Proposing to Preston: The Winslow Brothers #2 (The Blueberry Lane Series Book 8) (7 page)

If he liked her less—if his heart hadn’t already been touched by the sweetness of her smile, her playfulness and intense determination—he might actually think about moving on, because he refused to pressure her, and patience wasn’t Preston Winslow’s strong suit. But moving on never even crossed his mind. He would slow down. He would temper his expectations. He would follow her cues and be respectful of her virtue. And someday—oh God, please—maybe someday, if he was patient, he would deserve her…and all of Elise would belong to him.

***

“Pres,” she murmured against his neck, her lips brushing against his hot skin, her nipples sensitive and beaded inside her bra, under her T-shirt, pushing against the hard wall of his chest.

Preston dragged his lips over her collarbone and Elise stepped closer to him so she could feel the hard outline of his erection pressing against her pelvis. No, she couldn’t do anything about it tonight, standing on the sidewalk before her apartment, but she wanted to know that he desired her—she needed to know that his body reacted to her touch.

Since their talk at the Met last night, she’d sensed a subtle difference in him. He still reached for her, and he’d kissed her passionately last night when he walked her home, but he hadn’t invited her over to his place again this weekend, or jockeyed for an invitation to hers. And when he kissed her, he was more careful, like she was fragile or breakable. He was holding himself back and she didn’t like it. Wanton that she was, she longed for more.

Still holding her in his arms, he took a step away from her so that his erection wasn’t pressing into her anymore, and she twitched her lips in disappointment. No, she wasn’t ready for sex, but she was invested enough that she didn’t want him to pull away from her either.

“Kiss me again before you go,” he whispered, his voice deep and drunk.

She raised her head, nailing him with her eyes, and stepped into him again, deliberately, pushing against his sex and watching as his breath hitched and eyes darkened. Her chest rose and fell double time into his as she felt his hardness twitch against her lower belly under his khaki pants. Understanding that her actions were intentional, he exhaled on a low groan, crushing her lips with his, tightening his arms around her as she arched against him.

Leaning up on tiptoes, she wound her arms around his neck and he drew her closer to him, plunging his tongue into her mouth where she welcomed it with hers. She moaned softly as a million butterflies beat their wings against the walls of her chest, and deep inside she felt a gathering, a liquid heat as her muscles contracted and released, preparing for more, priming themselves, letting her know that someday soon they’d be ready.

“Elise,” he murmured, pressing his lips to her cheek, then sliding them to the soft skin under her ear, which he nipped and kissed, his teeth taking the lobe of her ear gently as his hands slipped under her shirt to flatten against the warm skin of her back. “What are you doing to me?”

She took a deep, ragged breath, closing her eyes as his lips rested on her throat, her fluttering pulse beating against his lips, telling him that everything he felt, she was feeling too. He backed her up two steps until the tree across from her brownstone was behind her, and his soft, black hair rested against her cheek. He traced a trail with his lips from her pulse to the base of her throat, kissing her softly as she let her head fall back and eyes open.

Through the branches of the tree overhead, she could see the lights on in her apartment and her heart plummeted. Neve was home. She sighed, spreading her fingers in Preston’s hair and feeling sorry for herself. If Elise had to say goodnight to her delectable boyfriend, she’d rather go nurse her loneliness in dark peace and quiet. The last thing she wanted to do was make small talk with a roommate she never saw and barely knew.

“Good luck this week,” he murmured close to her ear. “Knock ‘em dead, okay?”

“I hope so,” she said.

Tomorrow Elise would be meeting Garrett Hedlund and Maggie Gyllenhaal for the first time and running through the show with them, and yes, she was nervous, but she knew the show cold, and over the last twenty days she had become very comfortable at Lincoln Center and with the cast and crew.

“You have to kiss him tomorrow?” growled Preston softly.

Elise grinned against his shoulder. “Are you jealous?”

“Hell, yes. I don’t want some damn movie star touching my woman.”

My woman.
Her heart sang at his words, at the possessive edge in his voice. She
wanted
to belong to him. She
wanted
to be his woman.

