Page 88 of Prelude To You

“Well, let’s see. Last night after I returned home from the bookshop, I poured my favorite whiskey, Glenmorangie Signet, and listened to Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 2, Second Movement while thinking what an idiot I was for walking away from you like that.”

Hard as I tried to ignore the last part, it set the usual desperate need whirling inside me. “I have that on my playlist,” I said. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for a Rachmaninoff fan.”

“No? And why is that?”

“He was last of the romantic composers. You don’t listen to his music; you feel it.”

Roman took a sip of whiskey, savoring it. Never losing my gaze. “I don’t know how to take that, but fine.”

“Fun fact: Eric Carmen’s song All By Myself is based on the 2ndmovement,” I added quickly, trying to erase the sting in my comment.

Roman swirled his whiskey. “Right… So, what did you do last night after the bookshop?”

“Meg made me a very potent cocktail concoction with overtones of what-the-hell and subtle tones of yuck. But it helped a bit to soften the hellish confusion after that kiss. Then I went to the studio, where Sergei and I danced—"

Roman’s expression turned to stone, his voice a razor’s edge above acerbic. “You were with Sergei last night after the kiss. Interesting.”

It was clear Roman was begging me to take the bait. He wanted a reason to hate me as much as I wanted to hate him.So we could walk out of here and hate each other and never look back.

I took the bait.

“What’s so interesting about that, Roman? What is so fucking interesting? Why does it even matter to you?”

Roman’s gaze penetrated mine, every word punctuated. “He has what I want. And he can give you what I can’t.”

His words bounced around in the air for a few moments.

A jolt of confusion shot through me. This man baffled me. My emotions were at war inside, and all Roman did was stoke that war. How could he say something like that and think it wouldn’t affect me? Or maybe he knew it would affect me and didn’t care. My frustration boiled over into fury.

“Sergei doesn’t “have” me,” I said. “I only dance with him. We’ve known each other since we were kids. We were in a romantic relationship for five years on and off, but that was more because we were expected to be together than anything else.”

I inhaled an agitated breath. “He was the first and only man I’ve ever been with and I tried, I really tried to love him the way he deserves to be loved. I always hoped to fall in love with him, but I didn’t. I want him to be happy with someone who adores him and sees him as a man and not a friend. No one’s more disappointed than me, that that couldn’t be me.”

I should have stopped there because the rest had nothing to do with Roman. Nothing at all. Yet, I continued as if pleading my case.

“The romantic part ended more than a year ago, but that didn’t mean I had to stop dancing with him. I love him, he's my friend and he always will be. I don’t even know why I’m telling you this. You don’t know me. You know nothing about me. In a few minutes I’m out of your life and none of this matters anyway. None of it.”

There was a long silence while Roman considered what to make of that. “I know a lot more about you than you think,” he said at last.

“What, that I’m a pastry chef, that I’m half French, and that I dance.”

“I know you take chances in life, you ignore rules and are incredibly loyal, you have a temper, you’re funny and very smart, you won’t compromise your values and money doesn’t impress you. Did I mention the temper?”

“But see, those are all things you think you picked up in the very few hours you spent with me. And you romanticized it to fit what you think is charming. You still don’t know me. You only know what I allowed you to see. You don’t even know the most basic things about me, like what my favorite flower is, or my favorite food or books, or what I would drink every day if I could afford it. You don’t know me even one little bit.”

He reached for my hand, his voice soft. “Well, then you should stay for dinner because I ordered Laurent-Perrier Grand Siècle.”

I was stunned. There was no way for him to know that.

“Until a moment ago I was still unsure,” he said. “But I hoped the empty bottle of Laurent-Perrier Grand Siècle last night might have been a hint.” Tension tugged at the corners of his mouth. “But it seems I was right after all.”

“My consolation prize when I got fired last night,” I said. “Patrick, the sommelier, knew it was my favorite. I’m amazed you even noticed that.”

Something in Roman’s eyes turned so gentle it made my throat ache. He pulled me into him and held me. Comfort washed over me, but I moved away when fresh tears burned my eyes. The insatiable need I had to be in this man’s arms wasn’t going away.

“I think there’s something you need to know,” I said.

“What’s that?” he asked hesitantly.

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