Proposing to Preston: The Winslow Brothers #2 (The Blueberry Lane Series Book 8) (18 page)

“Did you love me?” he demanded, the words just as surprising to him as they appeared to be to her.

“Completely,” she said, her voice thready with emotion. “But it wasn’t just about love. It was about our lives, my career, your career. I didn’t know how to weave the two together. I didn’t know how to share my life with someone, how to give up the control I’d fought for. And Pres, when you came out to see me in L.A., I was still
exactly
where I’d been when I left you in New York.
Still
confused
. Still
frightened by us.
Still
running.”

He flinched when she mentioned L.A., and felt his face harden. “Do you
remember
what you said to me?”

“I’m so sorr—”

“Do. You.
Remember
?”

She spoke slowly, tears streaming down her face as she recited the same words she’d said then, owning them all over again, but with regret instead of anger this time. “You’re making me un-unhappy. I can’t be your wife. I don’t ch-choose you. This is my life, and you’re not a part of it.”

She finished in a whisper and Preston realized he’d been holding his breath as he listened, waiting for something—anything—to soften the pain of hearing them again, but the only thing he had ever wanted was her, and the papers between them proved she didn’t want him.

Finally he dropped her eyes. He couldn’t bear it. He couldn’t stand to rehash the most painful days of his life in the name of granting her peace and forgiveness.

“Sign them,” he whispered, pushing the papers toward her.

“Forgive me,” she begged him, her voice strangled.

He looked up at her, at her beloved face slick with tears.

“I can’t.”

She stared at him for a long time, her eyes soft and sad, beseeching him, then dropping to her lap.

“I understand,” she murmured.

“You need to go,” he said. “Please, Elise, just…go.”

Without another word, she stood up, walked to his office door, opened it, walked through it, and closed it behind her.

Just because you ask for forgiveness doesn’t mean you’re going to get it.

She heard her mother’s voice in her head as clear as day: short on comfort and long on common sense. And really, it wasn’t that Elise had
expected
him to forgive her, but she’d certainly hoped, and she couldn’t deny it hurt her that he wasn’t able to.

It had been three days since she went to see Preston at his office. Three days wondering if she’d hear from him again, or if he’d send her the divorce papers via courier and be done with it.  Well, he could try that, but she still wouldn’t sign them. He was rude and belligerent to her on two separate occasions, kicking her out of his home the first time and out of his office the second. And yes, there was
Beth
, and yes, Elise’s hopes of them getting back together were dwindling, but right now, for this moment, he still belonged to
her
. He was still
her
husband, and until they had a chance to talk—
really talk
—she wasn’t signing anything, and too bad if he didn’t like it.

Curled up on a loveseat in the front parlor of Chateau Nouvelle, Elise dropped her glance back down to the script on her lap. She had seven more days to learn the lines, but her heart wasn’t into the part of Tracy Samantha Lord, divorcée and second-time bride. A divorcée was just about the toughest role she could imagine for herself right now, and she sipped her late-afternoon tea with annoyance before setting it back down and looking at the scene she’d been reading. Giving up on it, she flipped to the back of the screenplay instead, reading the lines she’d already solidly memorized: the scene where Tracy and her ex-husband, Dexter, get back together.

“What am I going to do? I’ll be the laughingstock of Haverford!” she said aloud, then read to herself:

DEXTER: Tell them the wedding’s been canceled. Tell them it’ll be rescheduled sometime soon. Very soon.

Elise gasped. “I can’t. I…I
can’t
. It’s a lie. I’m not marrying George.”

DEXTER: Don’t you trust me?”

“I do, Dex, but…”

DEXTER: Say “I do” again, Sam.

“I do,” she murmured, her voice thick with wonder and gradual understanding.

THEY KISS.

DEXTER (shrugs): I will if you will.

“I will.” She sighed, tears jumping into her eyes.

The ringing of the doorbell startled Elise, and she was so into the scene, it took her a moment to return to reality. Listening for Marie’s footsteps from the kitchen, Elise waited for the Rousseau’s housekeeper to answer the door, but all she heard was silence…and the doorbell rang again. Perhaps Marie had stepped out.

