Page 38 of Tender Offer (Chance at Love #3)

Madison

“ P ut those heels to work, Regine.”

I hop over a small puddle and pull my vintage faux fur midi coat to my chest. My best friend, who’s leading us to God knows where, tightens his grip on my hand as we rush with no destination in sight.

“If you tell me where we’re going, I could get us there faster,” I say, sidestepping another puddle. “Why are we on the Upper East Side, anyway? There are martinis and empanadas closer to my apartment.”

“Hush.”

I’m complaining with good reason. One, there is no justifiable excuse to go this far for food.

What isn’t around the corner is a click away on an app.

Two, the clouds only broke ten minutes ago, which means the puddles I’m dodging can show up their sisters if it rains again.

We have no umbrellas nor any critical need to be outside.

That brings me to point three: We keep birthdays casual.

Takeout.

Toes in a foot spa.

The Real Housewives of Potomac .

Sometimes if Kojo doesn’t complain about watching his acquaintances act a mess, we throw in Real Housewives of Atlanta . The point is, we have a tradition of keeping our birthdays in the house where they belong. With all the ripping and running around we do for our careers, recharging is necessary.

Kojo flies to me when I’m in New York, and I fly to him when he’s in Atlanta.

I came home days after Noura’s premiere, an event that landed my client’s name on the lips of every reporter who attended.

With Preston still away for work, I didn’t want to spend my birthday alone.

So, I’m home for a week, and I’ll ring in another year closer to forty with my best friend.

“Here we go,” Kojo says. His pace quickens down 106th Street, my hand still in his like we’re late. What we’re late for has yet to reveal itself.

“Let’s go see Central Park.”

And this is where I leave him.

When my heels reroute in the other direction, the crystal fringe on my dress whips across my legs like a hair toss. I did not leave the heat I pay for and the cake on my counter to play tourist.

“Nope, we’re almost there.” The newsboy cap covering Kojo’s fade tips toward the end of the street. A lamppost awaits, cloaking a broken sidewalk in shadows.

“Where is there ?” He erases the step back I take with his wingtip boots, and his peacoat invades my personal space. I’m spun by the shoulder, and we’re off once again on our adventure, which might end in a felony.

“Live a little, Regine. It’s a celebration!” His grin widens at my scowl. “Don’t act like we didn’t have fun tonight. You only turn thirty-eight once.”

“And I prefer to do it without getting run over by a cyclist,” I grumble.

Today wasn’t a bust. After breakfast and a rainy day of movies, Kojo told me to dig deep in my closet for something vintage.

He took me to a bar on the Upper East Side because of its Madison Avenue location, which was about as believable as his smirk.

There were drinks and off-key singing, both of which we could have found in my neighborhood.

In his Newsies outfit, Kojo is a complete Broadway musical, which is another surprise tonight. I’ve never seen him dressed so proper. He’s wearing a cable-knit sweater with a dress shirt and tie underneath, and corduroy pants. His dreads are in a bun under his cap.

He’s either teaching law somewhere or trotting off to the English countryside.

Cars slow, illuminating the crosswalk. The heat of the engines rises in the headlights as we cross over to Fifth Avenue and follow a path of large stone tiles into Central Park.

LED candles in white paper bags light the pathway to a manicured landscape surrounding a fountain. Across from it is one of those igloo structures made for outdoor dining. Light from the nearby high-rises catches in the night sky.

Incredible.

“What is this?” My inhale becomes a gulp of air when Preston steps out of the dome. His smile reaches me from the feet between us and the soft music that filters in from somewhere beyond the foliage.

“In case it wasn’t clear, Regine, that man loves you,” Kojo says from my side. I hear him, but I can’t take my eyes off said man, who’s making his way to me.

Musk with a hint of nutmeg embraces my senses with the gentleness of a forehead kiss. In a long black coat and pants, Preston is a model of sex and seduction. A matching beanie covers his hair, and framing his face is a trimmed goatee.

The urge to run to him careens over the realization he’s here in New York.

“What are you—”

“Hi, Puff.” The huskiness in his tone pours warmth into my veins when his bear hug clasps my body to his. A jolt surges from my neck to my toes at his minty breath skating across my face.

Kojo always says, If he wanted to, he would . Actions speak louder than words, and Preston’s being here speaks volumes. If he’s in the air, he texts. Away on a business trip, he calls. We haven’t put a label on what we are, but him making time for me means more than he’ll ever know.

“You’re here.” I reach to kiss him, unable to help myself.

“I am, baby.”

He kisses me and extends a hand to Kojo. “It’s nice to meet you. Thank you for stalling.”

Kojo tips his cap and shows every damn tooth in his mouth. “Anything for this one. So, you’re Preston.” He steps back to scan him from head to toe. “I get it.”

“Is this why you’re dressed like that?” I snicker.

“I had my source of inspiration.” Kojo rolls his eyes. “Enjoy your evening, love. I’ll check in tomorrow.” He pulls me in for a hug and kisses my cheek. “Let him in, Madison. You deserve it.”

“Thank you.” My voice carries in a whisper.

