Proposing to Preston: The Winslow Brothers #2 (The Blueberry Lane Series Book 8) (4 page)

That made her smile, and she stole a peek at him, noting a small dimple in the cheek closest to her. It made her breath catch and her heart hugged itself like it had just learned a new secret about something completely wonderful.

“What kind of law will you practice?”

“Sports. Well, sports
and
entertainment, technically,” he answered. “I was—I mean, I used to row at school, in college. I loved it. But…”

“But?”

“I tore my rotator cuff,” he said, a slight bitterness entering his voice. “I had surgery to repair it, but the damage was too extensive. I had to give it up.” He paused, giving her a sly look. “The rowing, not the shoulder.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I was, too.”

“It was important to you.”

He nodded. “Very. I was on the national team, a few months out from the Olympic trials. Yeah, it sucked.”

Her eyes widened. Rowing hadn’t just been a hobby or pastime for him, but a passion, a huge commitment, a lifestyle…like the stage was for her. And he’d had to give it up? She didn’t know how she’d survive giving up something she loved as much as acting. Her sympathy for him was sudden and enormous.

“Wow. I…Wow. I don’t know what to say.”

“I was pissed for a while, you know? It was a real blow to be sidelined so close to making the Games, and I guess it didn’t help that my brother’s an Olympic sailor. He made it all the way and I couldn’t.”

“You couldn’t help it that you got injured,” she pointed out.

“I could’ve. I was training too hard. I wasn’t allowing my muscles time to repair themselves.”

“You were pushing yourself to be the best. I get that.”

“You do, don’t you?” he said, with a bit of wonder.

She nodded. “Acting’s my whole life.”

“And with tonight’s big break,” he said, “you’re about to explode.”

She chuckled. “Don’t jinx me!”

“I don’t believe in the jinx,” he said. “I believe in hard work, in setting goals, and seeing them through. You’re the only one who can make your dreams come true.”

Elise sighed beside him, her heart fluttering as she absorbed the simple beauty of his words.
You’re the only one who can make your dreams come true.

“I love that,” she said softly, goosebumps covering her arm as it brushed against his.

It was much warmer than last night and Mr. Winslow had rolled up his long sleeves to the middle of his forearm. She looked down at the sinew of muscle, likely leftover from his rowing days. He had thick, strong arms. They’d feel like heaven wrapped around her.

“So, how did law school figure into your plan?” she asked, anxious to distract herself from the nearness of him, the strange intimacy of walking side by side with him.

“I’d planned to go to law school after the Olympics. You know, win the gold, become a sports lawyer. Make millions. Rinse, repeat.”

“Marketing via Olympics.”

“Exactly.” He sighed. “But there was no Olympics, and no gold. Just me, a washed up rower who can’t row anymore.”

Elise reached for his arm and stopped walking, the pressure of her fingers halting him mid-stride as he looked down at his arm and then into her eyes.

“You’re much more than that. With drive like yours? I bet you’ll be the best sports lawyer New York and Philadelphia have ever seen. You’re not a washed-up anything. Know what I think? I think you’re on the verge of greatness too.”

***

Preston had meant the words “washed up” lightly, jokingly almost, except that when he talked about his failed bid for the 2008 Olympics, it felt like yesterday, not five years ago, and he couldn’t help the bitterness that still slipped into his voice.

It had been a brutal blow to find out that he couldn’t row competitively anymore. Not only had he wanted to follow in his older brother, Brooks’ footsteps, he’d found his identity in rowing. His father, the late Taylor Winslow, had crewed in college, and Preston had felt a kinship to his father when he was out on the water, sliding down a glassy river. Losing his chance at the Olympics had been like losing his dad all over again. And though his acceptance to Columbia law school had been fast-tracked and he’d graduated Cum Laude a cool three years later, it hadn’t erased the goals he’d worked so hard to achieve, and it didn’t relieve the sting of disappointed dreams either.

But looking down at Elise’s hand on his arm, their first skin-to-skin contact, he couldn’t find any bitterness in his heart. He felt nothing but gratitude for her kindness, his heart thundering its approval for her solidarity and hope, and for the soft, warm touch of her fingers on his skin.

He looked down at her upturned face, his blood racing through his body, pounding between his ears.

“You’re stunning,” he whispered.

She’d been frowning with indignation at his self-deprecation, but softened immediately, her eyes widening and her lips tilting up into a sweet smile.

“Thank you.”

