She chuckled. “Don’t jinx me!”
“I don’t believe in the jinx,” he said. “I believe in hard work, in setting goals, and seeing them through. You’re the only one who can make your dreams come true.”
Elise sighed beside him, her heart fluttering as she absorbed the simple beauty of his words. You’re the only one who can make your dreams come true.
“I love that,” she said softly, goosebumps covering her arm as it brushed against his.
It was much warmer than last night and Mr. Winslow had rolled up his long sleeves to the middle of his forearm. She looked down at the sinew of muscle, likely leftover from his rowing days. He had thick, strong arms. They’d feel like heaven wrapped around her.
“So, how did law school figure into your plan?” she asked, anxious to distract herself from the nearness of him, the strange intimacy of walking side by side with him.
“I’d planned to go to law school after the Olympics. You know, win the gold, become a sports lawyer. Make millions. Rinse, repeat.”
“Marketing via Olympics.”
“Exactly.” He sighed. “But there was no Olympics, and no gold. Just me, a washed up rower who can’t row anymore.”
Elise reached for his arm and stopped walking, the pressure of her fingers halting him mid-stride as he looked down at his arm and then into her eyes.
“You’re much more than that. With drive like yours? I bet you’ll be the best sports lawyer New York and Philadelphia have ever seen. You’re not a washed-up anything. Know what I think? I think you’re on the verge of greatness too.”
***
Preston had meant the words “washed up” lightly, jokingly almost, except that when he talked about his failed bid for the 2008 Olympics, it felt like yesterday, not five years ago, and he couldn’t help the bitterness that still slipped into his voice.
It had been a brutal blow to find out that he couldn’t row competitively anymore. Not only had he wanted to follow in his older brother, Brooks’ footsteps, he’d found his identity in rowing. His father, the late Taylor Winslow, had crewed in college, and Preston had felt a kinship to his father when he was out on the water, sliding down a glassy river. Losing his chance at the Olympics had been like losing his dad all over again. And though his acceptance to Columbia law school had been fast-tracked and he’d graduated Cum Laude a cool three years later, it hadn’t erased the goals he’d worked so hard to achieve, and it didn’t relieve the sting of disappointed dreams either.
But looking down at Elise’s hand on his arm, their first skin-to-skin contact, he couldn’t find any bitterness in his heart. He felt nothing but gratitude for her kindness, his heart thundering its approval for her solidarity and hope, and for the soft, warm touch of her fingers on his skin.
He looked down at her upturned face, his blood racing through his body, pounding between his ears.
“You’re stunning,” he whispered.
She’d been frowning with indignation at his self-deprecation, but softened immediately, her eyes widening and her lips tilting up into a sweet smile.
“Thank you.”
She looked down at her hand, and he felt the slight pressure of her fingers squeezing before she pulled it away. And he was left. Missing her.
Glancing up, he realized she’d stopped them beside a deli. “Wait here a second, okay? Don’t go anywhere!”
He rushed into the deli, choosing a large bouquet of light pink roses and placing a twenty dollar bill on the counter before rushing back outside. Elise stood where he’d left her on the sidewalk, her eyes expectant. He pulled the flowers from behind his back and offered them to her with a grin.
“You said no to champagne and coffee. But you can’t say no to flowers.”
“No,” she said, her smile faltering as her lips parted and she reached for the blooms. “I can’t. They’re so lovely.”
She raised the bouquet to her nose, eyes closing as she inhaled deeply and sighed. When she opened her eyes, they were sparkling as they had when Donny Durran handed her his business card, and Preston felt his chest swell with satisfaction and longing. Such a simple gesture, but it had made her so happy, and suddenly her happiness was like a drug, and Preston wanted more.
“Thank you,” she murmured, that sweet smile fixed on her lips.
Kiss her.
The words repeated in his head on a loop, blocking out all other thoughts, all other sounds and smells and ideas and common sense. Her face was upturned, her full, pink lips slightly parted. They’d be warm and soft beneath his, and his breath hitched with yearning. Taking a step toward her, he dropped his eyes to her lips, staring at them, longing for a taste of them. He was just about to bend his head to hers when—
“Ah-hem. Sir? Your change?”
“Huh?”
“You ran out without your change.”
Preston whipped his eyes to the side, and found the shop owner in a white apron, holding out a dollar bill and a few coins.