“You don’t have to worry. There shouldn’t be any kissing tomorrow,” she said, turning her neck to smile against the skin of his throat, before pressing a tiny kiss against his pulse, delighting in his reflexive shiver. “It’s just a table read and a blocking walk-through.”

“Okay, then.” He relaxed, leaning into her, resting his forehead on her shoulder. “I hate saying goodnight.”

“Me too,” she said, cradling the back of his head and nuzzling his ear.

“You could…” he started, then stopped, sighing deeply. He raised his head and lowered his arms from her waist, then stepped back from her, looking frustrated, but determined.

There it was again—Preston pulling away from her. She didn’t like it, but she didn’t know what to do about it either. Even though she’d “played” sexual tension on stage, she finally understood it on a level she hadn’t before. It was when you were a magnet to another person, but you had to somehow keep yourselves from colliding.

“I could…” she prompted, almost wishing he’d ask her to come stay with him tonight. Would she go? How many more times could she bear to say no to him?

“Nothing,” he said softly. “Nothing. Do great tomorrow, huh?” He leaned forward and kissed her cheek gently. “I’ll see you Friday.”

“Okay,” she said, fighting herself not to loop her arms around his neck and pull him back against her body.

She saw it in his eyes, how much he hated to go, but he offered her a small smile before turning around and walking away from her.

“Pres,” she called after him, the word bubbling up from a place of want, a place of need, a place of new and uncertain and unexplored affection.

He turned to look at her, though he didn’t step closer.

“Someday soon…I will,” she said softly, feeling her lips tilt up into a smile as he stared at her intently from under a streetlamp six feet away.

He licked his lips, a grin spreading across his face as he nodded. “I can’t wait.”

Neither can I
, she thought as he winked at her, then turned and started back toward the corner at the end of her block where he could catch a cab.

She sighed, hopping up the brownstone steps and turning the downstairs lock. For the first time since she realized the lights were on, she wondered
why
Neve was home. Neve was never home between six-thirty at night and three in the morning, unless it was Monday. Today was Saturday. On Saturdays she often didn’t come home at all, opting to stay at her boyfriend’s place downtown instead. She worked an eight hour bartending shift six nights a week at a popular club and during the day, she and her boyfriend practiced with their band.

Walking into the apartment, it felt different immediately and not just because Neve was home. In addition to Neve, her boyfriend, Frank, and their bassist, Chou, were in the living room, surrounded by brown boxes, Styrofoam packing eggs and masking tape rolls.

“Oh,” said Neve, looking up as the door slammed shut behind Elise. “You’re here. Good. We need to talk.”

“What’s going on?” asked Elise.

“Chou got us a gig.”

“That’s great,” said Elise, gesturing to the boxes and repeating, “but…what’s going on?”

“We’re relocating, Elise.
I’m
relocating. The gig is a three month, sixty-stop tour, all in the Pacific Northwest. Seattle, Portland...far-the-fuck-away from Manhattan. Doesn’t make sense for me to keep this place. I paid up my share until the end of May, and the landlord said you’re more than welcome to take over the lease.”

“Take over…You mean, the whole thing?”

Elise paid Neve $600 a month to sleep on her sofa bed and share the bathroom and kitchen. She knew for a fact that Neve paid $1200 for her private bedroom, which meant that Elise would have to come up with $1800 a month to stay. Even with the extra
Ethan Frome
money, $1800 a month was a fortune, an impossible sum.

“I can’t,” she said, searching her roommate’s eyes with desperation.

“Well,” said Neve, having the decency to look uncomfortable, “I always said it was a month-to-month sublease. I was clear about that. I mean, I knew I needed to keep my options open. Plus, come on. You have ten days. It’s not
that
bad. I’m sure you’ll figure something out. We’ll, uh, we’ll move this stuff to my room so you can go to sleep.”

“Neve…” she started.

“I’m sorry, Elise. It’s a done deal. I’ll be gone in the a.m.. You can, um, you can have my room until you move out.” Neve turned to the two men awkwardly watching the exchange and gestured to the boxes. “Grab this stuff. Let’s finish up in my room.”

