Proposing to Preston (The Winslow Brothers, #2)(49)

She took a deep, ragged breath, wiping the tears off her cheeks with the backs of her hands.

“Now. But, what about then?”

He shook his head. “I wouldn’t have let anything come between me and the woman I love.”

“You’re so sure.”

“It’s the truth.”

She shook her head as more tears trailed down her cheeks. “It’s easy to say because the choice was taken away from you.”

“Easy? You think it was easy for me to train for almost a decade and be sidelined at the last minute? It was a lot of things, but it wasn’t easy.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.” She shook her head with frustration. “I know it wrecked you at the time. That’s my point. It wrecked you to miss out on your dream then, just like it would wreck me now. Can’t you see that? Preston, what you sensed yesterday? The ‘distance’ you mentioned? It’s because we’re in two different places. Your dream, your Plan A, is dead. You already moved on to Plan B. But my dream, my Plan A, is still very much alive.”

“As far as I knew, your Plan A never included Hollywood. You were already living your Plan A by auditioning for leading Broadway roles.”

Elise took a deep breath and sighed, her face sad and frustrated.

“What do you want from me?” she asked softly, her voice cool.

“You want me to say it? Fine.” He narrowed his eyes, his tone frank and clear. “I want you to say no to Hollywood. I want you to stay in New York. I want you to take one of the amazing roles Donny’s going to find for you, and I will support you in every possible way until our apartment is covered in Tony awards. I want you to stay here and be an amazing actress and also be my wife.” He paused, his voice dropping to a tender whisper as he searched her eyes. “Sweetheart, I am begging you not to go.”

She lifted her chin, though her eyes glistened with tears. “I have to.”

Then she picked up an outfit she’d placed on the bed, walked into the bathroom and closed the door behind her.

Preston stared at the bathroom door in a state of semi-shock, frozen in place. After a few seconds, he finally exhaled the breath he’d been holding and placed his hand over his heart. It was like she’d reached into his chest with a fist made of nails and squeezed, because he could swear his heart was bleeding out inside his body.

He knew she was ambitious.

He knew that she had given up a lot for her career.

He’d known—from almost the first moment he met her—that her dream of becoming a successful actress was the most important thing in her life.

But somewhere along the way…perhaps when she moved in, or when she told him she loved him, or when she married him, or when she gave herself to him last night over and over again …he’d tricked himself into believing that what they had was at least as important as her career, if not more so.

He was wrong.

He was so very wrong, and he should have known, but he’d fallen so hard and so fast, he’d deluded himself that she could be ambitious but still prioritize their relationship. That she could love him just as much as he loved her. That he could be just as important to her as she was to him. And it hurt to realize he wasn’t. Oh God, it hurt so bad.

Closing his eyes, he forced himself to take a deep breath, dropping his hand from his chest. And suddenly it was as though he could feel an icy wall going up around his heart—around his bleeding, stupid, vulnerable heart that had rushed headlong into love—and he welcomed it. At this moment, when he understood his lack of worth to Elise, he almost would have welcomed its death, but he settled for its torpor instead, and welcomed the growing numbness that surrounded it.

She came out of the bathroom in jeans and a black T-shirt, her hair in a ponytail and her eyes red-rimmed, but determined. Pausing in the doorway, she flicked her glance to Preston, then looked away quickly as she headed for the bed, zipping up the duffel bag and hefting it onto her shoulder.

He almost reached for it—to help her, to carry it downstairs and pack it into the trunk of the car and stand there like a f*cking chump waving goodbye as the love of his life drove away in a car headed to LA. But his almost-glacial heart held him back.

Forget it. Fuck it. She could carry her own goddamned bag.

“I’ll miss you,” she said softly, swiping at a tear sliding down her cheek.

His face felt like stone as he looked up at her.

“I’m sorry, Preston.”

He stared back at her in silence.

“I have to do this. Please understand.”

He couldn’t speak. One small part of his heart remained warm, holding out hope, trying to fend off the approaching frost. If he spoke, he’d scream at her, or beg her to stay, or cry like a f*cking baby. None of those outcomes was acceptable. He straightened his spine and said nothing.

She walked over to him and kissed his cheek, her lips soft and warm. He closed his eyes as the last of his heart froze over, then cracked in two. When he opened his eyes, she was looking at him and he knew the expression: she was seeking his approval, his permission, his reassurance, his love.

And he couldn’t give her any of it. He kept his eyes expressionless.

“I’ll call you when I get there,” she said, her voice breaking. “We’ll figure it out, okay? I promise.”

I don’t believe you.