But as she was whimpering and practically begging for more, her mother’s face had flashed suddenly in her mind, and she’d frozen, pulling away from him. He’d held her eyes, drawing his hands away from her breasts, refastening her bra and smoothing her shirt back down, before kissing her lightly on the lips and putting his arm around her shoulders. They didn’t talk about it. They didn’t need to. She’d pulled away and just as he’d promised her, he respected her wishes immediately and without exception.
Since then, they’d made out several more times—on Sunday afternoon and evening, and again on Tuesday when she’d gotten home from work and fallen into his arms on the couch—but he hadn’t reached for her breasts again. Although her body ached for his touch, Elise still struggled with the matter of propriety. She was living—however temporarily—with a man she wasn’t engaged or married to. Even though they weren’t having sex, she was sharing parts of her body with him, and she needed a little time to reconcile her inbred modesty with her growing desire.
She trusted Preston. She was definitely falling in love with Preston. But Preston wasn’t her fiancé or husband, and the girl inside of Elise who’d been raised by strict Mennonite parents had trouble marrying her present decisions with her careful upbringing. She wanted to give herself to Preston and every day her body yearned for his a little more…but she just wasn’t ready yet.
That said, her feelings for him, the growing love she felt for him, multiplied daily as he showed her how much he cared for her in small and touching ways. She found her favorite seltzer flavors lined up like soldiers in the refrigerator, and an old sweatshirt she’d left on the couch folded carefully and left in the hallway outside her bedroom door. He taped sweet notes to the apartment door for her to find as she left for rehearsal every morning, and he picked her up at the fountain almost every evening after work to bring her home.
After a lifetime of feeling like a misfit, she finally felt like she belonged somewhere. Aside from giving her a place to stay, Preston was the first person in her life who’d accepted her for exactly who she was without reservation. He took the multiple dichotomies of who she was in stride, making her feel like less of an oddball and more confident in herself. After all, if a man such as Preston Winslow could see the quirky combination that was Elise Klassan and want her in his life, it made her feel like anything was possible.
The only other place she’d ever felt that level of acceptance was on the stage, in the synergy between the audience and performer. It was part of the reason she’d become so fixated on becoming an actress: because strangers with wondrous smiles looked up at her with respect, acceptance and admiration. It didn’t matter that she was a farm girl who’d been raised in a strict and obscure religion because she became Juliette or Ophelia or Roxanne or Mattie Silver. And through that brief transformation, she belonged. Now she felt that she belonged somewhere else, too: with Preston Winslow.
She glanced at the alarm clock on Preston’s bedside table and sighed. Her call today wasn’t until two o’clock and the performance was at eight o’clock tonight. It was only six a.m., but she was so excited for Opening Night, she didn’t know how to go back to sleep.
Getting out of bed, she padded over to the door in her pajamas then opened it to the smell of coffee wafting down the hallway. Making her way to the living room, she peeked around the corner to see Preston in the kitchen, his back to her, humming along to classical music as he—from the smell of it—fried himself some eggs. His back was broad in a white dress shirt, and his hair was still damp from the shower he’d probably taken after his run this morning. She suppressed a whimper. Her heart clenched. Her muscles bunched. Her fingers trembled by her sides, wanting to touch him, wishing that he didn’t have to go to his internship and could just stay home with her all morning.
Leaning against the living room wall, she realized that she’d heard the same piece of classical music several times over the past week. It was lyric and lovely, if a little sad, but she’d never been much for classical music and didn’t know the name of it.
Walking stealthily across the living room, she pulled out one of the stools arranged under the kitchen bar and sat down, fixing a bright smile on her face. When he plated his eggs and turned around, he jumped, then grinned at her, surprised to find her sitting there.
“Where’d you come from?”
“My boyfriend’s bed.”
His eyes dipped to the front of her T-shirt, and he pulled his bottom lip into his mouth before lifting his eyes to hers.
“Did I wake you up?” he asked, a little extra gravel in his voice.
“No. I’m too excited to sleep. What are you listening to?”
“Beethoven. It’s called Für Elise.”
“For Elise?” she asked, feeling delighted.
He nodded, grinning at her.
“You listen to it a lot.”