Feeling dazed, Elise lowered herself to the sofa, staring at the empty bookcase across from her where Neve’s books used to reside. She’d lived in this apartment for over a year, and it wasn’t much, but it was her home. Neve had left a gaudy pillow bedazzled with the words “Staten Island” on the couch and Elise grabbed it, hugging it to her chest.

How in the world was she supposed to find a new apartment and move her meager belongings into it when she had non-stop rehearsals from now until June? Between rehearsals, Bistro Chèvrefeuille, and weekend nights with Preston, something was going to have to give so she could devote some time to an apartment search and get herself moved…and her heart ached because it only took an instant for her to know which of the three she was going to have to sacrifice.

Preston had to run the last four blocks to Lincoln Center because it was already six o’clock and he didn’t want to be late for Elise. It was Friday night.
Her
night. He didn’t want to miss a minute of his time with her.

It had been an extra-long six days this time, and twice Preston had considered “stopping by” Bistro Chèvrefeuille for dinner, just to see her, but they were taking things slowly, and stopping by her place of work uninvited didn’t feel appropriate quite yet. He knew that she essentially worked from nine in the morning until midnight from Mondays to Thursdays; he couldn’t ask for more from her. And yet, he missed her. After three weeks, Friday and Saturday night dates just didn’t feel like enough.

Running up the steps toward the Metropolitan Opera House, he scanned the crowd around the fountain to be sure she wasn’t waiting for him. He didn’t see her so he took his usual seat and caught his breath, reviewing the plan for tonight and hoping that she wouldn’t feel uncomfortable. He’d hired a personal chef to make them dinner in his apartment, and of course he would walk her home after dinner if that’s what she wanted, but last Saturday when she’d said, “Someday soon…I will” his heart had leapt at the idea of them spending an entire night together and not having to say goodbye. Ergo, dinner at his place to possibly pave the way, with a chef in attendance to act as chaperone, so that she wouldn’t be completely alone with him…at least, not at first.

Checking his watch, he saw that it was just six and watched concert-goers bustle in and out of Avery Fischer Hall, which was hosting a jazz concert tonight. Some evenings, he actually heard music coming from one of the elegant buildings in the complex, but not tonight. He kept his eyes trained on the northeast corner of the Hall, knowing that Elise would walk around the corner any minute, coming from the Claire Tow Theater, and he tried to ease the thumping of his heart as their reunion grew closer.

Generally, he saw her first—saw her break through the crowd, beelining for the spot where he was waiting for her. The first weekend, they stood awkwardly in front of each other with huge smiles before he took her hand and guided her back down the steps. Last weekend, he’d opened his arms and she’d hurtled her body into them both evenings, greeting him with a full body hug and deep sigh of contentment. Tonight? He was hoping that she’d fall into his arms again, but that she’d tip her face up to his to start their evening with a kiss before he told her where they were going for dinner.

He was so distracted by his daydreaming, he missed her.

“Preston?”

He jerked his head up to find her staring down at him and felt his face explode into a smile as he jumped to his feet. But one look at her kept him from reaching for her. She had her arms crossed over her chest and stood back about a foot from him, her eyes searching his face with…with what?
What emotion was that?
he wondered, panic seeping lightly into his blood. She glanced down at her shoes, drawing her bottom lip into her mouth. Why wasn’t she making eye contact with him? What was going on?

“Hey,” he said, reaching out to touch her arm. She didn’t lean away from him, but she didn’t step forward either. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” she said, though she clearly wasn’t. “I just… I can’t hang out tonight.”

“Oh.” He pulled his hand away and let it drop uselessly to his side. “Um, what’s going on?”

“I just have things I need to do,” she said softly, looking down again.

Hell, no.

Was she breaking things off? Was she dumping him? Had he done something wrong? He thought back to last weekend, but he couldn’t think of anything. He’d picked her up on Saturday, they’d ridden the Circle Line boat around New York City and he’d walked her home later, sharing twenty minutes of scorching kisses on her sidewalk before leaving her. What the hell had happened between then and now?

