Proposing to Preston: The Winslow Brothers #2 (The Blueberry Lane Series Book 8) (6 page)

Hell, yes
, he answered himself resolutely.

Pushing open the glass doors, he took a deep breath of fresh air and stepped down the first set of marble stairs, under the high marble arches, making his way to the second set of stairs, which he stepped down quickly.

“Preston!”

He stopped in his tracks, his head whipping around, his eyes searching for her on the crowded steps. And then he saw her about ten feet away, sitting in a white skirt and gray shirt, her backpack beside her, her face golden from the light of the setting sun. And for a moment—for just a split second—he wondered if the sheer force of his longing was tricking him into believing that she was here. He squinted, taking a step toward her, finally blocking the sun as he stared down at her and she lowered her hand from over her eyes, locking her gaze with his.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” he answered, his heart hammering with happiness and relief as she smoothed her skirt and started to stand.

“No,” he said. “Don’t get up. I’ll sit.”

She settled back onto the marble step and he dropped his leather bag between them as a little wall, lest she worry he’d try to kiss her again. He didn’t want her to leave. Feeling almost as if these were borrowed moments, precious and rare, he didn’t want to do anything that might cut them short.

“So?” he asked, turning his face to hers once he was seated. “How’d it go?”

She smiled, then started laughing, and she looked so beautiful, his heart pounded and fluttered, making him breathless. She’d gotten the part, just like he’d known she would.

“You did it!” he exclaimed, beaming at her.

She nodded, looking up at him. “I did it.”

“They offered it to you on the spot?”

“Mm-hm,” she said, her grin splitting her face. She pushed her hair over her shoulder, and Preston’s fingers twitched, longing to feel the softness of it against his skin once again. “They said I was perfect. I guess I was the last audition of the day, so they could compare me to the rest of the actresses, and…”

“And you were the best.”

“The best for the part.” She shrugged. “I guess.”

“You guess,” he muttered, shaking his head at her modesty. “You got it, didn’t you?”

“I did. I’ll be Mattie Silver in
Ethan Frome
at Lincoln Center from June first to July thirtieth.”

“I’m happy for you, Elise,” he said, and he was, truly, but he was also confused by her sudden appearance. Twice now she’d told him to back off, and both times he’d lost concentration, lost focus, lost part of his sanity thinking about her. He didn’t know how many more times he could do this: put himself out there only to watch her walk away.

He glanced at her. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure,” she said softly, looking straight ahead.

“I’m just...You were pretty clear with me on Sunday night that—”

“I know. I insisted we say goodbye.” Her smile faded and she bent her head, scratching the back of her neck and peeking at him through long brown lashes. She sighed, and he noticed the slight tremor of her breath as she exhaled. “The truth?”

“Yeah. Please.”

“While I was auditioning, I couldn’t… I mean, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I’ve never had a muse, but…it was almost like you were there with me, Ethan to my Mattie.”

“Saddest story I ever read,” he said softly, wishing he could ease the fierce hammering of his heart as he processed her words.

“You finished it?”

“I had to find out what happened.” He paused, massaging his jaw with his thumb and forefinger. “Almost wish I hadn’t, though.”

“Because it was sad?”

“Because it made me miss you.”

She raised her eyes to his, and the nakedness he saw there, the truth born of struggle, took his breath away. He held her eyes, noticing her tongue dart out to lick her lips only peripherally, but his body tightened in response to the slight action.

“When I got the part,” she murmured, her blue eyes focused on his, “the only person I could think of…I just… the only person I wanted to tell…was you.”

His breath caught and he looked away from her to hide how much her words meant to him. He rested his hand on the top of his bag, his heart soaring when she took it, lacing her fingers through his.

“So I came here and made a deal with myself,” she continued. “I’d sit here and wait until closing, and if you walked down the steps, it meant…”

“What?”

“I don’t know. Maybe that I’m supposed to give this a chance.”

“This,” he whispered, holding his breath.

“You and me.”

His heart thundered with excitement, but common sense intervened, refusing to let him throw caution entirely to the wind. “But the timing’s still shit.”

“Yep,” she agreed. “I’m about to be in my first real show, and you’re taking the bar in a few weeks.”

