Proposing to Preston (The Winslow Brothers, #2)(15)
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.”