She looked down at her hand, and he felt the slight pressure of her fingers squeezing before she pulled it away. And he was left. Missing her.

Glancing up, he realized she’d stopped them beside a deli. “Wait here a second, okay? Don’t go anywhere!”

He rushed into the deli, choosing a large bouquet of light pink roses and placing a twenty dollar bill on the counter before rushing back outside. Elise stood where he’d left her on the sidewalk, her eyes expectant. He pulled the flowers from behind his back and offered them to her with a grin.

“You said no to champagne and coffee. But you
can’t
say no to flowers.”

“No,” she said, her smile faltering as her lips parted and she reached for the blooms. “I can’t. They’re so lovely.”

She raised the bouquet to her nose, eyes closing as she inhaled deeply and sighed. When she opened her eyes, they were sparkling as they had when Donny Durran handed her his business card, and Preston felt his chest swell with satisfaction and longing. Such a simple gesture, but it had made her so happy, and suddenly her happiness was like a drug, and Preston wanted more.

“Thank you,” she murmured, that sweet smile fixed on her lips.

Kiss her.

The words repeated in his head on a loop, blocking out all other thoughts, all other sounds and smells and ideas and common sense. Her face was upturned, her full, pink lips slightly parted. They’d be warm and soft beneath his, and his breath hitched with yearning. Taking a step toward her, he dropped his eyes to her lips, staring at them, longing for a taste of them. He was just about to bend his head to hers when—

“Ah-hem. Sir? Your change?”

“Huh?”

“You ran out without your change.”

Preston whipped his eyes to the side, and found the shop owner in a white apron, holding out a dollar bill and a few coins.

“Oh. Yes. Of course, how…how good of you. Thanks.”

He accepted the change, and Elise stepped away from him, pointing her body north again, away from him, and Preston sighed internally, simultaneously frustrated and relieved. Frustrated, because he couldn’t remember the last time he’d wanted to kiss a girl so badly. Relieved because for all he knew, she would have smacked his face and run away if he’d taken such a liberty after knowing her for less than an hour.

They started walking again, their pace slower than before as Elise admired her flowers.

“This was really sweet of you.”

“Well, you deserve a little celebration,” he said. “You must be excited for Tuesday.”

“I’m over the moon,” she said. Then, with a full, delighted voice, “You know what? I’m gobsmacked!”

“Well, there’s a good British word,” he said with an English accent. His mother was from London originally, so he’d spent an enormous amount of time there whilst growing up.

“Wow! That’s a really authentic accent!” she exclaimed. “It’s hard to get it that good!”

“My mum is British.”

“Is it just you and her?” asked Elise.

“Nope. Me, and her, and my four siblings.”

“Four!”

“Three brothers and a little sister. You?”

“Big family, too. Four sisters, and I’m the baby.”

“Like Jessica,” he said, thinking of his little sister, who was in college in London. He hadn’t seen her in months, and reminded himself to call her.

“Jessica’s your sister, I assume?”

“Mm-hm. Brooks is the eldest, then me, then Cameron, then Christopher, then Jessica. She’s in London with my mum right now. She’s studying modern art.”

“I approve,” said Elise with an efficient nod. “I love modern art. And your dad?”

“Passed on.”

“I’m sorry.”

He shrugged because he didn’t want to talk about it. “It was a long time ago.”

“Still…”

“And you?” he asked, changing the subject back to her. “One of four sisters!”

“Abigail, Caitlyn, Lillian, and Elise.”

“Little Elise who had big dreams,” he said, nudging her gently with his elbow.

She nudged him back. “Little Elise, who, like little Preston, believed in making her dreams come true.”

“And now look at you! Here you are,” he said, gesturing with wide arms to Manhattan. “On the eve of your triumph!”

“Shhhh!” she hushed him dramatically. “The jinx!”

He lifted an index finger to his lips, trying not to smile.

Shaking her head at him with glee, she stopped walking in the middle of a tree-lined street, leaning against the trunk of a tree across from a brownstone apartment building.

“
Ethan Frome
,” she said with longing, holding the flowers to her chest and closing her eyes dramatically as she let the back of her head rest against the smooth bark of the tree. “Can you imagine?”

“I can. And I’ll buy the first ticket on your opening night.”

“Promise?” she asked, peeking at him through one eye.

“I do,” he answered solemnly.

Her other eye opened and she lowered her chin, staring back at him intently, the way he might look at something he wanted, but couldn’t have. Her voice was soft and wistful when she said, “Well, I guess I’ll see you then.”

