“Tell them the wedding’s been canceled. Tell them it’ll be rescheduled sometime soon. Very soon.”
“I can’t,” she said, worrying her hands together. “I…I can’t. It’s a lie. I’m not marrying George.”
“Don’t you trust me?” he asked her, his green eyes searing as they captured hers.
She took another step closer to him. “I do, Dex, but…”
Preston searched her eyes desperately.
“Say ‘I do’ again, Sam,” he whispered.
“I do,” she murmured.
Preston’s eyes dropped to the script, then lifted quickly. She heard his sharp intake of breath as he read the direction to kiss her, then felt the heat of his eyes linger on her lips before he raised his gaze. Suddenly he flinched, thrusting the script at her. “I can’t do this.”
She stared at him, unmoving, daring him to kiss her or smack her or grab her or anything—anything—to let her know that he still felt something for her, that there was still a chance for them. His eyes were distraught as they searched hers, furious then tender, confused and uncertain, and she stayed rooted where she was, refusing to take the script back.
“Damn it, Elise!” he yelled, letting go of the script and turning on his heel.
As the book fell to her feet, she heard the front door open and slam shut. She didn’t think. For the first time in the history of their relationship, she ran after him.
***
“Wait! Stop, Pres! Wait!”
He heard her calling after him, which only made him walk faster. He sped across the gravel driveway, over the green grass, closer and closer to the little white gate that separated Chateau Nouvelle from Westerly.
“Don’t run away!”
“Yeah, sorry!” he yelled over his shoulder. “That’s your move!”
Reaching the gate, he threw it open and strode through without bothering to re-latch it.
“Talk to me!” she demanded from behind him.
He looked back at her red face, her hair escaping its bun, her little hands clasped into tight fists at her sides, her pink T-shirt and simple black short-shorts. And damn it, she looked just as gorgeous as ever.
“About what, Elise?” he asked, turning back around to stride through Westerly’s gardens on his way back to the house. “What the hell do we have to talk about?”
“Us!”
He turned to face her and found her standing about ten feet behind him with her hands outstretched and fingers splayed open. Stalking back toward her, he felt a bit of satisfaction as she backed up three paces, looking at him with wide eyes.
“What us?” he spat. “There IS. NO. US!”
“There could be!”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
She made a sound—a frustrated sound like a sob or a whimper—as she put her hands on her hips and searched his face with bright blue, fiery eyes.
“First I need to know…are you an ‘us’ with Beth?”
“What?”
He was having trouble keeping up with whatever the hell was going on here. You and me…Us…There could be…Beth…What was she saying? What was she trying to say? And what the hell did Beth have to do with it?
“Beth! Perfect Beth from Saturday! Are you an ‘us’ with her?”
“An ‘us?’”
“Are you with her?”
“Why do you give a shit?” he yelled, looking down at her face, unable to ignore the intense heaving of her breasts under her T-shirt. His eyes slid from her chest to her face, which was even redder than before. “What the fuck do you want from me, Elise?”
She swallowed, wincing. “Are you with Beth?”
“No!” he roared.
Her eyes closed and she sighed. “Oh.” She dropped her chin to her chest as her shoulders slumped with… what? Relief? She was relieved that he wasn’t with Beth? Why would she…? What was— “Thank God,” she whispered.
When she opened her eyes, he was still staring down at her and he searched her gaze, finding it tender and soft, relieved beyond measure.
“Elise…” he said, feeling vulnerable and confused and immensely stupid for caring, but he couldn’t help asking, “What did you mean by…There could be?”
Her eyes flooded with tears and she opened her mouth to say something, but the words seemed to get stuck. Her tongue darted out to lick her lips, and it drew his eyes like a beacon, tightening his body with need and making him take one step closer to her, completely closing the distance between them. She inhaled raggedly and her chest pushed into his, her breasts crushed against him as they’d been so many times before. He swam in her glassy eyes, searching them wildly, loving her, hating her, desperately hopeful for something he couldn’t bear to even put his finger on.
His breath caught as she reached up, placing her palms on his cheeks, her thumb gently stroking his stubbled skin as she pulled him down to her and— A loud guitar riff broke into the moment, making them both jump. She gasped, smiling up at him nervously.
“My phone,” she said.