Love In Slow Motion (Love Beyond Measure #2) - E.M. Lindsey Page 0,55
fluke. It was simply him tripping and falling into the world’s most inappropriate crush. And maybe worse than that, because the way Fredric had looked in the garden, bent over the bed of geraniums, looking like a gift from the gods—Ilan’s heart did something it had never, ever done before.
It skipped a beat.
He was too close to three words that he had been avoiding most of his life, and it was just his luck he’d get there with the absolutely and completely wrong man. He’d be murdered—or at the very least tortured and probably disemboweled by Corinne with Julian eating a bag of popcorn, watching the carnage.
And he wouldn’t even be able to fight it—because there were no two ways around it: he was not allowed to fall in love with Fredric Pedalino.
Closing his eyes, Ilan drank his first glass, then poured a second, and then was well into his third by the time he was buzzed enough to pick up his phone. Luckily, he was well practiced at the art of drinking, and he didn’t call Fredric to profess his undying love, but instead listened to Preston’s surprised voice on the other end.
“I really hope you’re not calling to cancel,” he said, and Ilan laughed, because god no. That would be the worst thing he could do.
“Not at all. I was hoping to catch you—if you weren’t busy.”
“Mm. Not too busy for a chat, but I’m afraid I am too busy if you were hoping to reschedule for tonight.”
Ilan hadn’t been, but he took that as a blessing anyway. “I’m halfway into a bottle of wine and feeling sorry for myself,” he admitted. He glanced at the bottle and sighed. “Two-thirds?”
“I see…”
“I’m going to have raging heartburn after this. God, I feel like such an old man.” He leaned his head back on the sofa cushion and closed his eyes. “I actually pulled my shoulder the other day rolling out of bed wrong.”
Preston chuckled softly. “Been there.”
“When did we start developing into the bodies of our patients, Jones? We practically work ourselves to death for these people—shouldn’t we be exempt?”
He leaned back just as Preston’s laugh got louder. “God, I always hated that.”
Ilan’s brow furrowed. “Hated what?” He groped for his glass, but it was too far out of his reach, and he gave up rather than sitting forward. His stomach was already starting to churn, and the promise of discomfort made him feel more lonely. He just wanted to lie with his head in someone’s lap and have them stroke his hair.
“You always called me Jones. Even when everyone started becoming friends—even when we’d all go out for drinks, you’d call me Jones.” Preston didn’t sound angry, just resigned, but that was somehow worse. “It ended up becoming a joke with some of the other residents. There was a bet going whether or not you’d hate-fuck me.”
“I never…” Ilan started, but he stopped because a small piece of him had hated Preston. When he was younger—especially when he was younger—envy was his biggest struggle. He’d been desperate to grow out of the feeling like he was just playing pretend in someone else’s world—a poor kid surrounded by the affluent who all saw right through him. And medical school wasn’t much different. Most of the kids there had trust funds and nice cars. If they lived in shitty apartments and ate packaged ramen for every meal, it was because they wanted the ‘college experience’, not because they were trying to pull in enough tips from their bartender side-jobs to keep the lights on while trying to make it to lectures and hospital shifts.
It had been hell, and he’d been held back from leaping off a bridge more times than he wanted to count.
Preston had been just like them—all cash and swagger, no substance. Except, maybe Ilan had been wrong about him. Maybe he’d just let all those ugly feelings stand in the way of something that might have been good all those years ago. “I’m a huge dick.”
“Hey,” Preston said softly, “that’s so not what I was getting at. I thought hearing you call me Jones again would suck, but it’s just kind of made me nostalgic.”
Ilan felt himself smile, then touched the corner of his mouth to confirm it. It probably didn’t reach his eyes—he wasn’t feeling anything close to joy—but he felt less terrible, and that was something. “I’m still sorry, Preston. I wasn’t really in the habit of giving most people a chance.”