“Then?”

“On opening night, I mean.” She gestured to the stoop across the street from her tree. “This is me. Home. My apartment building.”

“Oh.” Preston looked up at the shabby, nondescript brownstone painted a dull, peeling goldish color. He felt sorry—
incredibly
sorry—to have to say goodbye to her. He wasn’t ready to watch her walk away.

“Thank you again for the flowers,” she said stepping away from the tree.

“Of course, but, I—”

“And thank you for walking me home.”

“It’s my pleasure. I’d like…I mean, Elise, wait—”

***

“Mr. Winslow,” she interrupted, turning to face him from the bottom step. She swallowed over the sudden and unexpected lump in her throat, and ignored the painful squeeze of her heart. “I have to get ready for the biggest audition of my life in three days…and you have two bar exams to study for. The timing’s just…”

“…shit,” he finished softly.

She nodded. “I was going to say ‘not good,’ but ‘shit’ works too.”

“So this is goodbye,” he said.

“I think it needs to be,” she said regretfully, hoping she wasn’t making the biggest mistake of her life.

He ran a hand through his dark hair, palming the back of his neck as he stared at her, and she somehow knew that his brain was trying to figure out an alternate solution. When he dropped his hand listlessly to his side and sighed, she knew he’d been unsuccessful.

“It was lovely to meet you, Elise Klassan.”

“The pleasure was all mine, Preston Winslow.”

He held out his hand, and she braced herself before clasping it. She knew her palm would fit against his like their hands had been made to hold one another, and she knew it would weaken her resolve to say goodbye. She reached forward and his hand met hers, joined with hers, melted into hers, warm and strong, pumping gently before letting go too soon.

“Until we meet again,” he said, his intense green eyes seizing hers for a long moment before he turned quickly on his heel and walked away.

Elise watched him until she couldn’t see him anymore, and only when he was finally out of sight did she realize they never actually said goodbye.

Preston walked the remaining thirty blocks to his apartment feeling a little dazed and not at all himself. He’d just found and lost the most amazing girl in the world, all within the course of an hour.

He’d never felt this way before, never experienced this painful pull in his heart to return to the place he’d left her and throw pebbles at her window until she came back downstairs. Preston had believed himself a pretty smooth operator before tonight, but he’d been leveled by a farm girl from upstate New York. How had it happened? And why?

She was beautiful, yes. But after walking with her and talking with her, he was fairly certain that her beauty was enhanced by something inside of her. It made her eyes shine and softened her face, it sweetened her smile and made her words sincere. There was an authenticity about her, a purity that appealed to him. She wasn’t over-eager or grabby with him. If anything, she was more reserved than most of the women he knew, which made him long for the thrill of chasing her, deserving her, belonging to her. It was completely absurd after an acquaintance of sixty minutes, but he couldn’t help it and he wondered…

Can your whole life change in sixty minutes? Can you say goodbye forever to someone wonderful just because the timing’s bad? Can your head force your heart to move on when it clamors for more wet-sidewalk, misty evening, one-foot-in-front-of-the-other magic?

It was times like these that Preston sorely wished his mother lived in the States and not London, where it was three o’clock in the morning. Or—if he was truly honest with himself—it was times like these that Preston longed desperately for his father: a man who had deeply loved a woman. A man who’d listen and give him advice and wouldn’t make fun of his sudden and intense feelings.

But his mother was in London. And his father was long gone. Brooks, his oldest brother, was in South Africa training the national team for their first bid as the America’s Cup challenger, not that he would have been much help. His nomad ways hadn’t left much room for a girlfriend over the past few years. That left Cameron, who was hot-headed and apt to piss off Preston more than help him, Jessica, who was just a kid, or Christopher, who was Preston’s youngest brother, but also the most sensitive of the bunch.

He fished his phone out of his pocket and dialed Christopher’s number.

“Pres?”

“Yeah.”

“Hey, man…what’s going on? It’s, uh, after eleven.”

“On a Saturday. Don’t tell me you were sleeping.”

“Nope. Definitely not sleeping.”

Preston winced.
Shit.
“Forget it. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“No, no, no. Hold on.” Chris asked someone to “give him a few minutes,” and though Preston couldn’t make out her muffled reply, he could tell she wasn’t happy. A few seconds later, Chris was back on the line. “Okay, well, that’s that. Tell me what’s going on with you?”

