Page 23 of The Write Track
That’s what I told myself, anyway, as I forced my attention back to the book I was writing. Today I was at Savannah Coffee Roasters on Liberty Street. It had a deliberately funky vibe that I adored, complete with a brick archway to finish off the industrial feeling that permeated the space.
I was on my second lavender latte with almond milk and had a turkey and cranberry sandwich sitting by my computer to munch on. I was determined to get through at least five thousand words that afternoon, which would make for some real progress on this book.
I had everything I needed, but then a storm bum-rushed the sun when Preston sat across from me without invitation.
How did he even know where I was?
I wasn’t afraid of him. I’d meant what I’d said to Bree and Hayley. He would never physically hurt me. This, however, was psychological warfare. He knew exactly what he was doing. I would not let him win.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded, not bothering with a greeting. Nobody around us knew who we were. I didn’t care if anybody eavesdropped.
“Oh, is that any way to greet the love of your life?” He leaned back in his chair, looking stuffy and out of place in his three-piece suit. Leave it to Preston to wear a suit for a day of sightseeing in Savannah.
Although, was that what he was doing? Why was he here? How had he found me? I had so many questions. I refused to let him think he’d rattled me, however. Instead, I made a grand show of looking around the coffee shop.
“What are you doing?” Preston demanded, frowning. Now that he had nobody to put on an act for, he was coming across as a righteous idiot.
“I’m looking for the love of my life,” I replied, not missing a beat. “I hope he’s tall. I like them tall.”
It was a petty dig, and I wasn’t sorry. One of the things Preston was most sensitive about was his height. He was five feet seven, which was perfectly fine when standing next to somebody like me. When he stood next to somebody like Nathan, however, he looked like a little boy.
That was another reason I was happy to play Nathan’s game. Just his height was enough to make Preston uncomfortable.
“Your wit still needs some work,” Preston replied. “We can do that together, when we get you home.”
Is he kidding me right now?He had to be. “I am home.”
“This is just an adventure you’ve convinced yourself that you need. I get it.” He held his hands up, as if in surrender. “I acknowledge my part in how things went wrong. It’s time you do the same so we can move past this.”
I narrowed my eyes. “My part?”
“That’s what I said. It was hardly just my fault.”
“Is that so?” I wanted to shake him until the marbles rolled out of his head. Or maybe beat him like a piñata. Nothing inside of him was sweet like candy, though.
“Oh, don’t look at me that way.” Preston sounded as if he were admonishing a petulant child. “We can’t move forward until you admit your part. My therapist told me that.”
“Your therapist?”
That was the most surprising thing he’d said. Was Preston really in therapy? Not that it would change anything between us. I hadn’t even realized I couldn’t breathe until I’d walked away from him. There was no way I was going back to that. However, if he was actually embracing therapy, maybe he wouldn’t make the next woman in his life feel how I had felt when with him. That was the only good thing that might come out of this.
“Yes.” Preston’s smile stretched across his face, reminding me of a clown. Pennywise, to be exact. “I’ve been seeing a therapist for the past six months. Dr. Rosenthal. We’ve done some good work together.”
“Well, I’m glad for you.” I shut my laptop so he wouldn’t see what I was writing. I didn’t need the derision in my life. “What has your therapist told you?”
“That I care too much about what people think about me.”
It wasn’t the response I was expecting. “You mean your father.”
Genuine shock reverberated across his features. “My father? This has nothing to do with my father. I’ve been talking about you.”
“Me? I don’t understand.”
“I was always so worried about being the right man for you, taking care of you?—”
“I didn’t ask you to take care of me.” My voice ratcheted up a notch.
The smug look on his face told me he had been expecting that reaction. “Of course you did. Not with words or anything, but you expected me to give you the life your mother never could.”