“Are they things I can do with you?” he asked tightly, determined to keep the pleading he felt out of his voice.

She looked up at him, and he locked his eyes with hers, refusing to let her look away. And for the first time he realized that her eyes were tired, with dark circles under them, and unless he was mistaken, they were worried, too.

“I don’t think so,” she said quickly, stepping away from him and dropping her gaze again.

Without a word, he reached forward and took her elbow, pulling her gently behind him, grateful when she matched his stride and followed him without pulling away. He walked purposefully between the opera house and Avery Fischer Hall, headed for the Millstein pool and terrace. Not stopping until he reached a the low wall across from the pool, which was far quieter than the popular fountain up front, he sat down, with Elise standing in front of him with downcast eyes. He dropped her arm.

He tried to keep his voice gentle, but damn it, if she was running away from him again, this was the last fucking time and he’d need to make that clear…right after he tried his best to convince her not to.

“What’s going on?”

Her bottom lip quivered, and her mouth turned slowly into an almost perfect inverted U. She dropped her chin and he realized that she was holding her breath because her chest wasn’t moving, but her body was trembling.
Oh my God
, she was trying not to cry.

He stood up immediately, pulling her into his arms, relieved beyond measure when she didn’t fight him. She sobbed, then took a deep, strangled breath and proceeded to cry very softly,  her body wracked with grief as she leaned wearily against him.

“Sweetheart,” he whispered, sitting back down and pulling her onto his lap where he wrapped her arms around his neck, and then gathered her against his chest. She clasped her hands, leaning her cheek on his shoulder with her face turned toward his neck so he could feel her shudders and sobs against his throat.

“Please tell me what’s going on,” he said, close to her ear, a note of desperation in his voice. Had something happened with the show? Or—God forbid—with her family? What would make his strong girl feel so overwhelmed? So terribly sad? His heart raged with its needed to help her, to comfort her, to do whatever it would take for her to smile at him again. He waited, worried and upset, holding her tightly, until her sobs subsided and she took a deep, gasping breath.

“You’re scaring me to death,” he murmured. “Please let me help you.”

“I’m—” she started.

“Sick?”

She shook her head.

“Your family?’

“They’re fine,” she gulped.

“The show?”

“No,” she sobbed, sniffling pathetically. “The show’s good. I mean, I’m tired, but it’s not that.”

“I give up,” he said, stroking her back as she stayed nestled in his arms. “You’re going to have to tell me, or I won’t be able to help you.”

“I’m… I’m h-homeless!”

She started crying again and he leaned back from her, capturing her face between his palms and forcing her to look up at him.

“You’re not dying?”

“N-No,” she said.

“No one you love is dying?”

She shook her head and sniffled, looking red-nosed and miserable.

“You’re completely exhausted?”

A tear streaked down her cheek as she closed her eyes and nodded.

“How long were your rehearsals this week?”

She opened her weary eyes, tilting her head to the side. “Th-they were inc-creased to fourteen hours. Six a.m to eight p-p.m.”

“Please tell me you went home right after and got some rest.”

She shook her head, looking miserable. “I can’t lose my job. I have l-loans.”

“So you waitressed every night after rehearsal for what? Four hours? Six?”

“F-Four.” She sniffled again and more tears streaked down her face.

He did the math…that meant she was awake at five, at rehearsal by six, and at Bistro Chèvrefeuille until midnight. No wonder she was so drained. That was a ridiculous schedule for anyone, even his determined, go-getter girlfriend.

“And now something’s happened with your apartment?”

Her face crumpled and she leaned her forehead back down on his shoulder like the effort of holding up her head with simply too much to bear. Her shoulders sagged and shuddered, and his shirt became wet with her tears. Preston silently thanked God that he’d spent enough time with his little sister Jessica to know that when a woman was totally overwrought and exhausted, she was also in desperate need of some good, old-fashioned TLC.

