Proposing to Preston (The Winslow Brothers, #2)(27)

“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 f*cking 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.”