Proposing to Preston (The Winslow Brothers, #2)(10)

She shrugged, smiling back at him. “Want to walk with me a while?”

He nodded, turning his body north before she could reconsider her invitation. “I’d love it.”

***

At first, his strides were longer than hers, but almost immediately she noticed that he adjusted them, slowing down so that he didn’t out-walk her or make her speed up to match him. She glanced at him as they made their way to the first crosswalk in silence. His thick, almost-black hair was just a little too long and curled slightly over his collar. He’d run his fingers through the tangle of waves once or twice, taming it back, and her fingers itched to do the same. Sliding her gaze down, she noted his jaw was sharp and strong, covered with a scruffy black stubble that was masculine and appealing. She wondered if it scratched when he kissed, or if it was unexpectedly soft, and she drew her bottom lip between her teeth as she stared at his full, sexy lips. With cheeks cut from marble, and sinfully long black lashes framing his emerald-green eyes, his beauty was startling, over-the-top, like it should be impossible.

He was—by anyone’s standards—a ridiculously handsome man, and her body had been affected by him from the first moment she lifted her eyes to his, but Elise worked in the theater where beautiful men were not uncommon. She wasn’t immune to Preston Winslow’s beauty, per se, but she’d met enough shallow, self-serving stunners to know that it was foolish to judge a book by its cover or a person by a pretty face. As handsome as he was, his looks had little to do with why Elise had invited him to walk with her.

She’d asked him because she sensed that he was honest and kind, which was incredibly refreshing. Always having been pegged as intense and introverted, Elise had felt like an outsider for a good deal of her life; both at home where she was an actress in Mennonite clothing, and in New York City, where she was a farm girl trying to make it in a vast metropolis. But something about Preston Winslow made her feel like she belonged. There was no room for him in her life, but she couldn’t help feeling drawn to him, and she just wanted to spend a little more time with him before they had to say goodbye.

“I read your bio tonight,” he said as they crossed the street, “in the program.”

“Oh?”

“Did you really grow up on a farm?”

She laughed softly, nodding. “I did. In Lowville, New York, which you have never heard of, right?”

“Right,” he said, “though I’m not from New York, so maybe that’s the reason.”

“Nope. No one’s heard of it. It’s as dull as it sounds.” She was rambling, as she always did when she was nervous. She shifted the focus back to him. “Let me guess…you’re from Pennsylvania.”

“Good guess!”

“Well, you’re taking the bar there, so…”

He nodded, grinning down at her as they eased into a comfortable strolling pace. “What kind of farm? What did you grow?”

“Cows,” she said, chasing the answer with a soft giggle. “We grew cows on forty acres, housed them in three barns and milked them in two milk houses.”

“You grew cows….” he said, amusement thick in his voice.

“Yep. Dairy farm. Have you ever smelled a dairy farm?” She looked at his expensive clothes again. “I’m guessing no.”

“So tell me about it.”

“When they’re out in the field? Grazing? You don’t smell anything. Well, manure. You always smell manure, but you don’t notice it if you grow up with it. And when they’re corralled in the yard, waiting to be milked? Imagine a boy’s locker room after a game.”

Inside, she was cringing at herself like crazy. This nice, gorgeous lawyer was walking her home and she was talking about cows and manure. She resisted the temptation to thump her forehead with the heel of her hand and stared down at the sidewalk, settling for a wince instead. Diarrhea of the mouth was not uncommon for her when she was anxious or out-of-her-element, or, apparently, walking the streets of New York with scorching hot strangers, but this was a new low.

“Uh…yum,” he said lightly.

“I’m nervous,” she confessed.

“What? You mean you don’t usually lead with manure and locker rooms?”

She stopped walking and looked up at him. “You’re obviously very wealthy—”

“Why do you think so?”

She looked pointedly at his clothing. “You reek of it.”

“Are you saying I smell?”

“Yep. Of old money,” she said. “And you’re ludicrously handsome and you suddenly showed up in my dressing room out of nowhere standing next to Donny Durran and saying nice things and walking me home, and I just…”

She stood there helplessly, staring up into his gentle green eyes, trying to figure out what she was trying to say, and wishing to God she had been granted just a smidge more social grace, or had had the time to channel a smooth, sophisticated socialite before meeting Preston Winslow.

“You think I’m handsome, huh?”

“It’s an empirical truth.”

He considered her. “You’re an actress. I wouldn’t expect you to be nervous.”

“Why not?”

“Because it takes a lot of courage to get up on a stage and be someone else, and you do it very well.”