Page 60 of Tender Offer
“Do you visit often?”
“Not like I should, but I also cook on the weekends. I’m making sauce piquant on Sunday. It’ll taste different without my black pot, but I’ll manage.”
“What’s in it?” Preston asks.
“Turkey neck, chicken wings, and sausage in my seasoning mix. Throw in your holy trinity—your bell pepper, onion, and celery—add stock, and scrape the bottom for flavor.”
“You never cooked that for me.”
“Maybe if you play your cards right, I’ll fix you a plate.” I wink at his frown.
“Don’t be a tease,” he smirks. “You never said how often you see your family.”
I rub at the spot above my heart, the one that tightens whenever I talk about home. “I go back once a year, for the holidays, but I didn’t make it last Christmas because of my travelschedule.” Mama has threatened to get the switch if she doesn’t see my face in person soon.
The only time my family left Louisiana was when I graduated Bodie. Heaven forbid I want to be on location, see a fashion show, or just exist on some island. I won’t feel guilty for not falling into the time warp that’s kept them in the same place for generations. I’m not ashamed of my childhood or them wanting to stay, but I wanted to expand my experiences.
“What about you?” I take a long sip of wine to change the subject. “Your English accent goes in and out. You were in boarding school, right?”
“In the States through what you consider middle and high school years. I lived in Connecticut and didn’t come back until after college.”
“Is that where you picked up your love for ’90s R&B?” Total’s “Kissin’ You” bellows from a sound system.
The smile he gives me is as dangerous as it is seductive, his dimples on full blast. “Yes. Nothing else conveys that level of passion and longing.”
“Don’t forget heartbreak.”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “I haven’t.”
The heat creeps up, stoking a brush fire behind his eyes. I knew what I signed up for by agreeing to dinner, but I assumed we’d get to dessert before needing a fire extinguisher.
“What are you looking for in a partner? Tell me your ideals and nonnegotiables.”
I huff. “Is this an interview?” We need more wine.
His thumb and forefinger stroke his lip, which is shadowed in neatly trimmed hair. “Consider it a tender offer.”
“A tender what?”
“In loose business terms, a tender offer is a public bid to purchase shareholders’ stock as a means of acquisition. The price is usually at a premium, to incentivize them to agree.”
“Slow down—I don’t speak Wall Street. You want tobuyme?”
“Of course not.” Preston scrapes a hand through his hair and looks away. “I’d never try to buy you, Puff. I want tofightfor you during your three months here.” His sigh is heavy as his eyes linger on my face. Searching. Pleading. “The ball is in your court.”
The lump hardening my throat refuses to budge. “What are you saying, Preston?”
“I want your heart, baby.”
Loving Preston was effortless the first time, but it came with a heartache that closed me off to trying to find it again. Years of meaningless sex and relationships I knew would never go anywhere became a security blanket.
The harder I try to ignore the truth, the more it persists. My pulse sprints at the possibility I thought was long dead. Here it is, staring me in the eyes. Preston has always been straightforward, and that’s likely served him well in business. He sees what he wants and names it. Never one to beat around the bush, regardless of how it lands. Right now, he’s quiet, resolute in his hooded stare and waiting for a response.
His thick hair, curling at the edges, gleams in the London night that settles over our dinner. There’s no mistaking the power of his self-confidence. The handsome cords of his face are carved in quiet assurance.
A tender offer for my heart.
“We fell in love with pieces of each other,” Preston says. “I want all of you. Give me the chance to pursue you beyond friendship. If you don’t feel the same way in three months, you won’t hear from me again.”