Unwilling to drop her hand, he reached over his body with his free hand, pushing his bag down to the next step and sliding closer to her, because he couldn’t bear having her so far away anymore.

“Then again, I can’t stop thinking about you,” he pointed out, “and you can’t stop thinking about me.”

She nodded, then scoffed softly and shook her head, giving up her internal struggle and letting her head fall wearily to his shoulder. Preston decided that the soft weight of her burdens resting gently on his destroyed shoulder was a pleasure, and he had a quick thought that that small, broken part of his body belonged to her now. She would always be welcome there—always, no matter what, for the rest of his life.

“Maybe we can…”

“…figure it out,” finished Preston, dropping her hand so her could put his arm around her shoulders and pull her closer.

“Yeah,” she said, sighing like she was done fighting something that had proven it wasn’t going away.

He took a deep breath, his chest swelling with emotion—with relief, with hope, with attraction and affection, and the first real stirrings of love he’d ever known.

“Okay.” He rested his lips on the crown of her head, feeling a profound sense of gratitude for third chances at new beginnings. He grinned against her hair. “So, does this mean I can take you out to dinner tonight?”

“I’d love that.”

With enough words exchanged to know where they stood, they sat in silence as the sky changed from yellow to gold to violet to blue.

Unsurprisingly,
He Loves Me Not
only lasted another week, which worked out perfectly, because as much as Elise despised playing Matilda, she would have felt bad leaving the play in the lurch to do
Ethan Frome
.

The first two weeks of May were a whirlwind. Elise quit her job at Vic’s and found a waitress position at a small French bistro near Lincoln Center, so she’d be closer to the theater. Because they only had four weeks to workshop the show, her rehearsals were six days a week from nine in the morning until six in the evening, and Sundays from one in the afternoon until six in the evening. She worked with the understudies for Ethan and Zeena, as Garrett and Maggie wouldn’t arrive until May 20
th
when they’d have only ten days to rehearse before their first performance. On Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays after rehearsal, she worked from seven until midnight at Bistro Chèvrefeuille, which, she learned on her first day with some delight, meant “honeysuckle.”

She didn’t make as much in tips as she would if she worked on weekends, but she was making good money doing
Ethan Frome
, and besides, Friday and Saturday nights belonged to Preston. As long as she didn’t
have
to work, she couldn’t bear to give up the evenings they’d agreed to spend together.

Every Friday and Saturday evening at 6:15, he was waiting for her by the Lincoln Center fountain with some new plan for exploring Manhattan together: a horse and carriage ride through Central Park, a visit to the top of the Empire State Building, a drink at the rooftop bar at the Metropolitan Museum…which had prompted him to ask, as he handed her a cup of sparkling water, “Why don’t you drink?”

“I was wondering when you’d ask me that,” she said, following him to an empty bench where they had a knock-out view of the New York skyline. “Does it bother you?”

“Nope.” He looked down at his Gin and Tonic. “Does it bother you that I do?”

“Not at all,” she said, grinning at him. She served alcohol regularly to the patrons at Bistro Chèvrefeuille and as long as a drinker practiced moderation, which Preston seemed to, it didn’t bother her at all.

She knew it was the right time to tell him about growing up in a Mennonite family, but before continuing, she paused. Would he think her old-fashioned? Unsophisticated? Naïve? She supposed she was all three on some levels, but she wouldn’t want it to impact their blossoming relationship. Still, it was a part of who she was—an important part of her history and a latent part of her present. If he rejected her for it, she supposed it was better to know now than to fall for him any harder and find out it was a deal-breaker later.

“Elise,” he said, interpreting her silence for reticence, “it’s your personal business. I didn’t mean to pry. Forget it.”

“No, I want to tell you,” she said, offering him a brave smile. “Actually, it’s because…well, I was raised Mennonite.”

“What?” His eyes searched her face with surprise.

“My family. The farm in upstate New York? They’re Mennonite.”

Coming from Pennsylvania, where there were so many Mennonites, she wondered if he had some knowledge of her religion. But then, he wasn’t from Lancaster, he was from Philadelphia, so it didn’t necessarily shock her when he asked, “Like, horse and buggies? And no electricity?”

She shook her head with a soft chuckle. “That’s Amish.”

“Oh, right! Sorry. Mennonite.” He sucked his bottom lip into his mouth. “Is it terrible that I know nothing about your…um, culture? Religion?”

