Proposing to Preston (The Winslow Brothers, #2)(66)

Finally he dropped her eyes. He couldn’t bear it. He couldn’t stand to rehash the most painful days of his life in the name of granting her peace and forgiveness.

“Sign them,” he whispered, pushing the papers toward her.

“Forgive me,” she begged him, her voice strangled.

He looked up at her, at her beloved face slick with tears.

“I can’t.”

She stared at him for a long time, her eyes soft and sad, beseeching him, then dropping to her lap.

“I understand,” she murmured.

“You need to go,” he said. “Please, Elise, just…go.”

Without another word, she stood up, walked to his office door, opened it, walked through it, and closed it behind her.





Chapter 16


Talk


Just because you ask for forgiveness doesn’t mean you’re going to get it.

She heard her mother’s voice in her head as clear as day: short on comfort and long on common sense. And really, it wasn’t that Elise had expected him to forgive her, but she’d certainly hoped, and she couldn’t deny it hurt her that he wasn’t able to.

It had been three days since she went to see Preston at his office. Three days wondering if she’d hear from him again, or if he’d send her the divorce papers via courier and be done with it. Well, he could try that, but she still wouldn’t sign them. He was rude and belligerent to her on two separate occasions, kicking her out of his home the first time and out of his office the second. And yes, there was Beth, and yes, Elise’s hopes of them getting back together were dwindling, but right now, for this moment, he still belonged to her. He was still her husband, and until they had a chance to talk—really talk—she wasn’t signing anything, and too bad if he didn’t like it.

Curled up on a loveseat in the front parlor of Chateau Nouvelle, Elise dropped her glance back down to the script on her lap. She had seven more days to learn the lines, but her heart wasn’t into the part of Tracy Samantha Lord, divorcée and second-time bride. A divorcée was just about the toughest role she could imagine for herself right now, and she sipped her late-afternoon tea with annoyance before setting it back down and looking at the scene she’d been reading. Giving up on it, she flipped to the back of the screenplay instead, reading the lines she’d already solidly memorized: the scene where Tracy and her ex-husband, Dexter, get back together.

“What am I going to do? I’ll be the laughingstock of Haverford!” she said aloud, then read to herself: DEXTER: Tell them the wedding’s been canceled. Tell them it’ll be rescheduled sometime soon. Very soon.

Elise gasped. “I can’t. I…I can’t. It’s a lie. I’m not marrying George.”

DEXTER: Don’t you trust me?”

“I do, Dex, but…”

DEXTER: Say “I do” again, Sam.

“I do,” she murmured, her voice thick with wonder and gradual understanding.

THEY KISS.

DEXTER (shrugs): I will if you will.

“I will.” She sighed, tears jumping into her eyes.

The ringing of the doorbell startled Elise, and she was so into the scene, it took her a moment to return to reality. Listening for Marie’s footsteps from the kitchen, Elise waited for the Rousseau’s housekeeper to answer the door, but all she heard was silence…and the doorbell rang again. Perhaps Marie had stepped out.

Placing her script on the couch, Elise headed for the door and opened it, gasping in surprise to find Preston Winslow standing on the Rousseau’s front steps.

“Hi,” she said, her face breaking into a beaming smile.

“Hi,” he replied, his face annoyed.

She couldn’t help letting her eyes roam over him—over his crisp blue and white striped shirt, silver cufflinks and gray suit pants. Slowly she let her eyes travel back up his abs, his chest, his neck, finally landing and lingering on his lips for a long moment.

“It’s good to see you,” she finally said, raising her eyes to his. The heat she found there was unmistakable; he’d watched her slowly peruse his body and apparently wasn’t entirely immune to her attention.

“You forgot to sign these,” he said, thrusting a manila folder at her.

“Ah,” she hummed, as her smile faded. She turned and walked back into the house…hopefully leaving him no choice but to follow her. “Close the door, please. They keep it air-conditioned.”

She heard the door close and click shut behind her and smiled to herself, heading back into the front parlor and resuming her spot on the loveseat.

He stood in the doorway of the room looking uncomfortable. “Can we not draw this out any longer, please?”

She looked up at him with wide eyes, an idea taking shape in her head. “Oh, I am sorry, but you caught me in the middle of something this time.” She waggled her script at him. “Learning my lines.”

“Take a break.”

“Can’t,” she said with a sweet smile, then looked back down at her script serenely as her heart pounded a mile a minute. “Have to learn them.”

“So what am I supposed to do? Wait here for you to finish?”

“If you like,” she said lightly. “Or I suppose you could help me run them…if you wanted me to hurry up.”