“You’ve got company.”

“
Had
company.”

Chris lived in D.C., an intern for the junior senator from Pennsylvania, and from the stories Chris told, the female pool of Capitol Hill staffers was not immune to his boyish good looks.

“Oh, crap. I’m sorry, Chris.”

“I’m not. She was cute, but
really
conservative. It was going to be a long night of rhetoric. Now I have plenty of time to catch up with my brother.”

“She
left
?” Preston shook his head. He’d totally just cockblocked his little brother from getting into some Republican panties. “Go after her. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Forget it. She’s already gone. What’s on your mind? How’s your internship going?”

Preston worked twenty-five hours a week for one of the hottest sports lawyers in New York, an arrangement his father would have approved of. He was hoping to get a job at the same firm once he passed the bar.

“Good. But that’s not why I’m calling.”

“What’s her name?” asked Chris after a short pause.

And
this
was why Preston had chosen to call Chris. Because he was as perceptive as a summer day was long.

“Elise.”

“What does she do?”

“She’s an actress.”

Chris whistled low. “Damn, but you’ve always aimed high.”

“An off-off-Broadway actress.”

“Huh. Okay. Wasn’t expecting that.”

“Tell me about it. Nor was I.”

“So, what’s the deal?”

Preston told Chris all about going to the play with Beth last night, how he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Elise all day, how he’d finally gone back to the play and gotten an unexpected chance to meet her. His voice slowed down, mellowing a little as he recounted their walk to her apartment building. He told Chris how she’d grown up on a farm, how she came from a big family like theirs, how he’d blurted out his whole sad story about the Olympics, which he rarely shared. How she’d placed her hand on his arm and tried to comfort him. How she’d all but insisted they say goodbye.

He sighed as he approached his tony doorman-building on Sixty-first and Fifth that faced Central Park. From his one-bedroom apartment on the eighteenth floor, he had an incredible view of the Pond and the Zoo, and was able to take a four mile jog every morning simply by crossing the street.

But he wasn’t quite ready to go home yet, so he crossed the street and sat down on one of the many benches positioned under the ancient stone wall that bordered the park. Resting his elbows on his knees, he leaned his head forward.

“I didn’t want to say goodbye. I wanted to see her again.”

“You barely know her, Pres. Maybe she’s got a boyfriend. Maybe she’s…I don’t know, not interested in guys.”

“Thanks.”

“No. I’m just saying…aren’t you a little attached for only meeting this girl a couple of hours ago?”

“I can’t help it,” he muttered, sitting back on the bench and looking at the couples passing by. Salt in the wound. “There was something about her. Something different. I really liked her.”

“Okay…” sighed Chris. “Then, against my better judgement, I’m thinking that you probably shouldn’t give up.”

“Oh, that’s really helpful, Chris. She said goodbye. She said the timing was terrible. She wasn’t at all ambiguous.”

“Yeah, I know. But tell me this…do you think she liked you?”

Preston thought about her sparkling blue eyes when he gave her the flowers, the touch of her hand on his arm…but ultimately, she’d let him go. Did she like him? The honest answer was that he wasn’t sure. “I don’t know.”

“Oh, man!” exclaimed Chris. “That’s it!”

“What’s it?”

“You don’t know if she likes you or not, and you can’t stand it.”

“That’s
not
it. I really—”

“—liked her. Yeah. I know. But this has got to be the first time in your life a woman isn’t throwing herself all over you. It’s got to be…intriguing.”

Intriguing. The exact word he’d used with Elise.

“It is,” he confessed. “It’s a little maddening.”

“And she’s hot.”

Preston shrugged. “Not like a bikini model hot. She’s classy, smart. And yeah, she’s gorgeous, but she’s sweet, too.”

“Cute and beautiful,” said Chris reverently. “A Winslow brother favorite.”

Preston nodded. Damn, this sucked.

Chris took a deep breath, sighing long and hard. “Well, my brother, if she’s worth it, I think you already know what you have to do.”

Preston heard the take-no-prisoners lilt in his brother’s voice and he grinned. “All out?”

“All the stops. All out.” He could see Christopher nodding sagely in his lonely D.C. apartment. “A hundred percent.”

***

Elise couldn’t help comparing Sunday afternoon’s performance to yesterday evening’s. And she had to confess: her heart hadn’t been in it today. Not that it mattered since a good quarter of the sixty or so audience members had used the two-hour matinee to catch up on their senior citizen beauty rest. But, still…Elise had integrity, even when it came to
She Loves Me Not
, and today was far from her best performance.

