Proposing to Preston (The Winslow Brothers, #2)
Katy Regnery
PART I
Chapter 1
Two years ago
“Oh, my dearest darling…when I say that I love you with all my heart, I mean that my heart is a canyon, a cavern with hidden recesses, perilous cracks, and dark corners. And yet somehow, your love, like the sweetest and brightest light, has found every secret part of me and claimed them all as your own. Yes, my heart belongs to you, my darling, but only because I have given it to you freely—shredded, doubting and hard, though it was—it comes to you warm and vibrant now, made whole by the force of your love, the warmth of your light.”
Preston Winslow shifted uncomfortably in the narrow, stiff theater seat, unable to look away from the young woman on stage who delivered the saccharine-sweet speech like a Tony depended on it. Her costume was a white lace, high-necked Victorian dress that he suspected was quite a bit tighter over her voluptuous breasts than Victoria herself would have approved. Every time the actress gasped dramatically for breath, her flesh pushed provocatively against the straining fabric. After almost two hours of watching her breasts instead of this godawful play, Preston’s seat wasn’t the only thing that felt uncomfortably stiff.
“I have used you and abused you, been fickle and frivolous and flighty. But, now I know, my darling. Now I see. It was—ever and always—you! Pray, tell me that there’s still time to win your affection, sweet Cyril. Tell me that I haven’t lost my heart’s dearest wish: another chance to deserve your love!”
Cyril, who was doing as poor a job of ignoring, um—Preston glanced at the program—Elise Klassan’s knockers as he was, lifted his glance quickly from her bosom and focused on her face.
“My dear Matilda…” he began, straightening his glasses and tuxedo bow tie. Preston really couldn’t care less if Cyril and Matilda lived happily ever after, so it was strange that he held his breath as he waited for Cyril to give her his answer. “If you were the last woman on the face of the earth, I could not be troubled to give you the time of day.”
Cyril took one last lascivious glance at Matilda’s rack, then turned on his heel and exited to stage right. Good riddance, thought Preston. Any man who’d give up a chance to fall asleep beside those epic ta-tas—even in a high-necked Victorian nightdress—was a complete moron.
Sliding his eyes back to Elise Klassan—um, Matilda—Preston sat up, leaning forward, moving, almost unconsciously, to the edge of his seat.
Her face.
Oh, God, her face.
It was like watching a silent, slow-motion movie of a derelict building filled with dynamite. One moment it’s standing upright, then the slow collapse, the dusty-clouded demolition, the complete destruction. And suddenly it didn’t matter that the play had been terribly-written and he’d been dragged to it by his on-again, off-again girlfriend, Beth, who snored lightly beside him. Preston sat helplessly, staring at Elise Klassan’s desperation with a sympathy that felt profoundly…real.
Her face crumpled in agony, but not all at once. First blank, as though processing Cyril’s rejection, her brows furrowed a little and he saw her lip quiver. Her eyes fluttered, like they were trying to stay open, then she closed them tightly, as though the mere action of keeping them open was too painful to bear. Her hand rose slowly to her throat, flattening above her heaving chest, and the theater was so silent, he could hear his sharp gasp as a solitary tear rolled down her cheek.
“Cyril,” she murmured in a lost, broken voice that sounded nothing like Matilda, and Preston’s lips parted, transfixed on her sorrow.
She took a deep, jagged breath, her body swaying listlessly for a second before collapsing to the stage with one hand still on her chest and the other flung over her head.
Preston stared at her for a long moment, then lifted his eyes, his gaze darting around the stage to see if someone was coming—if stupid, pretentious Cyril was coming back to tell her that it wasn’t too late and he was a jackass for letting her go. But no one came. She just…lay there. Unmoving. Dead? Oh, God, was she dead? Preston’s heart clutched as the lights faded slowly to black and the curtain silently closed in front of her. He stared at the slightly-rippling red velvet, wondering when they were going to re-open, wondering when he was going to have one last glimpse at Elise Klassan’s lovely smile as she took her bow.
He waited, staring, breathless, but nothing happened.
Finally, the house lights came up and there was a weak smattering of applause from behind him, filling the small theater with lackluster approval, and the fifty or so patrons in attendance stood up, mumbling about the show, shrugging into their coats and shuffling from their seats to the aisles.