Page 32 of Tender Offer (Chance at Love #3)

Madison

D ress comfortably.

Preston’s text gave no other instructions about tonight. No hints. Nothing.

How on earth does he expect me to dress accordingly with no details? “Comfortably” could mean sneakers and jeans—not that I’d wear sneakers. My first steps were in heels, and my last will be too.

After pacing a hole the size of my frustration into my closet, I toss my hair into a high bun and pray I don’t embarrass myself wherever we’re going.

I have a few meetings later this week, and I don’t need to be on gossip sites looking a mess, especially next to a damn billionaire in someone’s fancy restaurant.

I grab my oversized leopard clutch and matching heels on the way to the front door. I have one arm through my belted wool trench coat when the doorbell rings.

“Yeah, you special alright,” Dayo says, wearing his signature black. “White toes too?” His slow whistle skates up the straps wrapped around my ankles to my vegan leather leggings. “You won’t need that.” He nods to my coat.

I frown. “Where are we going?” London isn’t super cold this time of year, but I’ll freeze in a silk cami.

“That’s for me to know and you to find out.” He winks, leaving me at my door as confused as I was when I opened it. “Leave the coat!”

Dayo is halfway down the hall once I reach him. It’s dawned on me that we’re headed to Preston’s penthouse. My coat is still in his closet from the last time I was there. Maybe I can grab it before we head off to who knows where.

Dayo bypasses the elevators and rounds the corner like he’s on a mission. It takes three steps to match his casual stride down the marble hall of mirrors. He stops in front of Preston’s door and nods.

“I could’ve walked over myself,” I say, somewhat out of breath from the jog.

“He asked me for the solid, and I’m not going far.” Thick lips spread into a smile. “My place is downstairs. Go ahead and let yourself in. Enjoy your night.”

He disappears into a private stairwell, leaving me for the second time tonight.

Preston was distant today. He texted me about tonight but was silent for most of the day. I took that to mean he was busy with some aspect of running a billion-dollar empire. Part of me expected him to cancel, not send his head of security to walk me to his place like I don’t know the way.

I pull down the brass handle and trip over my own feet.

In the distance, beyond the open living room, is Preston. Is he wearing an apron?

He’s bent over the oven, the fabric of his gray slacks stretching over an impressive ass. His light gray dress shirt is still tucked in, but his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows.

“You cooked?”

“Cook ing ,” he says over his shoulder. He pulls out a dish that has my stomach mimicking a dirt bike and places his oven mitts on the kitchen island. “Come here.” The command is a low rumble over the sizzle of whatever is in the pans on the stove. “Leave the heels on.”

My pussy pulses as he presses his flexed forearms to the island, which is illuminated in tea lights. Maybe it’s safer to look a mess in somebody’s fancy restaurant.

A tremor heats my thighs as I make my way to the man who’s looking at me with raw possession.

Alicia Keys’s “Unthinkable” thickens the air with unspoken desire and conjures old goosebumps from a past life.

They find their way back to my skin as I round the island and come face-to-chest with a tantalizing mix of musk and silent need.

Preston lifts my chin with a gentle finger. “Hi.”

“Hi.” Breathe . I collect my nerves and smile at the spread on the counter. “This looks incredible.”

“It does.” My eyes flutter at his focus on my profile and not the food.

I have self-control.

“Did you make all of this tonight?” I move to the other end of the island and stifle a giggle at the tiled lemon pattern that paints his chest. “Nice apron.”

He looks down and shrugs. “It went with my shirt. Nonna packed a few in my bag when I saw her at Christmas. Wine?” He points to a bottle of red.

“Yes, please.”

Uncorking a bottle shouldn’t be sexy, but that’s Preston. He maneuvers the metal corkscrew with ease and flexes those damn forearm muscles with those damn lickable veins. “I made the ricotta for the cassatelle yesterday. Everything else I squeezed in between the meetings I took from home.”

“Remind me to kiss your grandmother,” I say with eyes the size of my appetite.

“You can kiss me.” His chuckle wafts in a trail of musk and spices as he makes his way to the cabinets. He grabs two plates, sets them on the marble counter, and sits beside me. The lights dim against the night sky from the large windows in the living room.

We say a quick prayer over the food and dig in.

Preston’s mouth quirks at my moan that wraps around another bite. “Food is okay?”

“Amazing,” I say to the golden crust of the eggplant Parmesan. “I had this in Florence a few years ago. It wasn’t like this.”

“Sicilian food has a different flavor palate. It reflects the region.”

“I love it all. Do you normally cook like this?”

He shakes his head. “Most days I don’t get home until late, but I try to cook on Sundays.”

“What’s so special about Sunday?”

An adorable smile provokes his dimples. “I call my nonna.”

The answer shouldn’t make me blush. Lots of people are close to their grandparents, but there’s something about a man who adores his grandma the way he does.

“You’re a good grandson.”

His grin widens. “I try to be. Nonna is my heart. She doesn’t like the hassle of video calls, so I don’t see her every week. But we cook together if I’m not traveling.”

As Preston explains, Lionara Parisi is a firecracker with a big heart and a tea towel she weaponizes when necessary.

At seventy-eight, she’s still active, even has a boyfriend he met over Christmas.

He cringes bringing it up, but good for her enjoying her golden years to the fullest. From the photo on his phone, taken the last time they were together, she’s a knockout.

Rich mahogany skin wrapped in the second coming of Eartha Kitt.

Preston absorbed many of her features, and his late grandfather’s as well.

“Anyway.” He shakes his head. “There are good Italian places nearby, but nothing beats homemade.”

“Tell me about it,” I say with a sigh. “Everybody and their mama has an étouffée.”

“Mmm. I had shrimp étouffée in New Orleans last time I was there.”

“You need to get out of the city and come over to Breaux Bridge. Mawmaw made the best crawfish étouffée and smothered okra,” I say proudly.

“Oh yeah?”

“Chooo! The best, baby.” I fork a piece of fish. “What?”

“Your accent. I like it, baybee ,” he mocks.

“I barely hear it anymore. Haven’t lived at home since high school.”

“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 travel schedule.” 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 to buy me?”

“Of course not.” Preston scrapes a hand through his hair and looks away. “I’d never try to buy you, Puff. I want to fight for 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.”

Shock catapults into my lungs, taking the air with it. My eyes prick at the memories slicing me open, tiny paper cuts of our serendipity and its demise. I can’t forget our last day together, but keepsakes from the good times are piling up.

They’re here now. The way we fall into easy conversation and our bodies’ reactions to each other. Him refilling my wineglass without my asking and me passing him the baking dish for the second helping he always gets.

The choreography of us is practiced, but the idea of an us again is terrifying.

If eyes are the window to the soul, Preston’s are a lifeline, compelling me to peek behind the curtain.

He’s not staring with a haughty rebuke, numb to my cries for him to see the woman he fell in love with and not the opportunist he asserted I was.

They’re ablaze with sadness for what never was.

What was smothered and never had a chance to grow.

He reaches for my hand. “We lost three months because of how things ended. I want them back. I want you back.”