The Redo (Winslow Brothers #4)
Max Monroe
The Redo is a full-length romantic comedy stand-alone novel in the Winslow Brothers Collection. This book is full of fun-loving laughs, but it’s also got loads of heart and steam.
Fun fact: This is one of our longest books to date! As the final book in the Winslow Brothers Collection, it took a lot of words to say all the things we needed to say. But we feel strongly about each and every one of those words, and we can’t wait for you to experience it.
Sit back, buckle up, and get ready for The Redo to take you on a ride worthy of Universal Studios.
Also, due to the hilarious and addictive nature of this book’s content, the following things are not recommended: reading in public places, reading in bed next to a light-sleeping spouse and/or pet and/or child, reading on a date, reading on your wedding day, reading during the birth of your child, reading while eating and/or drinking, reading at work, reading this book to your boss, and/or reading while operating heavy machinery. Also, if suffering from bladder incontinence due to age/pregnancy/childbirth/etc., we recommend wearing sanitary products and/or reading while sitting directly on a toilet. It might seem like a long list of places not to read, but we assure you, if you do it in the right setting, it’ll be worth it.
Happy Reading!
All our love,
Max & Monroe
To July 17th—a date we’ve become so irrationally obsessed with, we made our release on a Sunday instead of a Saturday, just to use it: Thanks for being weird with us.
To Paper Mate felt pens: Thanks for bankrupting us with the lure of your pretty colors.
To blue-light glasses: Thanks for hiding the dark circles under our eyes while we were on this deadline.
To Remy, Flynn, Jude, and Ty: You guys are bastards. But we love you.
To our Readers: Thank you for reading.
Remy
It’s official. I’m not losing my mind; the fucker is already gone—hydrated, packed, and halfway across the universe on its journey to another dimension.
I stare up at a big neon sign. It blinks obnoxiously with the words “Fortune Teller,” and it takes everything inside me to keep the pucker out of my asshole.
A year ago, I stood in this very spot, my three brothers dragging me here after we’d hit up a strip club and eaten Taco fucking Bell. Jude had said it was something fun to do as part of my big bachelor party bash, and I was just a blissfully happy, completely na?ve bastard who had no idea his life was about to be flipped upside down. At twenty-nine years old and only a week away from getting married, I was ready to settle down and commit myself to Charlotte for the rest of my life.
I thought I had the world by the ass. Hell, I thought I’d won the game of life.
But I was wrong. I didn’t know shit.
Apparently, though, she knew. She knew all of it.
Now, I’m thirty, and as is evidenced by the fact that I’m back here again, I’m still a dumb fuck.
I shake my head and look at the sign again, this time noting the small wooden plaque that sits below the neon letters and reads Miss Cleo’s Prophecies.
Am I really doing this? Have I really been reduced to a man who seeks out a fortune-teller because she just so happened to predict the demise of his relationship?
At this stage in my pathetic existence, what do I have to lose?
You already lost the girl. Why not lose your sanity too?
On a sigh, I reach out and grip the door handle, swinging it open on a whoosh of air that blows across my face. The familiar smell of incense and stale dust assaults my nostrils.
Moody, dramatic lighting still makes it difficult to see all the knickknacks lining the walls, and those ancient-looking burgundy curtains are still here, tied back by gold-tinted ropes.
The place hasn’t changed a lick.
I blink several times, urging my vision to adjust to the low light, but before it can, a female voice fills my ears from somewhere behind a closed curtain on the opposite end of the room.
“Remington Winslow. I knew you’d come back.”
Instantly, I’m on edge. Creeped out. No way this woman should know my name without seeing my face and, beyond that, recognize me this quickly after a year of time has passed.
I look around the room, seeking out the security cameras that must be hidden somewhere with fucking facial recognition. The corners of the ceiling are empty, and I don’t see any of those beady little boob cams anywhere either. They must be outside the entrance door.
Silent, I stand there, rooted to my spot in the center of the room and wait for the woman of the hour to show her face. I refuse to move deeper into her lair without locking her in my sights first. Of course, she takes her sweet-ass time, the lingering faux-loneliness of my wait putting me even more on edge until she finally appears.
The curl of her red-tipped finger is the first of her I see, followed quickly by the twinkle of her bright-green eyes as they meet mine. A hint of an annoying-as-fuck smile crests one corner of her mouth.
Yep, she’s the same know-it-all, pain in the ass too. Her dark hair is pulled back beneath the same velvet hood, and her mysteriously youthful skin still doesn’t match her age. If anything, she looks younger than she did a year ago.
I don’t know whether it’s plastic surgery or fortune-teller voodoo, but I know she’s at least a decade older than she looks. I don’t know how I know that, but I do, and that’s probably her fault too.