Proposing to Preston (The Winslow Brothers, #2)(83)

Parking his car in his usual spot, he turned to her. “There’s a place up the street that reminds me of Bistro Chèvrefeuille. I thought we could have dinner there.”

She turned to him and for the first time, he noticed her outfit. It was a strapless, flowered romper with short shorts that made her legs look ten miles long. Her shoulders and neck were bare and he suspected the entire contraption was held up with the hem of rutched elastic just over her breasts, which meant that one little tug would bare her to him. His body tightened with need and his heart throbbed with anticipation.

“I sort of thought we would have dinner at your apartment,” she said softly, licking her lips.

He bit back a groan, adjusting himself in his seat. “If we step foot into my apartment, that provocative little outfit you’re wearing is hitting my floor in a New York second, sweetheart.”

“And that’s a bad thing?” she asked in a low voice, laced with need. Her skin was flushed and her breasts heaved against the floral fabric.

Damn, but this was a rare torture.

“No,” he said, using every last reserve of strength and knowing if she pushed any harder, he’d fold like a beach chair and haul her up to his apartment like a caveman. “But we need to talk first.”

She took a deep breath and unsnapped her seat belt, giving him a much less sultry grin. “You’re right. And besides, I’ve barely eaten today.”

“You need food, wife. I promise you’ll need your strength for later,” he said, lifting her hand to his lips and kissing it.

He helped her out of the car, took her hand again, and led her out of the garage, onto the bustling sidewalk of his tony Rittenhouse Square neighborhood. The café was very close, and after showing them to a quiet table in the back, the ma?tred, who looked at Elise twice, but couldn’t quite place her, handed them menus and left them alone.

She scanned the menu quickly then folded it and placed it on the table beside her napkin, looking at him intently.

“I want to get started,” she said, stretching her hand across the table.

“No small talk? No ‘how was your week?’” he teased, lacing his fingers through hers.

She shook her head. “No. We’ve waited two years to have this conversation. I officially call the Marriage Summit to order…now.”

He nodded, squeezing her hand, excitement and anticipation warring for precedence in his head. Bearing in mind her greeting and flirtation, however, he felt safe letting excitement take the lead.

“What do you want, Elise?” he asked, holding her eyes as she stared back at him.

“I want to stay married to you. I want to be your wife. I love you. I belong with you.”

Relief coursed through his veins, warm and hopeful, and he released the breath he’d been holding.

“What do you want?” she asked.

Using the same words, he replied, “I want to stay married to you. I want to be your husband. I love you. I belong with you.” He paused. “I belong to you. I have from the very first moment I saw you in that godawful play. I fell hook, line, and sinker when stupid Cyril turned you down and you collapsed on stage. I couldn’t stop thinking about you that night and I haven’t stopped since.”

She blinked back tears, smiling at him with tenderness and love. “For me, it was when you bought me that bouquet of flowers the first night you walked me home. It felt like a fairytale to get an audition for Ethan Frome and meet you on the same night. I had to pinch myself later to make sure it hadn’t been a dream.”

“I fell for you all over again when you walked into my sister’s engagement party saying you were sorry for everything that had happened between us. My God, it hurt to watch you walk away.”

“You made me go!” she exclaimed.

“I was a cad,” he said sheepishly. “But you shocked the hell out of me showing up like that.”

“I know,” she said, stroking his skin under her thumb. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.”

She sighed, squirming a little in her seat, the heat from her eyes scorching the air between them. He was dying to be alone with her.

“When you told me that you’d drive me to upstate New York four days later, I couldn’t believe it. You were still so angry with me, but that’s when I knew you still cared.”

They were clasping both hands across the table now, and when the waiter returned, they didn’t pull away. Placing their orders quickly—main courses only, no drinks, no appetizers, go away, please—they turned back to one another.

“What about the rest?” asked Preston. “What about us? Now?”

“I didn’t like L.A.,” she confessed. “It felt so foreign and strange. I didn’t fit in; I didn’t drink or go clubbing. I missed walking everywhere. I missed you.” She took a deep breath. “And I missed the audience. I always loved performing in front of a live audience and a movie set is nothing like an audience. There’s no clapping, no laughing, no gasps or feedback or…energy. Just me, acting in a vacuum, going home alone every night.” She sniffled. “I hated it, Pres. I traded you, someone I loved, for something I ended up hating.”

“Maybe you had to try it,” he said gently.

She shrugged. “Maybe. But you know what I’ve been thinking about this week?”