“You’re coming home with me,” he said softly, brushing her hair from her face as she nestled into his neck, finally catching her breath in jagged gasps. “I’m going to feed you, and tuck you into my bed, and then I am going to kiss you goodnight and go sleep on the couch. And nothing—
nothing
is coming between you and sleep until five forty-five tomorrow morning when I will wake you up and have a car waiting downstairs to take you directly to the theater, tripped out with a fresh croissant and a hot cup of tea waiting.”

She leaned back, looking at him, her eyes red-rimmed and watery, but soft with wonder or admiration or some other awesome emotion that he’d never be able to get enough of because it made him feel mortal and god-like, invincible and vulnerable, like he would take on the world for her no matter what the cost. He never, ever wanted to look away.

“You don’t have to—”

“Elise,” he said, seizing her eyes with his. “I’m crazy about you. I
need
to. And I need you to let me.”

He leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers, tasting the salt from her tears as he took her bottom lip and squeezed it gently between his before letting it go.

“What do you think?” he asked, his lips nuzzling hers with feather strokes as he spoke.

With her arms still looped around his neck and her tears drying, she leaned back and gave him a small smile, and he felt it deep in his core where secret, important things were stored forever—the certainty that there was nothing sweeter to his eyes or more necessary to his heart than the sight of Elise Klassan smiling at him.

“I think yes. I think thank you. I think…” She paused, and her small smile grew wider. “I think I’m crazy about you, too.”

Then she leaned forward and kissed him.

***

An hour and a half later, Elise sat in luxury on Preston’s brown leather couch, her belly full of perfectly grilled steaks, a baked potato loaded with sour cream, a fresh green salad and vanilla-flavored seltzer water that she’d drunk from a wineglass.

Preston sat with one barefoot on the living room floor and the other stretched out along the back of the couch, and Elise sat between his legs, her back to his front, leaning against him with her legs stretched out next to his, and his arms around her middle. She closed her eyes and sighed. She hadn’t felt so safe and comfortable in…well, in forever.

She’d left the theater heavy-hearted, knowing that she needed to tell him in person that she wouldn’t be available tonight or tomorrow night because she needed to search for a very cheap apartment or somehow find a new roommate to take over the lease at hers. But he was so beautiful, sitting there by the fountain, and she was so glad to see him, the thought of walking away from him had made her feel suddenly bereft. And she was so very tired, averaging three or four hours of sleep a night after being on her feet all day and walking home from Bistro Chèvrefeuille after midnight. For as much as she didn’t feel alone when she was with Preston, she hadn’t seen him since Saturday, and her worries about her apartment had become unbearably heavy. And suddenly there he was—jet black hair, caring green eyes, sweet, sexy smile—and it hurt to tell him she couldn’t spend time with him. She loved
Ethan Frome
and didn’t mind the hard work of waitressing, but Preston was becoming her peace, her acceptance, her sense of belonging, her happiness. Depriving herself of him, even for a night, felt unbearable.

And once the tears had started, she couldn’t stop them. She was tired and worried, and he was so strong and seemed to care about her more every time she saw him. An ounce of sympathy is all it takes, sometimes, to make someone crumble, and crumble she had, weeping all over the shoulders and front of his fancy blue, buttoned-down dress shirt. But Preston had borne it with sweetness and care, spiriting her home to his beautiful apartment, and not letting her lift a finger as a private chef made their dinner and they sat outside on his balcony relaxing. He made her tell him all about what had happened with Neve, and offered to set up an appointment for tomorrow evening with a realtor he knew. In an instant, she didn’t feel alone and frightened anymore, and the tension eased from her body as she gratefully accepted his kindness.

And now here she was, cuddled up against him on the couch, her fingers entwined with his, some soft classical music playing from the stereo in his kitchen and French doors to the balcony letting the lullaby of city noises glide into his beautiful apartment on a late-spring breeze. Goosebumps popped out on her arm and she snuggled back into him, resting her head on his shoulder, sighing deeply when she felt the soft touch of his lips on her neck.

“How’re you feeling now?” he asked.

“Much better.” She sighed. “So much better.”