“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.”
She leaned back, looking at him, her eyes red-rimmed and watery, but soft with wonder or admiration or some other awesome emotion that he’d never be able to get enough of because it made him feel mortal and god-like, invincible and vulnerable, like he would take on the world for her no matter what the cost. He never, ever wanted to look away.
“You don’t have to—”
“Elise,” he said, seizing her eyes with his. “I’m crazy about you. I need to. And I need you to let me.”
He leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers, tasting the salt from her tears as he took her bottom lip and squeezed it gently between his before letting it go.
“What do you think?” he asked, his lips nuzzling hers with feather strokes as he spoke.
With her arms still looped around his neck and her tears drying, she leaned back and gave him a small smile, and he felt it deep in his core where secret, important things were stored forever—the certainty that there was nothing sweeter to his eyes or more necessary to his heart than the sight of Elise Klassan smiling at him.
“I think yes. I think thank you. I think…” She paused, and her small smile grew wider. “I think I’m crazy about you, too.”
Then she leaned forward and kissed him.
***
An hour and a half later, Elise sat in luxury on Preston’s brown leather couch, her belly full of perfectly grilled steaks, a baked potato loaded with sour cream, a fresh green salad and vanilla-flavored seltzer water that she’d drunk from a wineglass.
Preston sat with one barefoot on the living room floor and the other stretched out along the back of the couch, and Elise sat between his legs, her back to his front, leaning against him with her legs stretched out next to his, and his arms around her middle. She closed her eyes and sighed. She hadn’t felt so safe and comfortable in…well, in forever.
She’d left the theater heavy-hearted, knowing that she needed to tell him in person that she wouldn’t be available tonight or tomorrow night because she needed to search for a very cheap apartment or somehow find a new roommate to take over the lease at hers. But he was so beautiful, sitting there by the fountain, and she was so glad to see him, the thought of walking away from him had made her feel suddenly bereft. And she was so very tired, averaging three or four hours of sleep a night after being on her feet all day and walking home from Bistro Chèvrefeuille after midnight. For as much as she didn’t feel alone when she was with Preston, she hadn’t seen him since Saturday, and her worries about her apartment had become unbearably heavy. And suddenly there he was—jet black hair, caring green eyes, sweet, sexy smile—and it hurt to tell him she couldn’t spend time with him. She loved Ethan Frome and didn’t mind the hard work of waitressing, but Preston was becoming her peace, her acceptance, her sense of belonging, her happiness. Depriving herself of him, even for a night, felt unbearable.
And once the tears had started, she couldn’t stop them. She was tired and worried, and he was so strong and seemed to care about her more every time she saw him. An ounce of sympathy is all it takes, sometimes, to make someone crumble, and crumble she had, weeping all over the shoulders and front of his fancy blue, buttoned-down dress shirt. But Preston had borne it with sweetness and care, spiriting her home to his beautiful apartment, and not letting her lift a finger as a private chef made their dinner and they sat outside on his balcony relaxing. He made her tell him all about what had happened with Neve, and offered to set up an appointment for tomorrow evening with a realtor he knew. In an instant, she didn’t feel alone and frightened anymore, and the tension eased from her body as she gratefully accepted his kindness.
And now here she was, cuddled up against him on the couch, her fingers entwined with his, some soft classical music playing from the stereo in his kitchen and French doors to the balcony letting the lullaby of city noises glide into his beautiful apartment on a late-spring breeze. Goosebumps popped out on her arm and she snuggled back into him, resting her head on his shoulder, sighing deeply when she felt the soft touch of his lips on her neck.
“How’re you feeling now?” he asked.
“Much better.” She sighed. “So much better.”
He squeezed her fingers, readjusting his so that they were perfectly braided together.
“I meant what I said before when you were so upset. I’m crazy about you, Elise.”
“I meant it, too,” she said, shifting in his arms just a little so that his lips touched down on hers. A brush. A caress. A soft and loving touch.
“I have an idea.”
“About what?”
“You and me,” he said, and she could hear the tentativeness in his voice. She wondered at it, but only for a moment because she realized that she trusted him.
“Tell me.”