Placing her script on the couch, Elise headed for the door and opened it, gasping in surprise to find Preston Winslow standing on the Rousseau’s front steps.

“Hi,” she said, her face breaking into a beaming smile.

“Hi,” he replied, his face annoyed.

She couldn’t help letting her eyes roam over him—over his crisp blue and white striped shirt, silver cufflinks and gray suit pants. Slowly she let her eyes travel back up his abs, his chest, his neck, finally landing and lingering on his lips for a long moment.

“It’s good to see you,” she finally said, raising her eyes to his. The heat she found there was unmistakable; he’d watched her slowly peruse his body and apparently wasn’t entirely immune to her attention.

“You forgot to sign these,” he said, thrusting a manila folder at her.

“Ah,” she hummed, as her smile faded. She turned and walked back into the house…hopefully leaving him no choice but to follow her. “Close the door, please. They keep it air-conditioned.”

She heard the door close and click shut behind her and smiled to herself, heading back into the front parlor and resuming her spot on the loveseat.

He stood in the doorway of the room looking uncomfortable. “Can we
not
draw this out any longer, please?”

She looked up at him with wide eyes, an idea taking shape in her head. “Oh, I
am
sorry, but you caught
me
in the middle of something this time.” She waggled her script at him. “Learning my lines.”

“Take a break.”

“Can’t,” she said with a sweet smile, then looked back down at her script serenely as her heart pounded a mile a minute. “Have to learn them.”

“So what am I supposed to do? Wait here for you to finish?”

“If you like,” she said lightly. “Or I suppose you could help me run them…if you wanted me to hurry up.”

“I don’t have time for games, Elise.”

“Do you have somewhere else you need to be?”

Thoughts of
Beth
swirled around in her head, and it took all of her strength not to ask about the woman who’d been handling her husband with way too much familiarity for Elise’s comfort.

“Yeah. I have plans.”

“Now?”

“In an hour.”

She shrugged, feeling relieved (that he had an hour) and upset (that he was probably going out with
Beth
) at the same time. Refusing to let either emotion show, she turned the page of her script and quipped, “Then I guess I have about fifty-five minutes, huh?”

He huffed in annoyance, placing the file on a table by the room entrance and walking over to her. “Fine. I’ll run your goddamn lines with you.”

“Great,” she said, standing and handing him the script. “You’re Dexter. I’m Tracy.”

“What is this?”

“
The Philly Story
. It’s based on
The
—”

“
Philadelphia Story
,” he finished, a very slight grin turning up his lips. “Dexter and Tracy. Sure. I love that movie.”

“Me too,” she said, smoothing out her pink T-shirt over her black cotton shorts.

“Where do you want to start?” he asked.

Her cheeks flushed with anticipation. “Top of the page.”

He glanced down at the script. “Fine. Go.”

Tracy Lord. Tracy Lord. Tracy Lord.

She stepped toward him.

“What am I going to do? Oh, God, I’ll be the laughingstock of Haverford!”

Preston looked up at her.

“Tell them the wedding’s been canceled. Tell them it’ll be rescheduled sometime soon. Very soon.”

“I can’t,” she said, worrying her hands together. “I…I
can’t
. It’s a lie. I’m not marrying George.”

“Don’t you trust me?” he asked her, his green eyes searing as they captured hers.

She took another step closer to him. “I do, Dex, but…”

Preston searched her eyes desperately.

“Say ‘I do’ again, Sam,” he whispered.

“I do,” she murmured.

Preston’s eyes dropped to the script, then lifted quickly. She heard his sharp intake of breath as he read the direction to kiss her, then felt the heat of his eyes linger on her lips before he raised his gaze. Suddenly he flinched, thrusting the script at her. “I can’t do this.”

She stared at him, unmoving, daring him to kiss her or smack her or grab her or anything—
anything
—to let her know that he still felt something for her, that there was still a chance for them. His eyes were distraught as they searched hers, furious then tender, confused and uncertain, and she stayed rooted where she was, refusing to take the script back.

“Damn it, Elise!” he yelled, letting go of the script and turning on his heel.

