Page 6 of Tender Offer (Chance at Love #3)

Madison

I must have pissed off someone in the afterlife if fate is resuscitating another ex on this trip. Not just any ex. The ex.

My thoughts race in a million directions at the blurred lines between memory and reality. I never forgot a single detail about Preston, and I will never unsee his hard, determined face when I opened the door.

He rendered me speechless, standing in his full glory, demanding my breath and all my words.

I played out this scenario in my head thousands of times.

What I would say to the man who discarded me like an out-of-season sweater faster than he could say “I love you.” Yet when I had the chance to unload years of hurt and frustration, I froze.

Hearing “Puff” after all this time damn near knocked me through the basement.

It’s the nickname he’d whisper in my ear in his embrace.

I relished in the way he held me, with so much love and affection.

The embers are still there, stoking a growing fire behind his stare.

It was a struggle to fight against the spell that drew me to him and the tears I refused to let fall, but I did it.

The slap wasn’t intentional, but I won’t say it didn’t feel good after the way he kicked me out of his life.

The travel magazine I’m haphazardly scanning while pretending I’m okay crinkles on a page flip. Nothing has calmed my nerves; my knee is still bouncing in an erratic rhythm. How can I relax when the phantasm who’s tormented me for the last fifteen years is only feet away?

Preston leans against the concierge counter, too casual for someone who’s just waltzed into my life and tossed it on its head.

Reagan beams up at him with wide eyes and a smile stretching across her round face.

Her long, blonde ponytail shakes as she nods enthusiastically at whatever he’s saying.

She’s grinning at every refined tooth in his mouth.

The man is still as fine as the day we met. Here I am, battling the occasional gray hair between my thighs, and he’s swaggering around like Mariano Di Vaio’s melanated older brother. It’s not fair.

Reagan picks up the phone as Preston rises to his full height. Our eyes connect before he’s down the hall, taking with him the woodsy musk assaulting my nose from yards away. The athletic ass I’ve bit and gripped without shame teases me from a growing distance.

Time to get out of here.

This retreat is testing the remnants of my sanity. I’d walk to the airport if Denver wasn’t three hours away by car. These boots would barely survive a stroll around the resort, much less a trek through the snow-covered valley. If my pride doesn’t take me out, the temperature will.

I sigh at an incoming text and reach for my suitcase. My rideshare, per the app, won’t arrive for another three hours. So much for Plan B.

Exactly how I’ll kill the time remains a mystery. Food is an option since I left mine in the room.

Speaking of breakfast, how did Preston get my order?

Jazz filters through the lobby in soft waves. A trio entertains a gathering crowd near the entrance with their piano, saxophone, and bass. The gentle melody reawakens the holiday spirit that’s reflected in the garlands and wreaths still adorning the resort.

It’s a deceptive beauty, like the man who once lulled me with promises he broke along with my heart.

“Excuse me, Ms. Monroe?” From behind the wooden desk, Reagan motions for me with her hand. “Good news. We have a car to take you to the airport.”

“That’s wonderful!” I say, too excited to leave this resort and never look back.

“It’s our pleasure. It should arrive shortly, if you want to make your way to the entrance.”

“Thank you, Reagan. I appreciate it.”

I walk with a renewed pep in my step to the heated area between the foyer and the entrance. A black town car pulls up the circular driveway after a sprinter drives off. No one else is outside or waiting for a ride. I pull my peacoat closed and head into a numbing wind.

The trunk opens before the driver’s side door does.

A man in a hooded lumberjack shirt under a padded black vest steps out. His back is to me, a model of perfect posture and an even more perfect ass. A yellow beanie extends to the nape of his neck.

No men, remember?

It’s harmless to appreciate natural beauty. Mountains. Glittering snow. A glorious butt wrapped in denim.

I smile at my rescuer, who’s saving me from my own personal episode of The Twilight Zone .

It’s short-lived, because he turns around, exposing his profile and that damn kissable jaw that’s coated in five-o’clock shadow.

“Not happening.”

“Come on, Puff,” Preston says to my back as he rushes around the car.

“Why are you here?” It wouldn’t surprise me if Reagan comped his stay and filled his tank with gas. Preston is both charming and a bastard.

“I’ll answer everything in the car.” I dodge his attempt to grab my arm. “Madison!”

I still at the sound of my name. It’s the first time he’s said it and not “Heather.” I became “Puff” and dreamed of how “Madison” would sound spilling from his lips.

Preston’s breath traces the air. His voice is low. “Let me take you. Please.” He reaches for me again. “We owe it to who we were to talk, even if it’s only to say goodbye.”

Goodbye.

I’m catapulted back to the day everything changed. Our last goodbye ended in heartbreak and my humiliation. I begged Preston to listen, to give the love we grew a chance. Now he expects us to talk fifteen years later?

“Go to Hell,” I say through chattering teeth. My desire for any discussion died with the part of me who believed in love’s ability to conquer all.

I pull my arm out of the comfort of his grasp. I’ll stare at a wall for five hours before I get into a car with him.

A grin plays across his lips, triggering his dimples and activating my annoyance. He’s too fine for his own good.

“Funny. I didn’t take you for a quitter.” A glint of humor crinkles his eyes at the same words I offered him in a challenge years ago.

Bastard.