“Take care of her, Fancy Brit,” Kojo coos. “You two are adorable! Puff ,” he mocks with Idris Elba finesse. “I can’t!” He disappears behind hedges that gently blow in the cool breeze.

That’s my friend. Forever over-the-top.

“He’s really something.” Preston’s chuckle is low, amused without judgment.

“The best.”

His laughter fades into the soft caress of his gaze, like he’s seeing me for the first time. He cups my face. “Can I kiss you?”

“You already did,” I smirk.

Preston lifts my chin and brings his mouth to mine. Our lips brush in one peck that becomes another.

The taste of us is a free fall of emotions. There are no words, only a vow to live in the now we sear with a slow kiss.

We break apart at some point, our breaths a tiny cloud of heat in the air.

“Dinner is ready,” he says.

“Refill?”

“Yes, please.” I lean over the table with my flute, which Preston fills with champagne.

“This”—I marvel at the wooden stands that hold a buffet of classic comfort food—“is amazing.” I always wanted to dine in a heated igloo, but I’ve never had time because of all the winter fashion events.

He went all out and made it unforgettable.

Throw blankets are tossed over accent chairs to create a cozy vibe.

Pulled pork sliders, cheeseburgers, and fish and chips are our feast. They’re bite-size for our dinner for two.

It’s a small miracle I still have room to breathe in the pear-colored dress that clings to my silhouette.

Dessert is questionable…unless a pastry somehow manifests on the table.

“It took a few favors, but it helps that my mother was a member of the conservancy,” he admits. “She spent a lot of time here.”

“Oh.”

“My father said he spent what felt like hours convincing her to leave the gardens. They were her favorite place, a break from keeping up with a CEO’s schedule. I come here when I’m in New York and need that stillness, or to feel close to her.”

His eyes wander to the distance beyond the transparent window panels, searching for the apparition of a mother he lost hours after she pushed him into the world.

Losing a parent so young is a different type of suffering.

I miss Mawmaw, her deep belly laughter, Sunday meals, and swearing every June bug to Hell.

I have decades of memories I can call on when her physical absence picks at my grief.

It’s a scab that will never fully heal. Preston mourns a woman he never met, the blanket of a mother’s adoration he’ll never experience.

“Thank you for sharing her favorite place with me. She would be proud of you,” I say to the sadness finding residence in his expression. “Your kindness and your heart are a reflection of her love.”

“Thank you, Puff.” His shoulders ease, his gaze flitting between me and a place beyond my bare shoulder.

I automatically swipe at an out-of-place hair. It’s a pointless gesture, because the moisture in the air is forcing the ends I spent hours straightening to bend back to their natural curl pattern.

“What?” I frown under his appraisal.

“I want to show you your gift.” He stands to put on his coat, then pulls my chair out.

My eyes narrow. “This was gift enough,” I say to his chest as he secures my coat around my shoulders. “Where are we going?”

I’m guided by the hand for the second time tonight. Unlike Kojo’s little scavenger hunt, we don’t go far.

Preston takes us to a bench on the other side of the fountain. High-rise buildings freckled in lights wedge us between the Upper East and West Sides under a few stars and the moon behind the clouds.

“Remember when you told me the Pont des Arts was your most memorable date?” His eyes shift to mine.

I nod.

Our video call during his recent trip to Manchester turned into a night of twenty questions. From his suite and my kitchen, we rediscovered old truths and learned new details about the people we’ve become.

“It was a night I’ll never forget,” I say about our date at the Louvre fifteen years ago that ended with a slow dance next to the famous bridge. My fingers hover over the padlock necklace hanging under the halter neckline of my dress. It felt right to wear it close to my heart tonight.

“Central Park has thousands of benches with engraved love notes. I purchased one in memory of my mother, in the Conservatory Garden she loved.” His thumb grazes a silver plaque. “ Gioia ru me core ,” he reads. “It’s Sicilian for ‘joy of my heart.’”

Tears form in my eyes at the longing and affection wrapped in the declaration. “Beautiful.”

Preston offers a sad smile and reaches for my hand.

We walk to the next bench, feet away, which has a silver plaque just like the one we left.

He shifts me to his chest, his arms a wool-lined shield from the chill in the air.

“This is a place of peace for me. A reminder of love lost but contained in eternity. That’s what you are to me, Puff. My peace. My heart. My future.”

I draw a sharp breath when he turns us toward the engraving.

Madison

Ti amerò fino al giorno dopo per sempre.

Preston

“This one is in Italian. It means, ‘I will love you until the day after forever,’” he whispers against my ear.

Every tear I’ve held back finds its way down my cheeks. I cry for the time we lost. But it’s right here, next to the love he memorialized for all to see. The dawn of a smile finds the strength to grow.

Love isn’t always lost.

Sometimes it circles back. Louder. Bolder.

My “Thank you” is smothered by Preston’s mouth on mine. His hands slip up my arms, pulling me into the rapid thud of his beating heart.

What lies ahead remains unknown. Tonight, I want to focus on the present moment and the gift that’s been mine all along.

His heart.