Page 12 of Saving His Heart
“Speed dating, huh? Like, where’s your dream vacation?” he asks with the silky grin I have grown accustomed to. This is the playboy Preston, an act. This is who he transformed himself into, thinking it would protect those he loved, and perhaps, to some extent, his own heart.
“Yup, mine is Italy. I’ve always wanted to go. I’ve probably romanticized it so much that I’ll be disappointed if I ever get there, but it’s my dream trip. What else have you got? Throw it at me?” I say, bending my leg beneath me so I can face him on the couch. To my surprise, he sits crisscross as well to meet me. His stare is intense. Bright, blue eyes search mine, his tanned skin making them pop even more, and my belly does a little flip.That can’t be a good sign.
He looks me up and down, and I feel my body flush.Damn Irish genes. As if he senses my discomfort, Preston leans in to make it worse, “Nice legs.” He pulls back just enough to watch my reaction. “What time do they open?”
I stare at him—mouth hanging open, brow furrowed as I process what he just said. Glaring into his smiling eyes, I realize this is part of the game. The pretend relationship, the ‘get to know you’. Until now, our relationship has been superficial at best. It’s how I wanted it, so he has no idea what he just walked into. My sisters and I have laughed at the worst pick-up lines since they were old enough to date.
Rubbing my hands together, I search the recesses of my mind and come up with, “Do you have any Irish in you?” His lip twitches as he thinks of a reply. When he says nothing, I continue, “No? Do you want some?”
His burst of laughter has all the earlier tension leaving my body.
“Please don’t tell me someone said that to you?” he says while sucking in air.
“I grew up in Camden Crossing, the only town in this state with a mostly Irish community. I’ve heard that one since the eighth grade.”
His face hardens, and he deliberately pauses before answering, “Eighth grade? That’s young, isn’t it?”
“Have you ever been to Camden Crossing?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” he replies.
“Most girls are pregnant by the time they graduate high school.” It’s a statistic I’ve never been proud of and one I could never escape.That’s why I’m agreeing to this, I tell myself. The sooner I can get my sisters out of the Crossing, the less likely they will become a statistic.
“Wait. Camden Crossing? Is the town named after your family?” he asks. I was wondering how long it would take him to make the connection.
“It is, but I have a feeling the great-great whatever they named it after were better people than my parents.”
“Do you have a big family?” he asks tentatively.
Sighing, I know it’s best to be upfront with him about this. He deserves the truth. As one of the Westbrook brothers, he is a high-profile man. The last thing I want is for my background to tarnish his family name.Maybe if I tell him everything, he’ll think twice about this crazy scheme?
Choosing not to look at him, I tell the short version of my story. “My mom took off when I was three. My dad is an alcoholic and not a nice one. Stepmom number one lasted a little over a year before she left. I was almost seven years old when I first started raising my sister. Stepmom number two lasted a little longer. She was around for almost two years before she committed suicide, and I started raising two sisters. The final stepmom lasted for almost three years, Moira, and she was lovely. I came home from school one day, and she was gone. I don’t know what happened to her, but I know she wouldn’t have left us if she didn’t absolutely have to. She was the only example of a mom I ever had. With her gone, it was just me raising my three little sisters. I don’t remember a time when my dad ever actually parented.” I finally take a breath to glance up at Preston, expecting to see pity, which I hate. Instead, I find compassion, understanding. Maybe even a little admiration, and it’s enough to cause my lip to tremble. I bite down on it to keep the tears at bay.
Expecting him to linger on the seedier part of my story, I’m flustered when he asks, “Where are your sisters now? How old are they?”
Chapter 5
Preston
Shit. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked Emory about her sisters. Perhaps she needs to ease into her life? It doesn’t sound like it’s been easy, and she did just drop a lot of truths. The longer she gives me a blank stare, the more worried I become that I’ve ruined this before we’ve even started.
“Emory?” I ask softly, moving my face in front of her, hoping her glassy-eyed stare will focus on me.
“Ah, right. Sorry. I mean, that’s just not what I thought you were going to ask,” she mumbles.
“What did you expect me to ask?”
“Well, most people want to know about all the stepmoms. The one who went missing. My alcoholic father. I’ve never had a boyfriend ask me about my sisters.” I watch with mirth as she jumps from the couch. “I-I-I didn’t mean you. Not you as a boyfriend, I mean. This is just pretending—we’re just pretending.”
“Right,” I say as she moves around me, gathering supplies for the new treatment we are starting tonight. She is a ball of nervous energy, and I feel bad for putting her in this position. Reaching out, I place my hand on her forearm, and pull back as if it scalded me.
“Jesus, did you feel that?” I ask, looking under her arm and around the couch. “That was the strongest static sting I’ve ever felt in my life. I can’t believe we didn’t see the spark.”
Emory follows me with her eyes, and I catch her biting her bottom lip.
“Yes, static cling. That’s what it was. That was crazy, right?” she asks nervously.
Tucking her blonde hair behind one ear, I see the moment she composes herself, and it reminds me of our first meeting. This is the look I usually get, where I am the patient, Preston, and she is Dr. Camden. Even though she won’t tell me why she can’t practice, I refused to listen when she told me to drop the doctor and call her Emory with tears in her eyes. This woman loves being a surgeon, and from what Dr. Terry has said, she has the potential to be one of the best. Vowing then to right whatever is wrong, I add Emory to my list of ‘must-fixes’ before I die.
