a doctor.” Tenley’s gushing. “Like Dr. McDreamy and Dr. Pepper. Get it?”
“Don’t you recognize him?” I ask.
She inspects the image on my screen closer. “Did we go to high school with him? He kinda looks familiar.”
“Alec Mansfield,” I blurt out his name in one annoyed breath.
Tenley claps her hand over her mouth, passing the phone to Campbell, who appears equally as stunned.