She shrugged. “Why would you? It isn’t exactly mainstream.”

“Tell me a little about it.”

“Hmm.” She sipped her seltzer, picturing her mother, father, sisters, brothers-in-law, and two nephews last Christmas. “Well, they live a simple life, and the church is the heart of the community. My family is modest, but not plain. The Amish are plain. My family is Conservative Mennonite. That means they don’t wear the traditional Mennonite clothing. They dress in normal clothes, though my mother always insisted we took care not to be too flashy or revealing. Um, they
don’t
drink alcohol. They
do
use modern technology in moderation. They’re pacifists, of course. And…” Suddenly her cheeks felt terribly hot as she realized what she was about to say:
…they don’t practice pre-marital sex.

She caught herself just in time.

Sex hadn’t come up in conversation yet; she’d never invited him up to her apartment after a date, no matter how steamy their goodnight kisses, and though he’d invited her over several times, she’d always demurred, saying she had to be up early to study her lines or get to an early rehearsal. It’s not that she didn’t want more of him—she did. She longed to feel her skin pressed against his, his hands exploring her body, his lips touching down on her most shocking places, but she wasn’t ready to move their relationship to the next level yet, and after waiting so long to share her body with someone, she wanted to be sure Preston was the
right
someone.

And yes, she worried for the day that she’d finally have to tell him that she was a virgin.  What would he say? Would he be turned off by her inexperience? Her heart clenched as she imagined him rejecting her, walking away from her—

“And…?”

“Oh, uh…” She shook her head quickly. “N-Nothing.”

“What?” he asked, smiling at her, searching her eyes with his crystal clear, beautiful green. “Let me guess…they don’t date Lutherans?”

She grinned at him. “Not usually.”

He dropped his lips to hers, and she could taste the alcohol on them, but it didn’t bother her.

“You’ve never mentioned going to church. And the way you talk about your family…it sounds like you’ve placed some distance between your upbringing and your life here.”

After seven years in New York with a trip home only at Christmas every year, she was a lapsed Mennonite, at best.

“Believe it or not, there
is
a Mennonite church in Manhattan, and I’ve gone a few times, but besides the fact that the services conflict with my work schedule…I don’t know. It just doesn’t feel like me anymore. Frankly, I don’t have a problem with flashy clothes, though I don’t have many. I don’t even really have a problem with drinking, I just never started and figure there’s no reason to start now.”

“Would you
call
yourself a Mennonite?”

A hot pink neon sign that read “V-CARD” flashed obnoxiously in her brain.

“It’ll always be a part of who I am. But, no, I wouldn’t call myself a practicing Mennonite anymore. I think I’d just call myself…someone who hopes she’s a good person.”

“You
are
a good person. You know that, don’t you?”

She bit her lip, thinking about her mother’s disappointed, disapproving face when Elise shared that she’d be attending theater school in New York City after high school graduation. It had hurt her deeply that her parents couldn’t support such an important decision in her life. It wasn’t like acting was immoral, and Elise was careful about the roles she accepted. No nudity, nothing really foul-mouthed or erotic. Still, it didn’t matter. They would never leave Lowville to come and see her in a play. She had long since recognized that her parents would never accept her for who she was, and she’d had to make her peace with it.

“A good daughter would have stayed home on the farm,” she said, careful to keep the bitterness from her voice, but unable to hold back the sorrow. “My parents and sisters don’t really understand what I’m doing here.”

“Well, I do. And I think it was incredibly brave of you to leave your home to follow your dream,” he said firmly, pushing her hair behind her ear and putting his arm around her shoulders to draw her closer.

She leaned into him, amazed that for the first time in longer than Elise could remember, she didn’t feel alone. It made a well of gratitude swell deep within her and she was determined not to take his strength and warmth for granted. Not today. Not ever.

“From the time I was a little girl I knew the simple life wasn’t for me. I wanted something so different from that life. I wanted so much more.”

“And you made it happen,” he said, “all on your own. I’m blown away by you, Elise Klassan.”

***

Preston wasn’t entirely surprised to learn that Elise had been raised Mennonite.