She’d worked a half brunch-shift at Vic’s from eight in the morning until twelve-thirty, distracted and dreamy, going through the motions of work, but forgetting drink orders and extra baskets of biscuits. Her mind wandered in an endless loop to her walk home with Preston Winslow last night.

After she’d gotten up to her apartment, she’d placed his pink roses in a plastic cup of water and carried them to the floor beside the sofa bed so she could drift away to their scent. Sleep had been elusive as she relived their conversation—the way he’d put her at ease, the story of his failed Olympic bid, and the determination it must have taken for him to pick up the shattered pieces of his life and pursue a different path. The whole evening had been like a misty-magic dream sequence: the lovely flowers, his charming smile and wistful eyes as they said goodbye. The longer she dwelled on Preston Winslow, the more she wondered if she’d made a dreadful mistake. Couldn’t she have found a little space in her life for someone who seemed as wonderful as him?

“No,” she said to her half-made up, half-cleaned up reflection. “No, you couldn’t. You have until Tuesday afternoon to prepare for the biggest audition of your life. So, just stop it. No more Preston Winslow.”

She tore another makeup wipe from the package, scrubbing her lips and eyes clean, then changing into a calf-length denim skirt leftover from her high school wardrobe that had been patched so many times, it wasn’t even predominantly denim anymore. She slipped a modest black T-shirt over her head, pulled the pins out of her hair and twisted it into a bun. Plunging her hand into her backpack, she found her glasses and put them on, flicking off the dressing room lights and pulling the door closed behind her.

After a stop at the New York Public Library for a copy of the Acting Edition dramatization of
Ethan Frome
(she crossed her fingers it would still be in stock when she got there) she intended to spend the entire afternoon and evening sitting on her couch, reacquainting herself with the material, running lines and finding a way to bring Mattie Silver to life.

And she was determined not to let thoughts of Preston Winslow break her concentration.

Which is why it was very, very inconvenient to find him waiting outside the stage door for her, holding a picnic basket, and wearing a hopeful smile that just about broke her heart.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi,” she answered, her heart thundering with pleasure and relief to see him again so soon. The strength of her reaction made her breathless, made her knees weak, made her realize that—inconvenient or not—he was already under her skin much deeper than she’d suspected. “What are you doing here?”

He searched her eyes before speaking.

“It’s good to see you.”

And damn it, but she couldn’t help responding in kind. “You too.”

He cleared his throat.

“Elise, I know the timing is shit. I know that you’ve got an audition on Tuesday, and I should be at the library studying for the bar. And if you tell me to go away, I’ll go and I’ll never bother you again, I promise…but I can’t stop thinking about you. I tried. It’s useless. It’s finally stopped raining for the first day in ages and the sun’s warm and the sky’s clear. I have a very soft blanket and a bottle of wine and lots of food to keep you nourished. And I found this battered, old, first edition copy of
Ethan Frome
at Baumann Rare Books on Madison Ave, which is definitely not usually open on Sunday mornings, and I thought, or rather hoped, that you’d read it to me this afternoon and keep it for your trouble.” He paused, his eyes searching her face desperately, before whispering passionately, “
Please don’t say no
.”

“I don’t drink,” she said, her heart racing with excitement as she tried hard to reign in her runaway smile.

“I came prepared for that possibility,” he said, reaching into the basket and pulling out a green glass bottle of sparkling water.

Her defenses fell and she beamed at him, taking the red fabric-covered first edition of
Ethan Frome
from his fingers with care. “How did you get a first edition book from a store that’s closed on Sundays?”

“I tracked down the store owner at home and made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.”

“How industrious, Don Corleone. Did you break the law?”

Preston look affronted. “I’m a lawyer!”

“Ha!” she scoffed. “So was Tom Hagan. Lots of lawyers are crooks.”

“Not this one,” he said, grinning at her. “No Tom Hagan here. No laws broken. That book was purchased, paid for, and is all yours…on the condition that you’ll read it to me.”

“I can’t possibly…,” she started, teasing him with a long pause, “…say no.”

“Phew!” He exhaled dramatically, letting his shoulders relax. “I had no more tricks up my sleeve. It was this or…”

“Or what?” she asked as he hailed them a cab.

He glanced back at her. “Or spend my Sunday getting nothing done while I daydreamed about you.”