Page 7 of Tender Offer (Chance at Love #3)
Madison
Fifteen Years Ago
“ A re you going to stare at the building all day or go in?”
For someone so arrogant, he sure is scared to cross the street.
Preston tosses me a glare before studying our dinner destination. “There’s a perfectly good restaurant three streets over that won’t give us food poisoning,” he says with a sigh.
“You said I could pick where we eat. I choose this.”
“ This hardly counts as a place to eat.” He frowns at the facade of stone and glass framed in steel.
“Funny, I didn’t take you for a quitter.
” My snort morphs into a laugh when he reaches for me.
His fingers graze a belt loop on my boyfriend jeans, but he isn’t fast enough.
I dash across Rue de Compiègne and squeal when I’m lifted into the air.
Arms wrap around me, pinning my back to a suited chest. The hold isn’t vulgar but still entices curious glances from people questioning what is wrong with us.
“I don’t quit.” Preston’s tone is stern but doesn’t match the smile coating his mouth. He pecks me on the forehead and steadies my wedge-wrapped feet on the curb. “You made me chase you for another dinner date. I’m always up for a challenge, love.”
It’s true, he had to work for date number two. Technically, the first date was out of my need to save money, but that’s semantics.
Preston surprised me that night. It’s clear he comes from money, but unlike the rich people I know, he doesn’t flaunt it.
He was the perfect gentleman. Kind, attentive, and interested in more than my body.
After our meal, his driver took us to my apartment, where we said goodnight.
He never pushed to come upstairs. Instead, he sent me on my way with a kiss to my cheek and waited until I turned on the light in my bedroom before leaving.
That was months ago—two, to be exact. We’ve emailed here and there, but Preston being away on business makes it impossible for our schedules to sync.
Not that I waited around. He works long hours, and he isn’t rushing whatever this is.
I refuse to spend my time waiting around to hear from him. He puts work first, so why shouldn’t I?
My internship hasn’t started yet, but I swore to myself this wouldn’t be more than a fling. Yet a friendship is forming, the connection between us building by the day.
I didn’t play too hard to get, but I showed Preston he’d have to work for my time. Tonight’s date comes four days after our last. He said he missed me and didn’t want another long stretch to pass before we saw each other.
“Don’t chicken out,” I tease.
“That’s to be determined.” His thumbs brush the small of my back. Silence holds his stare.
“What?” I search for what he isn’t saying.
“Nothing.” He pecks my lips. “Come on, Heather.”
We’ve only shared pieces of ourselves thus far, cautious glimpses of who we are below the surface.
Preston is conservative with the details about his life and career.
The cards he keeps close to his chest tip just enough to reveal that he works for his family’s real estate business in London, which explains his lack of a French accent.
It’s clear he comes from money. The fashion brands adorning his body speak for themselves.
Pretending to be Heather keeps boundaries in place.
Without them, space opens for feelings and the inevitable mess that comes with relationships.
I changed a few details, but the lie flows easily.
My friends at Bodie, if you can call them that, assume I’m the type to blow through money the way they do, without a care.
To them, I’m Madison Monroe, a debutante from southern wealth who knows fashion, not someone who grew up near Bayou Teche surrounded by swamps and cypress trees.
I like Preston, but I can’t afford to show him more than the pieces of myself I do.
Wine, dine, and sex is all I’ll entertain until it’s time to leave Paris.
We’ve yet to do the last, which keeps intimacy off the table for now.
So, I place my hand in his and allow him to lead us through the door of McDonald’s.
It’s not the most impressive choice in a city with world-renowned restaurants, but I wanted a taste of home. Tammi thought I lost my mind pushing for a date under the golden arches, but why not? I’m curious how American fast-food chains fare abroad.
The interior is surprisingly clean, to the point I do a double take to make sure we’re in the right place. Ivory tiled floors fill the front room, which showcases classic American staples in the newly installed café. We peruse macaroons and assorted pastries before doubling back to order dinner.
The horror on Preston’s face when we receive our food deserves a photo next to the employee of the month. Our fries— frites as they call them here—touch the paper sheet on our tray, and he inspects his burger in its cardboard container.
“First time?” I giggle and sink my teeth into my cheeseburger.
A groan escapes me. I get so lost in flashbacks of praying the ice cream machine worked the few times we went to our local McDonald’s that I almost miss Preston scarfing down the last few bites of his Royal Cheese. Littered trash and crumpled napkins are the only evidence of the once-pristine tray.
Someone’s hungry.
“Not the worst, right?” I bite my lip to hide a smirk.
He tosses the last of his fries into his mouth and nods. “We’ll find out tomorrow,” he snickers. “This is my first meal of the day.”
“ Preston .”
He lifts his hands. “I know. Time escaped me. I head out again soon.”
“You just got back,” I say around a frown and a sip of my milkshake.
His sigh is as heavy as the dark circles that line his eyes. He’s too young to be this stressed. “Trust me, I know.”
Preston agreed to take things slow, with no expectations. But moments like this—when he’s vulnerable over fast food—seep beyond any barrier we’ve kept in place.
Our fingers interlace when he reaches for my hand, the touch spreading through my skin like warm honey. A warning bell chimes; we’re getting too close.
“When do you leave?”
“Later tonight,” he says.
It shouldn’t bother me that I won’t see him for another couple of weeks, but it does.
“Shouldn’t you be packing or something?”
Two dimples appear through a smile. “I wanted to see you. I always want to see you.”