Proposing to Preston (The Winslow Brothers, #2)(20)
“Matt! You be quiet! Don’t you say it.”
“There’s never anybody been good to me but you,” she murmured, feeling lost, feeling bereft.
“Don’t say that either, when I can’t lift a hand for you!”
She looked up into his bright green eyes, longing to run her fingers through his black, silky hair all over again.
“Yes,” she sobbed in a whisper, her decimated heart breaking into a million pieces behind the prison of her ribs. “But it’s true just the same.”
“And, cut!”
Elise started, blinking madly at Ethan—no, Preston—no…it was Steve, the Assistant Stage Manager, who stared back at her, his mouth parted open, his eyes wide.
“Wow,” he murmured, nodding with respect and admiration in his kind brown eyes.
Elise took a deep breath and swallowed, feeling Mattie Silver let go of her and start to fade away, back into the vapor of hot lights, seeping into musty velvet stage curtains until Elise needed to call her back again. She turned to look at Mr. Fischer and the other production folks, still seated at the long table, staring at the stage in silence.
Mr. Fischer’s eyes were wide and thoughtful, before raising his elbows to the table, and breaking into slow and deliberate applause.
***
Most evenings, Preston liked the New York Public Library.
No, he more than liked it. He loved it.
There was an austerity to the exterior of the building—a European-style grandness that he respected, and inside, it was both beautiful and functional. He loved the white marble lions that guarded the front doors, the sturdy wooden tables and chairs with brass reading lights and murals of the sky of the ceiling of the Main Rose Reading Room. He loved the smell of books, the hushed shuffling of feet on burgundy-tiled floors, and the whisper of pages being turned. His favorite place to study was the Map Division, a smaller room on the first floor that housed several globes and stacks of maps on the perimeter of a gilt-ceilinged room with arched windows and plenty of light. Once upon a time, it had been his father’s favorite place to study too, and Preston often imagined him here—imagined that he was sitting in the same chair his father had used, studying at the same table, looking out at the same view.
He usually found peace here.
But not yesterday. And not today.
He sighed, looking out the window before him, distracted from his studies. The sun was starting to set. It would be dark soon. And he’d barely gotten anything done.
All day, he’d wondered about Elise, hoping that she’d nailed her audition with the same deep well of sensitivity and authentic emotion that he’d witnessed in her portrayal of Matilda. After she’d left him on Sunday, he’d packed up the picnic basket and blanket with a heavy heart, gone home and purchased the ebook of Ethan Frome for his Kindle, only to go to bed beyond depressed because it was, quite possibly, the saddest, most hopeless story he’d ever read. Everyone ended up suffering, unfulfilled and unhappy, and his heavy heart felt heavier still.
Picking up his cellphone from the table, he briefly considered calling Beth and asking if she wanted to grab a drink. He’d smile and say he was sorry, and she’d accept his apology and invite him over. They’d have decent, but predictable, sex, and then he’d head home, but something inside of him knew that f*cking Beth wouldn’t exorcize Elise. He just wished he knew what would.
He’d thought—more times than he cared to admit—about showing up at her apartment or the theater, but after she’d rejected him not once, but twice, stalking her was too high on the Creepy Meter for Preston to consider. He needed to respect her wishes, no matter how much it hurt or frustrated him.
He placed his phone back down on the table and conceded defeat. Tonight would just be another wasted evening of no studying as he stared out the window, trying to figure out another angle toward winning more time with Elise Klassan…but he’d be damned if it wasn’t the last. He packed up his books and slung his leather bag over his shoulder. He’d walk home, change into sweats and head to the park for a long, hard sunset jog. And hopefully, once he’d sweated for an hour or so, he’d be in a better place to knuckle down and get some work done.
He left the Map Division and headed down the white marble stairs toward the exit, pausing to admire the brass chandelier above his head. Maybe he’d pick up some sushi, too. There was a decent place around the corner from his apartment. And after tonight, he’d put the Kibosh on further thoughts of the elusive Ms. Klassan. Three days was long enough to mourn a beautiful, interesting woman and one soul-bending kiss, wasn’t it?
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.