In a shirt that matched the color of her eyes, with her hair in the same ponytail she’d always worn when he fell in love with her in New York, she was so beautiful and so familiar, it hurt his heart to look at her.
“Mrs. Winslow,” he said softly, working hard to recover from the shock of the title she’d given his secretary. “Uh, yes. It’s fine, Nicole. It’s an old joke between me and Miss Klassan.”
Nicole stepped aside and Elise walked into his office, standing across from his desk as the door closed behind her, leaving them alone.
“What the hell was that?” he asked her, trying desperately not to drop his eyes to her too-tight T-shirt.
“The truth,” she said, meeting his eyes.
“What truth? Being someone’s wife is more than just saying a few meaningless words in front of a judge.”
She flinched, then nodded. “Fair enough.”
He sort of hated it that she didn’t argue with him, but then he reminded himself bitterly, Elise didn’t stay and argue. When she was uncomfortable, she ran. A little more rudeness and she’d be halfway back to Chateau Nouvelle.
“You’re early.”
“Is that okay?”
He huffed, the sound belligerent, even in his own ears. “I was in the middle of—”
“I’ll wait,” she said. She searched his eyes for a moment, gesturing to one of the two chairs in front of his desk. “May I sit down?”
“I guess you’re very anxious to get to the business at hand.”
She didn’t respond to this comment, merely looked at him inquisitively, her hand on the back of the guest chair, still waiting for permission to sit.
Setting aside his surprise that she still hadn’t run away, it occurred to him to push her away—to open his desk, hand her the papers, tell her to sign them and send them back to him via courier when she was done. But he couldn’t help himself. Damn his weak, foolish heart to hell and back, he wanted this moment alone with her. Especially since it was likely the last he’d ever have.
He shrugged. “Whatever.”
She pulled out the chair and sat down, the light, floral scent she still wore hitting his nostrils at the same time he fell back into his own chair. He loved her. Dear God, how he loved her. And how he despised himself for it.
“You were in the middle of something?” she asked, offering him a small, polite smile.
He swallowed past the lump in his throat, keeping his face impassive. “It can wait.”
Elise placed her hands on his desk, one on top of the other, staring at them for a moment before lifting her eyes, and Preston realized that she was wearing the engagement ring he’d given her so long ago. They’d never actually exchanged wedding rings; he’d meant to buy them with her after their “Marriage Summit,” but he’d never gotten the chance.
“I should ask for that back.”
She didn’t flinch and she didn’t run. She just looked back at him with those deep blue eyes. “It’s been a long time since I’ve worn it.”
“Why now?” Just to torture me?
She searched his face, then said softly, “I need to ask for your forgiveness.”
Her multiple apologies on Saturday night had clued him into the fact that she was seeking peace with him. Or rather—in a leaner approach—he didn’t sense that she was interested in making things worse between them. He’d been nasty to her several times before throwing her out of the party and she’d taken it all without retaliating or running. And he might be wrong, but he sensed again, this morning, that she wouldn’t rise to the bait no matter what he said to her, or how much he pushed her. Her mission appeared to be peace between them, though he had no idea why. They didn’t need to be on good terms to dissolve their marriage. Honestly, all things equal, he’d just as soon hold on to his bitterness. It was a protection of sorts. It kept him cold and that made things easier for him.
“Is this a Mennonite thing?” he asked.
“How do you mean?”
“Pacifism and forgiveness?”
“I don’t recall you knowing very much about Mennonites.”
“I learned a little,” he confessed.
After quitting his job in New York and whiling away his days feeling sorry for himself at Westerly as he polished off most the liquor in the mansion, he’d trolled the internet for news about Elise or The Awakening. When there was none to be found, he’d read myriad blogs about life as a Broadway hopeful and about the Mennonite religion and way of life. It was all in an effort to understand her better, to try to understand why she’d pushed him away.
She raised her eyebrows in surprise, but said, “I was raised in a culture of forgiveness, yes, so that mentality is certainly part of who I am. But this isn’t just about my need for forgiveness. It’s about you and me.”
“There is no ‘you and me.’”
Her bottom lip wobbled for the first time since entering his office. “Which is part of the reason I’d like your forgiveness.”
“Why?” he asked.