From the first moment he met her, he’d sensed an otherworldliness to her, an old-fashioned modesty, an uncommon reserve. It made sense on one hand. And yet, her chosen profession—acting on the stage—couldn’t be more incongruous with his (possibly inaccurate) understanding of her childhood faith and culture. He thought he’d had a good understanding of the scope of her ambition, but now he realized it was far stronger and wider than he’d originally guessed. To leave her family’s farm and come to New York was impressive enough for any young girl. To leave a—what had she called it?—s
imple
life for an acting career in New York, totally unsupported by her family, would have taken staggering amounts of courage, drive and ambition.

Preston knew something about drive and ambition; he’d started training for the Olympic team when he was in high school and hadn’t let go of the dream until his torn cuff and two surgeries had finally closed the window on a gold medal. But he’d had the support of his mother and older brother,
and
his father’s legacy to open doors for him. Not to mention, he had a trust fund at his disposal for every expense. He couldn’t imagine how much strength and determination he’d have needed to go it alone.

Squeezing her closer and dropping his lips to her head, he realized again how spectacular and singular she was…and how hard he was falling for her, which made his body long for her in ways that were sharp and aching and constant.

Although their standing Friday and Saturday night dates had enabled him to regain focus on his studies and internship, he still thought about her endlessly. And after two weeks of dating, he had to admit: he was starting to feel just a little bit impatient for things to move along a little bit faster. He wasn’t necessarily talking about sex. Even before tonight, he knew she wasn’t the type of girl who was going to sleep with him immediately, but he felt drawn to her with a strong, ceaseless magnetism. He wanted to see her more than two evenings a week. He wanted her to spend time at his apartment, to feel comfortable there, to throw on his sweatshirt when she was chilly and put her girly things in his bathroom cabinet. He wanted constant evidence of her in his life—a script left open on his coffee table, her shoes on the mat just inside his front door, her favorite yogurt stocked in his refrigerator door.

But, mostly—more than anything—he wanted her in his bed, in his arms, sleeping beside him…even if it didn’t lead to sex for a while. He wanted to know the sounds she made while she slept. He wanted to bury his face in her hair as he drifted off to sleep and the smell of her shampoo seeped into his pillowcase. He wanted to feel her heartbeat under his arm as they spooned on a lazy Sunday morning. And he wanted for hers to be the first face he saw every morning when he started his day.

His emotions were getting all mixed up with the yearnings of his body.

In other words, he was falling in love with her, and physically, he wanted more.

But this new revelation about her background threw a figurative bucket of cold water on his literal lap as he let the information sink in. Likely she hadn’t slept in many men’s beds, if any. Though she kissed like a champion, he wondered how experienced she was at everything that came after kissing, which—oh God—led him to one very important question:

Was it possible that Elise was still a virgin?

His mind sluiced fluidly to something she’d said when she was reading to him from
Ethan Frome
two weeks ago: They’d been discussing the risks of falling in love, and she’d shared with him that she had never been in love before.

Synapses in his brain fired, and suddenly Preston knew the answer to his question beyond a shadow of doubt. He didn’t have to wonder and he didn’t need to put her on the spot by asking her. He knew in his heart that she wasn’t the sort of woman who would have sex without love, and since she’d never been in love, that meant…she was definitely still a virgin.

Silent for too long and anxious that she not feel uncomfortable for sharing her personal history with him, he took her hand and suggested they walk the perimeter of the roof garden to check out the 360º views of New York, and Elise seemed eager to join him.

Later, after walking her home and taking a cab back to his apartment, he turned his mind to her virgin status with conflicted feelings. Preston hadn’t
been
with a virgin since he
was
a virgin, and he’d lost his virginity at sixteen. Not that he’d come close to being a manwhore—rowing had eaten a lot of his twenties, after all—but he’d certainly had his fair share of lovers since then. Would it bother her to know that? Would his experience lessen his value in her eyes or make her pull away from him?

He flinched, narrowing his eyes, suddenly regretting that he’d engaged in casual sex over the years and wishing his history was more defendable. Because he didn’t want for her to pull away. In fact, despite the fact that they’d only been dating for a few weeks, he couldn’t imagine losing her. Every moment he spent with Elise, his feelings for her grew—he admired her, he loved spending time with her, he was so damn attracted to her, every time he touched her or kissed her, his blood raged for more. His shower setting was permanently set to cold.