As the book fell to her feet, she heard the front door open and slam shut. She didn’t think. For the first time in the history of their relationship,
she
ran after
him
.

***

“Wait! Stop, Pres! Wait!”

He heard her calling after him, which only made him walk faster. He sped across the gravel driveway, over the green grass, closer and closer to the little white gate that separated Chateau Nouvelle from Westerly.

“Don’t run away!”

“Yeah, sorry!” he yelled over his shoulder. “That’s
your
move!”

Reaching the gate, he threw it open and strode through without bothering to re-latch it.

“Talk to me!” she demanded from behind him.

He looked back at her red face, her hair escaping its bun, her little hands clasped into tight fists at her sides, her pink T-shirt and simple black short-shorts. And damn it, she looked just as gorgeous as ever.

“About
what
, Elise?” he asked, turning back around to stride through Westerly’s gardens on his way back to the house. “What the hell do we have to talk about?”

“Us!”

He turned to face her and found her standing about ten feet behind him with her hands outstretched and fingers splayed open. Stalking back toward her, he felt a bit of satisfaction as she backed up three paces, looking at him with wide eyes.

“What
us
?” he spat. “There IS. NO.
US
!”

“There could be!”

“What the
fuck
are you talking about?”

She made a sound—a frustrated sound like a sob or a whimper—as she put her hands on her hips and searched his face with bright blue, fiery eyes.

“First I need to know…are you an ‘us’ with
Beth
?”

“What?”

He was having trouble keeping up with whatever the hell was going on here.
You and me…Us…There could be…Beth…
What was she saying? What was she trying
to say? And what the hell did Beth have to do with it?

“
Beth
! Perfect
Beth
from Saturday! Are you an ‘us’ with her?”

“An ‘us?’”

“Are you
with
her?”

“Why do you give a shit?” he yelled, looking down at her face, unable to ignore the intense heaving of her breasts under her T-shirt. His eyes slid from her chest to her face, which was even redder than before. “What the
fuck
do you want from me, Elise?”

She swallowed, wincing. “Are you with
Beth
?”

“No!” he roared.

Her eyes closed and she sighed. “Oh.” She dropped her chin to her chest as her shoulders slumped with… what? Relief? She was
relieved
that he wasn’t with Beth? Why would she…? What was—

“Thank God,” she whispered.

When she opened her eyes, he was still staring down at her and he searched her gaze, finding it tender and soft, relieved beyond measure.

“Elise…” he said, feeling vulnerable and confused and immensely stupid for caring, but he couldn’t help asking, “What did you mean by…
There could be
?”

Her eyes flooded with tears and she opened her mouth to say something, but the words seemed to get stuck. Her tongue darted out to lick her lips, and it drew his eyes like a beacon, tightening his body with need and making him take one step closer to her, completely closing the distance between them. She inhaled raggedly and her chest pushed into his, her breasts crushed against him as they’d been so many times before. He swam in her glassy eyes, searching them wildly, loving her, hating her, desperately hopeful for something he couldn’t bear to even put his finger on.

His breath caught as she reached up, placing her palms on his cheeks, her thumb gently stroking his stubbled skin as she pulled him down to her and—

A loud guitar riff broke into the moment, making them both jump. She gasped, smiling up at him nervously.

“My phone,” she said.

The Elise he knew would drop her hands now and reach for the phone, because nothing—certainly not Preston—was as important as her next big role.

“Aren’t you going to get it?” he asked, remaining completely still as she held his face.

“No.”

“Why not?”

She didn’t answer.

The guitar riff played loudly twice more, and they waited it out, staring at each other intently. Finally it was quiet.

“Where were we?” he asked.

“There
could
be,” she reminded him.

“How?” he asked.

She gulped softly. “Well, I—”

The guitar riff broke into the intimacy of their conversation again and Preston stepped away from her, leaving her hands suspended in mid-air.

“As much as I want to know where this is going, you either need to turn off your phone or answer it.”

Clicking her tongue, she reached into her back pocket and pulled it out, glancing at the screen. Her face, which was annoyed and dismissive, changed instantly. Her lips slackened. Her eyebrows furrowed. The guitar riff sounded again.